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UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  Dlt^O 


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12 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/britishpoetsofniOOpage 


BRITISH   POETS 


OF    THE 


NINETEENTH    CENTURY 


POEMS   BY 

ORTH.  COLERIDGE.  SCO'. 
TE  CZ    .::ETH  BARRETT  BROWNING,  ROBERT  BROWNE 

CLOUGH,  ARNOLD,   E  : .',   MORRIS,  SWL 


EDIT-  • 

CUR1  [S  HIDDEN  Pi     .. 

DA 
RE  VI 


-    ■  , 


BENJ.    H.    SANBORN    &    CO., 


Copyright,  1904,  1910, 
By  CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE. 


All  rights  reserved. 


To  M.  E.  H. 


PREFACE 

This  volume  makes  no  attempt  to  do  what  has  already  been  so  excel- 
lently done  in  Mr.  Stedman's  Victorian  Anthology,  Ward's  English  Poets, 
and  other  similar  collections.  It  is  not  a  new  Anthology  of  nineteenth 
century  poetry.  Instead  of  giving  a  few  "  gems,"  or  "  flowers  "  from  each 
one  of  several  hundred  authors,  it  includes  only  the  fifteen  chief  poets  of 
the  century.  From  each  one  of  these,  however,  it  attempts  to  give  a  full 
and  adequate  selection,  sufficient  really  to  represent  the  man  and  his 
work. 

The  book  has  been  planned,  primarily,  to  give  in  one  volume  all  the 
material  which  should  be  in  the  hands  of  the  student  for  a  College  or 
University  course  on  the  British  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century.  I  have 
therefore  tried  to  include,  first,  all  the  poems  which  would  be  given  as 
prescribed  reading  in  such  a  course ;  and,  second,  a  thorough  guide  to  the 
use  of  a  well-equipped  college  or  public  library,  in  connection  with  that 
reading.  I  hope  the  book  may  also  be  found  useful  for  more  general 
courses  on  English  Literature,  for  which  there  is  no  other  collection  cov- 
ering exactly  this  part  of  the  field  ;  and  for  any  reader  who  wishes  to  pos- 
sess in  one  volume  the  best  work  of  the  chief  nineteenth  century  poets — 
"  Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room." 

The  selections  are  very  full,  and  for  the  most  part  consist  of  complete 
poems.  They  are  designed  both  to  give  all  the  best  of  each  poet's  work, 
and  also  (except  for  Mrs.  Browning)  to  give  some  representation  of  each 
important  period  and  class  of  his  work.  Long  poems  are  usually  given 
entire,  and  space  has  been  found  for  Byron's  Manfred,  Shelley's  Prome- 
theus Unbound,  Scott's  Marmion,  Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner  and  Chris- 
tabel,  Keats'  Hyperion,  Tennyson's  Guinevere  and  Morte  d' 'Arthur, 
Browning's  Pippa  Passes,  Mrs.  Browning's  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese, 
Arnold's  Sohrab  and  Pustum,  Morris's  AtalantcCs  Race,  etc.,  etc.  In 
general,  extracts  from  long  poems  are  not  given,  except  in  the  case  of 
single  cantos  which  are  complete  in  themselves,  like  the  last  two  cantos 
of  Childe  Harold ;  or  lyrics,  such  as  the  songs  from  Tennyson's  dramas, 
or  the  Hymns  to  Pan  and  Diana  in  Keats'  Endymion,  which,  when  de- 
tached, make  perfect  and  independent  poems.     An  exception  has  been 

v 


PREFACE    TO    THE    FOURTH    EDITION 

In  the  present  edition  a  number  of  typographical  errors  have  been  cor- 
rected, the  text  and  dates  of  some  poems  have  been  verified  by  comparison 
with  more  authoritative  editions  than  were  available  when  the  book  was  first 
published,  an  Index  of  First  Lines  has  been  added  to  the  Author-Index  and 
Title-Index,  and  the  Reference  Lists  have  been  thoroughly  revised  and 
brought  up  to  date.  I  am  under  obligation  to  several  friends  who  have  sent 
me  corrections  and  especially  suggestions  for  the  improvement  of  the  Refer- 
ence Lists:  in  particular  to  Professor  Lane  Cooper,  Professor  Frank  E.  Farley, 
Miss  Henriette  E.  Moore,  Professor  A.  B.  Milford,  Professor  Richard  Jones, 
and  Professor  Charles  W.  Hodell ;  and  I  take  this  opportunity  to  thank  the 
many  other  teachers  who  have  written  me  concerning  their  use  of  the  book. 
It  is  a  pleasure  to  know  that  the  general  plan  and  method  of  the  book,  and 
of  the  Reference  Lists,  have  been  found  helpful;  and  though  these  have 
been  only  too  generously  flattered  by  imitation,  it  is  also  a  pleasure  to  note 
that  no  similar  collection  has  ventured  to  include  so  much  as  one-third  the 
material  offered  by  the  present  volume, 

C.  H.  P. 

September,  1910. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS1 


WORDSWORTH 

PAGE 

List  of  References  1 

LINES  LEFT   UPON   A  SEAT  IN   A   YEW- 
TREE 4 

THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN 5 

A  NIGHT-PIECE 5 

WE  ARE  SEVEN 6 

SIMON  LEE.  THE  OLD  HUNTSMAN 6 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING 7 

TO  MY  SISTER 8 

A     WHIRL-BLAST     FROM    BEHIND    THE 

HILL 8 

THE  TABLES  TURNED 9 

LINES  COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE 

TINTERN  ABBEY 9 

^■THE  SIMPLON  PASS 12 

INFLUENCE  OF  NATURAL  OBJECTS.  .  .    .  12 

THERE  WAS  A  BOY 13 

NUTTING 13 

STRANGE     FITS     OF     PASSION    HAVE    I 

KNOWN    14 

SHE   DWELT   AMONG    THE   UNTRODDEN 

WAYS 14 

I  TRAVELLED  AMONG  UNKNOWN  MEN..  15 
THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW  IN  SUN  AND 

SHOWER 15 

3  A  SLUMBER  DID  MY  SPIRIT  SEAL 15 

A  POET'S  EPITAPH 15 

MATTHEW 16 

THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS 17 

THE  FOUNTAIN  :    A  CONVERSATION.  ..  .  17 

'LUCY  GRAY  ;   OR.  SOLITUDE    18 

MICHAEL  :   A  PASTORAL  POEM. 19 

THE  SPARROW'S  NEST 26 

MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP  WHEN  I  BEHOLD.  26 

WRITTEN  IN  MARCH 26 

TO  THE  SMALL  CELANDINE    27 

TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER ..  27 

RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE 28 

I  GRIEVED  FOR  BUONAPARTE 30 

i !( IMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE.  31 
COMPOSED     BY     THE    SEA-SIDE,     NEAR 

CALAIS.  . 31 

IT    IS    A    BEAUTEOUS    EVENING,    CALM 

AND  FREE 31 

ON  THE  EXTINCTION  OF  THE  VENETIAN 

REPUBLIC 31 

1  The  poems  of  each  author  are  arranged  in 
the  end  of  each  poem. 


PAGE 

TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE 33 

NEAR  DOVER,  SEPTEMBER  180? 32 

WRITTEN  IN  LONDON,  SEPTEMBER  1802.  32 

LONDON,  1802 33 

GREAT  MEN  HAVE  BEEN  AMONG  US 33 

IT  IS  NOT  TO  BE  THOUGHT  OF 33 

WHEN  I  HAVE  BORNE  IN  MEMORY 33 

TO    HARTLEY    COLERIDGE,   SIX   YEARS 

OLD 33 

TO  THE  DAISY 34 

TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER 35 

TO  THE  DAISY 35 

THE  GREEN  LINNET 35 

YEW-TREES 36 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  BURNS 36 

TO  A  HIGHLAND  GIRL 37 

STEPPING  WESTWARD 38 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 38 

YARROW  UNVISITED 39 

'ODE  :   INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY..  39 

TO  THE  CUCKOO 42 

>SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT 42 

I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 43 

THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET 43 

ODE  TO  DUTY 44 

1<T0  A  SKYLARK 45 

ELEGIAC    STANZAS.    SUGGESTED    BY   A 

PICTURE  OF  PEELE  CASTLE 45 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY    46 

FRENCH  REVOLUTION,  AS  IT  APPEARED 
TO  ENTHUSIASTS  AT  ITS  COM- 
MENCEMENT    46 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR.  47 

YES,  IT  WAS  THE  MOUNTAIN  ECHO 48 

NUNS   FRET  NOT  AT    THEIR  CONVENT'S 

NARROW  ROOM 48 

PERSONAL  TALK 49 

Till;  \V(  »RLD  IS  T(  h  >  MUCH  WITH  US.  ...  50 

TO  SLEEP    50 

NOVEMBER,  1806 50 

THOUGHT   OF  A   BRITON   ON   THE  SUB 

JUGATION  OF  SWITZERLAND 5( 

HERE    PAUSE  :   THE    POET    CLAIMS    A 

LEAST  THIS  PRAISE 51 

LAODAMIA E  i 

v  \rr<>w  visited 54 

TO  B.  R.  HA YDON 55 

N(  IVEMBER  1 55 

chronological  order.    Exact  dates  will  be  found  at 


IX 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

SURPRISED     BY     JOY— IMPATIENT     AS 

THE  WIND 55 

HAST   THOU    SEEN  WITH   FLASH  INCES- 
SANT   55 

COMPOSED    UPON    AN    EVENING  OF  EX- 
TRAORDINARY      SPLENDOR       AM) 

BEAUTY 55 

SEPTEMBER,  1819 50 

AFTER-THOUGHT 57 

MUTABILITY 57 

INSIDE    OF    KING'S    COLLEGE  CHAPEL,  * 

CAMBRIDGE 57 

MEMORY 58 

TO  A  SKYLARK 58 

SCORN  NOT  THE  SONNET    58 

THE  PRIMROSE  OF  THE  ROCK 59 

YARROW  REVISITED    59 

THE  TROSACHS.  .     60 

IF    THOU    INDEED    DERIVE  THY   LIGHT 

FROM  HEAVEN 61 

IF   THIS   GREAT    WORLD   OF  JOY    AND 

PAIN 61 

'•  THERE  !  "   SAID  A  STRIPLING,  POINT- 
ING WITH  MEET  PRIDE 61 

MOST    SWEET   IT  IS  WITH  UNUPLIFTED  61 

EYES 61 

EXTEMPORE      EFFUSION      UPON      THE 

DEATH  OF  JAMES  HOGG 61 

A  POET  !— HE  HATH  PUT  HIS  HEART  TO 

SCHOOL 62 

SO  FAIR,  SO  SWEET,  WITHAL  SO  SENSI- 
TIVE   62 

THE  UNREMITTING  VOICE  OF  NIGHTLY 

STREAMS 63 

SONNET  :  TO  AN  OCTOGENARIAN 63 

COLERIDGE 

List  of  References 64 

LIFE 66 

LINES  ON  AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING 66 

LEWTI,     OR     THE      CIRCASSIAN     LOVE 

(FIANT 68 

LA  FAYETTE 69 

REFLECTN  INS  ON  HAVING  LEFT  A  PLACE 

OF  RETIREMENT 69 

TIME,  REAL  AND  IMAGINARY    70 

THIS  LIME-TREE  BOWER  MY  PRISON ...  70 

KUBLA  KHAN    72 

SONG  FROM  OSORIO 73 

THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER  ..  73 

CHRISTABEL 81 

FRANCE  :    AN  ODE 88 

FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT 90 

LOVE    91 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  DARK  LAD1E 92 

LINES     WRITTEN     IN    THE    ALBUM    AT 

ELBINGER*  »DE 03 


PAGE 

ODE  TO  TRANQUILLITY 94 

DEJECTION  :    AN  ODE 94 

HYMN   BEFORE  SUNRISE,    IN  THE  VALE 

OFCHAMOUNI 96 

THE  GOOD  GREAT  MAN 98 

THE  PAINS  OF  SLEEP 98 

TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 99 

SONG.  FROM  ZAPOLYA 101 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 101 

WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE.  . 101 

THE  GARDEN  OF  BOCCACCIO 102 

PHANTOM  OR  FACT 1 08 

SCOTT 

List  of  References , . . .  104 

WILLIAM  AND  HELEN 1 05 

THE  VIOLET 108 

TO  A  LADY 108 

THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  JOHN    108 

CADYOW  CASTLE Ill 

THE  MAID  OF  NEIDPATH 113 

HUNTING  SONG 113 

MARMION 114 

SOLDIER,  REST  !      THY  WARFARE  O'ER.  159 
HAIL  TO   THE  CHIEF  WHO  IN  TRIUMPH 

ADVANCES  ! 159 

CORONACH 160 

HARP  OF  THE  NORTH,  FAREWELL  ! 160 

ERIGNALL  BANKS 161 

ALLEX:A-DALE 161 

HIE  AWAY,  HIE  AWAY 162 

TWIST  YE,  TWINE  YE  !      EVEN  SO 162 

WASTED,  WEARY,  WHEREFORE  STAY. .  162 

JOCK  O"  HAZELDEAN 162 

PIBROCH  OF  DONALD  DHU 163 

TIME 163 

CAVALIER  SONG 163 

CLARION 1 63 

THE  SUN  UPON  THE  WEIRDLAW  HILL. .  1 64 

PROUD  MAISIE 164 

TRUE-LOVE,  AN  THOU  BE  TRUE 164 

REBECCA'S  HYMN 1  64 

BORDER  BALLAD  .  , 1  65 

LIFE 165 

COUNTY  GUY 165 

BONNY  DUNDEE 1 65 

HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  KING  CHARLES.  .  166 

BYRON 

List  of  References 167 

LACHIN  Y  ViAIR 170 

MAID  OF  ATHENS.  E.RE  WE  PART 170 

AND  THOU  ART  DEAD,  AS  YOUNG   AND 

FAIR 171 

WHEN  WE  TWO  PARTED 171 

THE   BRIDE  OF   ABYDOS 172 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ODE  TO  NAPOLEON   BUONAPARTE 184 

SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 186 

OH  !      SNATCHED    AWAY    IN   BEAUTY'S 

BLOOM 186 

THE   DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB.  .    187 
SONG  OF  SAUL  BEFORE  HIS  LAST  BAT- 
TLE     187 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC    (THERE'S  NOT   A 

JOY) 187 

FARE  THEE  WELL 188 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC  (THERE  BE  NONE 

OF  BEAUTY'S  DAUGHTERS) 189 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,  CANTO 

III 189 

BONNET  ON  CHILLON 206 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON 206 

STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA 209 

EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTA 210 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC  (THEY  SAY  THAT 

HOPE) 212 

DARKNESS    212 

PROMETHEUS 213 

SONNET  TO  LAKE  LEMAN 214 

MANFRED 214 

TO  THOMAS  MOORE 2  S4 

FROM  CHILDE  HAROLD,  CANTO  IV 234 

FROM  DON  JUAN 

DEDICATION 240 

FROM  CANTO  I 

POETICAL  COMMANDMENTS 242 

LABUNTUR   ANNI 242 

FROM  CANTO  II 

THE  SHIPWRECK 213 

HAIDEE 244 

FROM  CANTO  III 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE 249 

CONCLUSION  OF  CANTO  III 250 

FROM  CANTO  IV 253 

FROM  CANTO   XI  :    LONDON  LITERA- 
TURE  AND   SOCIETY 253 

THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT     257 

IMPROMPTUS 270 

STANZAS   WRITTEN    ON   THE   ROAD  BE- 
TWEEN  FLORENCE  AND  PISA 271 

)N  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLETE  MY  THIRTY- 
SIXTH  YEAR 272 

SHELLEY 

I  ist  of  References 273 

STANZAS— APRIL  1814 27.') 

TO  COLERI DGE 275 

TO  WORDSWoRTH    603tt 

ALASTOR 276 

HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY 287 

Mi  >NT  BLANC 288 

TO    MARY :    DEDICATION     OP 

THE  REVOLT  OP  ISLAM 291 


PAGE 

<  »ZYMANDIAS 293 

OX  A  FADED  VIOLET 293 

LINES      WRITTEN      AMONG      THE      EU- 

GANEAN  HILLS , 293 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION,  NEAR 

NAPLES 296 

SONNET  :   ENGLAND  IN    1819 297 

'  ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 297 

THE  INDIAN   SERENADE 299 

L(  >vi:'s  PHILOSOPHY 299 

PR<  >METHEUS  UNBOUND 299 

THE   SENSITIVE  PLANT 338 

/  THE  CLOUD 343 

TO  A  SKYLARK 344 

TO (I  FEAR  THY  KISSES; 345 

ARETHUSA    346 

HYMN  OF  PAN 346 

THE  QUESTION 346 

SONG 347 

TO  THE  MOON 348 

THE  WORLD'S  WANDERERS 348 

TIME  LONG  PAST 348 

EPIPSYCHIDION 348 

TO  NIGHT 357 

TIME    357 

SONNET  :   POLITICAL  GREATNESS 358 

MUTABILITY 358 

A  LAMENT 358 

TO (MUSIC,  WHEN  SOFT  VOICES).      358 

ADONAIS 358  - ' 

LIFE  MAY   CHANGE,  BUT  IT  MAY    FLY 

NOT 366 

WORLDS    ON    WORLDS    ARE     ROLLING 

EVER 366 

S<  )N'  IS  FROM  HELLAS 367 

THE     WORLD'S     GREAT      AGE      BEGINS 

ANEW 367 

TO-MORROW 368 

TO (ONE  WORD  IS  TOO  OFTEN) 368 

WITH  A  GUITAR,  TO  JANE 368 

LINES  :     WHEN    THE    LAMP    IS     SHAT- 
TERED    369 

SONG  FROM  CHARLES  THE  FIRST 369 

A  DIRGE 369 

KEATS 

hist  of  References 370 

IMITATION   OF  SPENSER 372 

TO  SOLITUDE. 372 

I  i  1 1 W  v  a  NY  BARDS  GILD  THE  LAPSES  OF 

TIME    373 

KEEN  FITFUL   OUSTS  ARE  WHISPERING 

HERE  AND  THERE    373 

TO   one   WHO   HAS  BEEN  LONG   IN  CITY 

PUNT   373 

ON    FIRST    LOOKING    INTO    CHAPMAN'S 

HOMER 373 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

GREAT   SPIRITS   NOW   ON    EARTH    ARE 

SOJOURNING 373 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET.  .    374 

SLEEP  AND  POETRY 374 

AFTER  DARK  VAPORS  HAVE  OPPRESSED 

OUR  PLAINS 380 

TO  LEIGH  HUNT,  ESQ 380 

ON  SEEING  THE  ELGIN  MARBLES    380 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF  LEANDER    380 

ON  THE  SEA 380 

WHEN     I    HAVE     FEARS    THAT    I    MAY 

CEASE  TO  BE 381 

FROM  ENDYMION  : 

PROEM 381 

HYMN  TO  PAN 382 

THE  COMING  OF  DIAN 383 

INVOCATION  TO  THE  POWER  OF  LOVE.    385 

ROUNDELAY 386 

THE  FEAST  OF  DIAN 387 

ROBIN  HOOD 388 

IN  A  DREAR-NIGHTED  DECEMBER 389 

TO  AILSA  ROCK 389 

THE  HUMAN  SEASONS 389 

TO  HOMER 389 

LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN.  .....    390 

FANCY 390 

ISABELLA  ;   OR,  THE  POT  OF  BASIL 391 

|    THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES    §98 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  MARK 404 

ODE  ON  INDOLENCE 405 

ODE  (BARDS  OF  PASSION) 406 

ODE  TO  PSYCHE    406 

I  ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 407 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 408 

ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 409 

TO  AUTUMN 409 

HYPERION 410 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCT 422 

ON  FAME 423 

TO  SLEEP 423 

BRIGHT  STAR  !   WOULD  I  WERE  STEAD- 
FAST AS  THOU  ART 423 

LANDOR 

List  of  References 424 

gebir  425 

rose  aylmer 428 

regeneration 429 

child  of  a  day,  thou  knowest  not.  430 
lyrics,  to  ianthe  : 
away  my  verse  ;  and  never  fear.  430 
when  helen  first  saw  wrinkles 

in  her  face 430 

ianthe  !  you  are  called  to  cross 

THE  SEA 431 

I  HELD  HER  HAND,  THE  PLEDGE  OF 
.     BLISS 431 


PAGE 

PLEASURE  !   WHY  THUS  DESERT  THE 

HEART 431 

MILD    IS    THE   PARTING   YEAR,    AND 

SWEET 431 

PAST  RUINED  ILION  HELEN  LIVES...    431 

FIESOLAN  IDYL 431 

FOR  AN  EPITAPH  AT  FIESOLE 432 

UPON  A  SWEET-BRIAR 432 

THE  MAID'S  LAMENT 43l! 

THE     SHADES     OF     AGAMEMNON     AND 

IPHIGENEIA 431 

THE  DEATH  OF  ARTEMIDORA 43.' 

CORINNA  TO  TANAGRA,  FROM  ATHENS.    436 

SAPPHO  TO  HESPERUS 437 

LITTLE  AGLAE 437 

DIRCE 437 

CLEONE  TO  ASPASIA 437 

ON  LUCRETIA  BORGIA:S  HAIR 438 

TO  WORDSWORTH 438 

TO  JOSEPH  ABLETT 438 

TO  MARY  LAMB 440 

ON    HIS   OWN    IPHIGENEIA    AND    AGA- 
MEMNON     440 

FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 440 

WHY,  WHY  REPINE 440 

MOTHER,  I  CANNOT  MIND  MY  WHEEL. .    440 

TO  A  BRIDE 441 

LYRICS 

DO    YOU    REMEMBER    ME?     OR    ARE 

YOU  PROUD 441 

NO,   MY  OWN  LOVE  OF  OTHER 

YEARS  ! 441 

ONE     YEAR     AGO     MY     PATH     WAS 

GREEN 441 

YES  ;    I    WRITE    VERSES     NOW    AND 

THEN 441 

WITH    ROSY    HAND  A    LITTLE    GIRL 

PRESSED  DOWN 442 

YOU    SMILED,    YOU    SPOKE,    AND     I 

BELIEVED 442 

REMAIN,  AH  NOT  IN  YOUTH  ALONE. .    442 

SOON,  O  IANTHE  !   LIFE  IS  O'ER 442 

TO  A  CYCLAMEN 442 

GIVE  ME  THE  EYES  THAT  LOOK  ON 

MINE 442 

TWENTY  YEARS  HENCE 442 

PROUD  WORD  YOU  NEVER  SPOKE .  .  .    443 
ALAS,   HOW   SOON    THE   HOURS   ARE 

OVER 443 

QUATRAINS 

ON  THE   SMOOTH    BROW   AND  CLUS- 
TERING  HAIR 443 

MY  HOPES  RETIRE 443 

VARIOUS  THE  ROADS  OF  LIFE 443 

IS    IT    NOT    BETTER    AT    AN     EARLY 

HOUR 443 

I  KNOW  NOT  WHETHER  I  AM  PROUD. '.  .    443 
THE  DAY  RETURNS,  MY  NATAL  DAY.  .  .    443 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


xn: 


PAGE 

HOW  MANY  VOICES  GAILY  SING 443 

TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 443 

ON  THE  HELLENICS 444 

THRASYMEDES  AND  EUNOE 444 

IPHIGENEIA  AND  AGAMEMNON 44.") 

THE  HAMADRYAD 446 

ACON  AND  RHODOPE 450 

MEXELAUS  AND  HELEN  AT  TROY 452 

AESCHYLOS  AND  SOPHOCLES 454 

SHAKESPEARE  AND  MILTON .'.  .  .    454 

TO  YOUTH 454 

TO  AGE .    455 

THE    CHRYSOLITES    AND    RUBIES  BAC- 
CHUS BRINGS 455 

SO  THEN  I  FEEL  NOT  DEEPLY 455 

YEARS,  MANY  PARTI-COLORED  YEARS.   455 
I  WONDER  NOT  THAT  YOUTH  REMAINS.    455 

ON  MUSIC 455 

ROSE  AYLMER'S  HAIR,  GIVEN   BY   HER 

SISTER 456 

death  stands  above  me 456 

on  his  seventy-fifth  birthday 456 

on  the  death  of  southey 456 

on  southey's  death 457 

heart's-ease 457 

the  three  roses 457 

lately  our  songsters  loitered  in 

green  lanes 457 

theseus  and  hyppolyta 457 

an  aged  man  who  loved  to  doze 

AWAY.  458 

WELL  I  REMEMBER  HOW  YOU  SMILED.    458 
TO  MY  NINTH  DECADE 458 

TENNYSON 

List  of  References 459 

/  CLARIBEL '.  461 

THE  POET -.  461 

.5THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT *  462 

SONG  :  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 463 

.30EN0NE '.  464 

5  THE  SISTERS 467 

THE  PALACE  OF  ART 468 

THE  LOT*  >S  EATERS 472 

CHORIC  song 472 

A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN 474 

ST.  AGNES'  EVE 479 

i  YOU    ASK   ME   WHY,    THOUGH    ILL    AT 

EASE    479 

OF  OLD  SAT  FREEDOM  ON  THE  HEIGHTS.  479 

LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND 480 

MORTE  D'ARTHUR 4*1 

DORA 4H4 

ULYSSES 487 

LOCKSLEY  HALL 488 

GODIVA 492 

SIR  GALAHAD 493 


A  FAREWELL 

THE  VISION  OF  SIN 

BREAK,  BREAK,   BREAK 

THE  POET'S  SONG 

LYRICS  FROM  THE  PRINCESS 

TEARS,  IDLE  TEARS 

O    SWALLOW,     SWALLOW,    FLYING, 

FLYING  SOUTH 

AS  THROUGH  THE  LAND  AT  EVE  WE 

WENT 

SWEET  AND  LOW 

THE    SPLENDOR    FALLS    ON    CASTLE 

WALLS    

THY     VOICE     IS     HEARD     THROUGH 

ROLLING  DRUMS 

HOME    THEY    BROUGHT    HER    WAR- 
RIOR DEAD 

ASK  ME  NO  MORE 

IN  MEMORIAM .* 

TO  THE  QUEEN.  .  .     * 

'  THE  EAGLE 

COME  NOT,  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD ! 

ODE  ON  THE   DEATH   OF  THE   DUKE  OF 

WELLINGTON 

HANDS  ALL  ROUND 

THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.. 

■  THE  BROOK 

LYRICS  FROM  MAUD 

PART  I,  V.    A  VOICE  BY  THE  CEDAR 
TREE 

XI.  O        LET       THE       SOLID 

GROUND 

XII.  BIRDS     IN     THE     HIGH 

HALL-GARDEN 

XVII.  GO  NOT,  HAPPY  DAY. 

XVIII.  I     HAVE     LED     HER 
HOME 

XXI.  RIVULET  CROSSING  MY 
GROUND  

XXII.  COME  INTO  THE  GAR- 
DEN, MAUD ; 

TART  II,  II.    SEE     WHAT    A     LOVELY 

SHELL 

IV.    O  THAT   'TWERE    POSSI- 
BLE   

WILL 

c ENID'S  SONG  (MARRIAGE  OF  GERAINT). 
;  VIVIEN'S  SONG  (MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN)  . 
S  ELAINE'S       SONG        (LANCELOT        AND 

ELAINE) 

GUINEVERE 

TITHONUS 

THE  SAILOR  BOY 

MILTON : 

THE  VOYAGE 

NORTHERN  FARMER  (OLD  STYLE) *  . 

THE  FLOWER 

IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ 


PAGE 

494 

494 
497 
497 

497 


498 

498 

498 

498 

499 
499 
499 
513 
514 
514 

514 

517 
518 
518 

519 

519 

519 
520 

520 

521 

521 

522 

523 
524 
524 
524 

525 
525 
535 
536 
536 
537 
538 
539 
539 


TABLE  OK  CONTENTS 


A  DEDICATION 539 

WAGES 540 

FROM  THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR 

MERLIN'S  RIDDLE 540 

5-      TRUMPET  SONG 540 

'  THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM 540 

'FLOWER  IN   THE  CRANNIED  WALL 541 

NORTHERN  FARMER  (NEW  STYLE) "ill 

ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA  IN  1782 5  12 

THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK 542 

LYRICS  FROM  QUEEN  MARY 

MILKMAID'S  SONG 54:? 

LOW,  LUTE,  LOW 543 

MONTENEGRO 543 

THE  REVENGE 543 

THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW 546 

RIZPAH 548 

SONG  FROM  THE  SISTERS , .    549 

TO  VIRGIL .    55Q 

FRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALE 550 

EPILOGUE    TO    THE    CHARGE    OF     THE 

HEAVY  BRIGADE 550 

VASTNESS 550 

MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM t  551 

FAR-FAR-AWAY 55;! 

THE  THROSTLE 553 

THE  OAK 553 

CROSSING  THE  BAR 553 

Elizabeth  barrett  browning 

List  of  References 554 

SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 555 

ROBERT   BROWNING 

List  of  References 505 

SONGS  FROM  PARACELSUS 

HEAP  CASSIA,  SANDAL-BUDS 588 

OVER  THE  SEA  OUR  GALLEYS  WENT. .    5G8 

1'.  IRPHYRIA'S    LOVER 509^- 

PIPPA   PASSES 570/- 

<  AVALIER  TUNES. 

I.   MARCHING  ALONG 592 

II.    GIVE  A  ROUSE    593 

III.    BOOT  AND  SADDLE 593 

THROUGH    THE    METIDJA    TO    ABD-EL- 

KADR 593 

CR1STINA 594 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 594- 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 595  - 

6  IN  A  GONDOLA 596 

THE  PIED  PIPER  OF   HAMELIN 598 

RUDEL  TO  THE  LADY  OF  TRIPOLI 602 

THERE'S  A  WOMAN  LIKE  A  DEWDROP..   602 

THE  LOST  LEADER 603 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD   NEWS 

FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX 603 


EARTH'S  IMMORTALITIES 605 

'MEETING  AT  NIGHT 605 

'  PARTING  AT  MORNING 605 

SONG   :    NAY   BUT  Y'OU,   WHO   DO    NOT 

LOVE  HER 605 

lloM  1;  THOUGHTS  FROM  ABROAD 605 

home-thoughts  from  the  sea 605  ' 

time's  revenges 606 

the  italian  in  england 606  . 

pictor  ignotus 608 

tthe    bishop    orders    his  tomb  at 

saint  praxed's  church 609  ' 

SAUL 611  • 

A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD 617 

/EVELYN  HOPE 618 

pLOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS    618 

UP  AT  A  VILLA — DOWN  IN  THE  CITY'.  .    619 

A  TOCCATA   OF  GALUPPl'S 621 

OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 622 

?DE  GUSTIBUS 626  ' 

MY  STAR 626 

ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND 626 

TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA 628 

MISCONCEPTIONS , 629 

ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE 629 

ANOTHER  WAY  OF  LOVE 629 

RESPECTABILITY 630 

LOVE  IN  A  LIFE 630 

LIFE  IN  A  LOVE 630 

IN  THREE  DAYS 631 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL 631 

MEMORABILIA 632 

POPULARITY 632  i 

7THE  PATRIOT 633 

A  LIGHT   WOMAN 633 

I  THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 634 

A  GRAMMARIAN'S   FUNERAL 635 

-THE  STATUE  AND  THE   BUST 637 

CHILDE  ROLAND   TO  THE  DARK  TOWER 

CAME 641 

I FRA  I.IPPO  LIPPI    644 

-ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 650 

ONE  WORD   MORE 654 

REN  EEllSHOOK'S  WISDOM 057 

AMONG  THE  ROCKS 657 

ABT  VOGLER .    657 

(('RABBI  BEN  EZRA 659 

CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS 661 

CONFESSK  INS 666 

?  Y'OUTH  AND   ART 666 

A  FACE 667 

^PROSPICE 667 

EPILOGUE  TO  DRAMATIS  PERSONAE.  .  .    668 
FROM  THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK 

DEDICATION 668 

'?HERVE   RIEL 669 

FIFINE  AT  THE  FAIR 

PROLOGUE — AMPHIBIAN 671 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


xv 


PAGE 

epilogue— the  householder 671 

?  house 672 

fears  and  scruples 673 

natural  magic 674 

magical  nature. 674 

appearances 674 

epilogue    to     the    pacchiarotto 

VOLUME 674 

LA  SAISIAZ 

PROLOGUE 677 

THE  TWO  POETS  OF  CROISIC 

PROLOGUE 677 

EPILOGUE 678 

TRAY 679 

y  ECHETLOS 679 

TOUCH  HIM  NE*ER  SO  LIGHTLY 680 

WANTING  IS — WHAT  ? 680 

ADAM,  LILITH  AND  EVE 680 

NEVER  THE  TIME  AND  THE  PLACE 681 

SONGS  FROM  FERISHTAHS  FANCIES 

ROUND  US  THE  WILD  CREATURES.  .  .    681 

WISH  NO  WORD  UNSPOKEN 681 

FIRE  IS  IN  THE  FLINT 681 

VERSE-MAKING   WAS    LEAST    OF  MY 

VIRTUES 681 

ASK     NOT     ONE     LEAST     WORD     OF 

PRAISE 682 

WHY  FROM  THE  WORLD .    682 

WHY  I  AM  A  LIBERAL 682 

i  ROSNY 682* 

POETICS 683 

SUMMUM  BONUM 683 

A  PEARL,   A  GIRL 683 

f  MUCKLE-MOUTH  MEG 683 

'  DEVELOPMENT 684 

EPILOGUE  TO  ASOLANDO 686 

CLOUQH 

List  of  References 687 

IX  A  LECTURE- ROOM 688 

I'.I.A  NK  MISGIVINGS 688 

TO  wti/hv _ 688 

QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 6*8 

THE  NEW  SINAI 0*9 

THE  QUESTIONING  SPIRIT 690 

BKTHESDA  (A  SEQUEL) 691 

FROM  AMOURS  DE  VOYAGE 

EN   ROUTE 691 

romp. 692 

the  pantheon 692 

ON  MONTORIO'S  HEIGHT 092 

THE  REAL  QUESTION 693 

SCEPTIC  MOODS 693 

ENVOI    693 

PESCHTERA 693 

k  L.TERAM  PARTEM 694 

IN  THE  DEPTHS 69  1 


PAGE 

THE  LATEST  DECALOGUE .    694 

FROM  DIPSYCHUS 

"THERE   IS    NO  GOD,"  THE  WICKED 

SAITH 694 

OUR  GAIETIES,  OUR  LUXURIES 695 

THIS  WORLD  IS  VERY  ODD  WE  SEE .  .    695 

WHERE  ARE  THE  GREAT 695 

WHEN  THE  ENEMY  IS  NEAR  THEE.  .  .    695 
SAY     NOT     THE     STRUGGLE     NOUGHT 

AVAILETH    695 

EASTER  DAY,  NAPLES,  1849 696 

EASTER  DAY,  II    697 

HOPE  EVERMORE  AND  BELIEVE 698 

QUI  LABORAT  ORAT 698 

v/uroQ  av/ivoq 699 

THROUGH  A  GLASS  DARKLY 699 

AH  !   YET  CONSIDER  IT  AGAIN 700 

SONGS  IN   ABSENCE 700 

COME  HOME,  COME   HOME 700 

GREEN  FIELDS  OF  ENGLAND 700 

COME  BACK,  COME  BACK 700 

SOME  FUTURE  DAY 701 

WHERE  LIES  THE  LAND 701 

WERE  YOU  WITH  ME ...    702 

O  SHIP,  SHIP,   SHIP 702 

THE  STREAM  OF  LIFE 702 

WITH  WHOM  IS  NO  VARIABLENESS 702 

ITE  DOMUM  SATURN,  VENIT  HESPERUS   702 

CURRENTE  CALAMO 703 

COME,  POET,   COME 704 

THE  HIDDEN  LOVE 704 

PERCHE    PENSA?  PENSANDO    S' INVEC- 

CHIA 704 

LIFE  IS  STRUGGLE 705 

SONNETS  ON  THE  THOUGHT  OF  DEATH.   705 

IN  A  LONDON  SQUARE 705 

ALL  IS  WELL 705 

ARNOLD 

List  of  References 706 

QUIET  WORK 708 

TO  A  FRIEND 708 

SHAKESPEARE 708 

THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 708 

THE  STRAYED  REVELLER 710 

MEMORIAL  VERSES 713 

SELF-DECEPTION 714 

THE  SECOND  BEST 714 

LYRIC  STANZAS  OF  EMPEDOCLES 715 

CALLICLES'  SONG 719 

THE  YOUTH  OF  NATURE 719 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 721 

MORALITY 721 

A  SUMMER  NIGHT 721 

THE  BURIED   LIFE 723 

LINES  WRITTEN    IN    KENSINGTON  GAR- 
DENS    72* 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  FUTURE 724 

STANZAS  IN    MEMORY  OF  THE  AUTHOR 

OF  •'  OBERMANN  " 725 

REQl'lESCAT 727 

SOHR.VB  AND  RUSTUM 728 

PHILOMELA ...  74  1 

THE  SCHOLAR-GIPSY 74  t 

BALDER  DEAD  (SECTION  III) 745 

STANZAS    FROM    THE     GRANDE    CHAR- 
TREUSE   754 

FROM  SWITZERLAND 

ISOLATION.      TO  MARGUERITE 756 

TO  MARGUERITE— CONTINUED 757 

THYRSIS. 757 

i'OUTH  AND  CALM 7G1 

AUSTERITY  OF  POETRY 7GI 

WORLDLY  PLACE 701 

EAST  LONDON 761 

WEST  LONDON 762 

EAST  AND  WEST 762 

THE  BETTER  PART 762 

IMMORTALITY 762 

DOVER  BEACH 763 

GROWING   OLD 763 

PIS-ALLER 764 

THE  LAST  WORD..  .     764 

BACCHANALIA  ;   OR,  THE  NEW  AGE 764 

PALLADIUM 765 

A  WISH 765 

RUGBY  CHAPEL 706 

HEINE  (FROM  HEINE'S  GRAVE) 768 

OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE 768 

ROSSETTI 

List  of  References 773 

my  sister's  sleep 774 

THE  blessed  damozel 774 

autumn  song 776 

the  portrait 776 

the  card- dealer 777 

at  the  sunrise  in  1848 778 

on  refusal  of  aid    between  na- 
TIONS      778 

Mary's  girlhood    778 

for  a  venetian  pastoral .  .  779 

the  sea-limits 779 

the  mirror 779 

a  young  fir- wood 779 

penumbra 780 

sister  helen 780 

the  burden  of  nineveh 783 

mary  magdalene  at  the  door  of 

simon  the  pharisee 785 

aspecta  medusa 786 

love's  nocturn 786 

first  love  remembered 787 

plighted  promise 788 


PAGE 

SUDDEN  LIGHT 788 

THE  WOODSPURGE 788 

THE  HONEYSUCKLE 7b8. 

a  little  while 788 

troy  town 789 

the  stream's  secret 789 

love-lily 792 

the  house  of  life 

the  sonnet 793 

love  enthroned 793 

bridal  birth 793 

love's  testament 793 

lovesight    794 

heart's  hope .  794 

love's  lovers 794 

passion  and  worship ,  794 

the  portrait 794 

the  love-letter 795 

the  lovers'  walk 795 

youth's  antiphony 795 

youth's  spring-tribute 795 

the  birth-bond.   .  .   796 

beauty's  pageant 796 

genius  in  beauty 796 

silent  noon 796 

love-sweetness 797 

pride  of  youth 797 

mid-rapture 797 

heart's  compass 797 

her  gifts 798 

equal  troth 798 

venus  victrix 798 

the  dark  glass 798 

severed  selves 799 

through  death  to  love 799 

•  death-in-love 799 

willowwood,  i-iv. 799 

without  her 800 

stillborn  love 800 

true  woman 

HERSELF 801 

HER  LOVE 801 

HER   HEAVEN 801 

LOVE'S  LAST  GIFT 801 

TRANSFIGURED  LIFE 802 

THE  SONG-THROE 802 

KNOWN  IN  VAIN 802 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  NIGHT 802 

THE  LANDMARK 802 

THE  HILL  SUMMIT 803 

THE  CHOICE,   I-III 803 

OLD  AND  NEW  ART 

ST.  LUKE  THE  PAINTER 804 

NOT  AS  THESE 804 

THE  HUSBANDMEN 804 

SOUL'S  BEAUTY 804 

BODY'S  BEAUTY 805 

MEMORIAL  THRESHOLDS 8P-1 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

HOARDED  JOY 805 

BARREN  SPRING 805 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  GLEN 806 

LOST  DAYS.  . 806 

THE  TREES  OF  THE  GARDEN 806 

RETRO  ME,  SATHANA 806 

LOST  ON  BOTH  SIDES 806 

MICHELANGELO'S  KISS 807 

LIFE  THE  BELOVED 807 

A  SUPERSCRIPTION 807 

NEWBORN  DEATH,  III 807 

THE  ONE  HOPE 808 

1  HE  CLOUD  CONFINES 808 

THREE  SHADOWS 809 

INSOMNIA 809 

CHIMES 809 

SOOTHSAY 810 

ON  BURNS 811 

FIVE  ENGLISH  POETS 

THOMAS    CHATTERTON 811 

"WILLIAM   BLAKE 811 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 812 

JOHN  KEATS 812 

PEKCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 812 

THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 812 

MORRIS 

List  of  References 823 

WINTER  WEATHER 824 

RIDING  TOGETHER 825 

THE  CHAPEL  IN  LYONESS 806 

SUMMER  DAWN 827 

HANDS 827 

GOLD  HAIR 827 

THE  DEFENCE  OF  GUENEVERE 828 

THE  GILLIFLOWER  OF  GOLD 832 

SHAMEFUL  DEATH 833 

THE  EVE  OF  CRECY 834 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  SWORD 834 

THE  BLUE  CLOSET 835 

THE  HAYSTACK  IN  THE  FLOODS.  .     836 

TWO  RED  ROSES  ACROSS  THE  MOON.-. .    838 

SIR  GILES'  WAR-SONG 838 

NEAR   AVALON 838 

IN  PRISON 839 

FROM  THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  JASON 

TO  THE  SEA 839 

THE  NYMPH'S  SONG  TO  HYLAS 839 

ORPHEUS'  S<  >NG  OF  TRIUMPH 840 

8<  )Nf  }S  ( >F  ORPHEUS  AND  THE  SIRENS.    840 

INVOCATION  TO  CHAUCER 842 

FROM  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 

AN  APOLOGY 843 

ATALANTAS  RACE 843 

SONG    FROM   THE   STORY    OF    CUPID 

AND  PSYCHE 854 

JUNE 854 


PAGE 

AUGUST 855 

SONG  FROM  OGIER  THE  DANE 855 

SONG    FROM    THE  STORY    OF    ACON- 

TIUS  AND  CYDIPPE 855 

L'ENVOI 856 

THE  SEASONS 857 

ERROR  AND  LOSS 857 

FROM  LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 

THE  DAY  OF  LOVE 85S 

FINAL  CHORUS 859 

THE  VOICE  OF  TOIL 859 

NO  MASTER 860 

THE  DAY  IS  COMING 860 

THE  DAY'S  THAT  WERE 861 

THE  DAY  OF  DAYS 861 

THE  BURGHERS'  BATTLE 863 

AGNES  AND  THE  HILL-MAN 86^' 

ICELAND  FIRST  SEEN 86? 

TO  THE  MUSE  OF  THE  NORTH 864 

DRAWING  NEAR  THE  LIGHT 864 

SWINBURNE 

List  of  References , 885 

A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  ORDER 866 

CHORUSES  FROM  ATALANTA   IN   CALY- 
DON 

THE  YOUTH  OF  THE  YEAR 866 

THE  LIFE  OF  MAN 867 

LOVE  AND  LOVE'S  MATES 86C 

NATURE 868 

FATE 869 

THE  DEATH  OF  MELEAGER 869 

FINAL  CHORUS 871 

SONGS  FROM  CHASTELARD 

MARY  BEATON'S  SONG 871 

LOVE  AT  EBB 872 

THE  QUEEN'S  SONG 872 

HYMN  TO  PROSERPINE 872 

A  MATCH 874 

A  BALLAD  OF  BURDENS 875 

RONDEL 876 

IN  MEMORY  OF  WALTER  SAVAGE  LAN- 
DOR  876 

THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 877 

LOVE  AT  SEA 878 

SAPPHICS 878 

DEDICATION     (POEMS     AND     BALLADS, 

FIRST   SERIES) 879 

AN  APPEAL.     881 

HERTHA 882 

THE  PILGRIMS 884 

TO  WALT  WHITMAN  IN  AMERICA 886 

FROM  MATER  TRIUMPHALIS .  .    887 

COR  CORDIUM 888 

NON   DOLET 889 

THE   OBLATION 889 

A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN ,    889 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  BALLAD  OF  DREAMLAND 890 

A  BALLAD  OF  FRANCOIS  VILLON 891 

T<  I  I  i  WIS   K<  »SSUTH    891 

child's  SONG 892 

TRIADS 892 

ONTHECLIFFS 892 

ON  THE  DEATHS  OF  THOMAS   CARLYLE 

AND  GEORGE  ELIOT 899 

S<  >N< ;  FROM  MARY  STUART 899 

HODE  AND  FEAR 899 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 899 

CHILDREN 900 

A  CHILD'S  LAUGHTER 900 

THE   SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 900 

CHILD  AND  POET 900 

A  child's  future 901 

ETUDE  REALISTE 901 

IN  GUERNSEY 901 


PAGE 

A  SINGING  LESSON 902 

THE  ROUNDEL 902 

A  SOLITUDE 902 

ON  A  COUNTRY  ROAD 903 

THE  SEABOARD 903 

THE  CLIFFSIDE  PATH 904 

IN  THE  WATER 905 

Till'.  SUNBOWS 905 

ON  THE  VERGE 900 

ON  THE  MONUMENT  ERECTED  TO  MAZ- 

ZINI  AT  GENOA 90r 

THE  INTERPRETERS 90V 

A  WORD  WITH  THE  WIND 908 

IN  TIME  OF  MOURNING 909 

SEQUENCE  OF  SONNETS  ON  THE  DEATH 

OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 909 

INDEXES 911 


WORDSWORTH 

LIST   OF  REFERENCES 

Editions 

Note. — An  asterisk  marks  the  most  important  books  and  essays.  When  the  entries 
under  "criticism"  are  numerous,  they  are  divided  into  two  paragraphs,  the  most 
important  being  given  in  the  first  paragraph,  but  each  paragraph  being  arranged 
alphabetically.     At  the  beginning  of  titles  the  article  is  omitted. 

*Poetical  Works,  5  volumes,  edited  by  Thomas  Hutchinson,  The 
Clarendon  Press,  1895.  — ■  *Poetical  Works,  8  volumes,  Prose  Works, 
2  volumes,  edited  by  William  Knight,  new  edition,  The  Macmillan  Co., 
1896  (Eversley  Edition).- — Poetical  Works,  7  volumes,  edited  by 
Edward  Dowden,  Bell,  1892-3  (Aldine  Edition).  —  Letters  of  the 
Wordsworth  Family,  from  1787  to  1855,  collected  and  edited  by  William 
Knight,  3  volumes,  Ginn  &  Co.,  1907.  —  Reprints  of  the  original  editions 
of  Lyrical  Ballads,  1798  (1898),  and  of  the  Poems,  1807  (1897),  edited 
by  Thomas  Hutchinson.  —  Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  with  Introduction 
by  John  Morley,  The  Macmillan  Co.,  1888  (Globe  Edition).  —  Poetical 
Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  A.  J.  George,  The  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1904 
(Cambridge  Edition).  —  *Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  Thomas 
Hutchinson,  1906  (Oxford  Edition).  —  Poems,  3  volumes,  edited  by 
Nowell  C.  Smith,  Methuen  &  Co.,  1908. 

Biography 

*  Wordsworth  (Christopher),  Memoirs  of  William  Wordsworth,  2  vol- 
umes, 1851.  —  *  Myers  (F.  W.  H.),  William  Wordsworth,  1881  (English 
Men  of  Letters  Series).  —  *Knight  (W.),  Life  of  William  Wordsworth,  3  vol- 
umes, 1889;  new  edition,  1896.  — Minto  (W.),  Wordsworth,  in  the  Ency- 
clopedia Britannica,  Vol.  XXIV,  pp.  668-676,  1888.  —  Wordsworth 
(Elizabeth),  William  Wordsworth,  1891.  —  *Legouis  (Emile),  La  Jeunesse 
de  William  Wordsworth,  1770-98,  1896;  translated  by  J.  W.  Matthews, 
The  Early  Life  of  William  Wordsworth,  1897.  —  Gothein  (M.),  Words- 
worth, sein  Leben,  seine  Werke,  Halle,  1898.  — Raleigh  (W.  A.),  Words- 
worth, 1903.  —  Rannie  (D.  W.),  Wordsworth  and  his  Circle,  1907.  —  See 
also:  Lee  (Edmund),  Dorothy  Wordsworth;  and  the  first  articles  below, 
under  Reminiscences. 

Reminiscences  and  Early  Criticism 

♦Wordsworth  (William),  Prelude;  Prefaces  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  etc. 
—  *  Wordsworth  (Dorothy),  Journals  (including  Recollections  of  a 
Tour  in  Scotland),  2  volumes,  edited  by  William  Knight,  The  Macmillan 
Co.,  1897.  —  *De  Quincey  (Thomas),  Works,  edited  by  David  Masson: 
Vols.  II  and  III,  Recollections  of  Wordsworth.  — Coleridge  (S.  T.), 
Poems:  To  William  Wordsworth.  —  Southey  (R.),  Life  and  Correspond- 
ence: Chap.  9,  10,  11,  12,  13,  15,  19,  26,  27,  32,  36.  —  Talfourd  (T.  N.), 


WORDSWORTH 


Memorials  of  Lamb:  especially  Chap.  G  and  7. —  *Hazlitt  (W.),  Literary 
Remains:  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets. — Cottle  (J.),  Early 
Recollections  of  S.  T.  Coleridge.  —  *Robinson  (H.  C),  Diary,  passim 
(see  Index).  —  Proctor  (B.  W.),  Biographical  Fragment.  —  Mitford 
(M.  R.),  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life.  —  Knight  (W.),  Wordsworth- 
iana.  —  Yarn  all  (Ellis),  Wordsworth  and  the  Coleridges. — Sandford 
(H.),  Thomas  Poole  and  his  Friends. — •  Paston  (George),  B.  R.  Haydon 
and  his  Friends.  —  Fields  (J.  T.),  Yesterdays  with  Authors.  —  Emerson 
(R.  W.),  English  Traits:  First  Visit  to  England.  —  Carlyle  (T.),  Remi- 
niscences. —  Duffy  (C.  G.),  Conversations  with  Carlyle.  —  Mill  (J.  S.), 
Autobiography,  Chap.  5. — Coleridge  (Sara),  Memoirs  and  Letters. 
*Haney  (J.  L.),  Early  Reviews  of  English  Poets,  Philadelphia,  1904.  — 
♦Coleridge  (S.  T.),  Biographia  Literaria:  Chap.  4,  5,  14,  17,  19,  20,  and 
especially  22.  —  Jeffrey  (Francis),  Edinburgh  Review,  No.  21,  art.  14, 
Wordsworth's  Poems,  1807;  *No.  47,  art.  1,  Wordsworth's  Excursion, 
a  Poem,  1814;  No.  50,  art.  4,  Wordsworth's  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  1815: 
also  in  Jeffrey's  Critical  Essays.  —  Hazlitt  (W.),  The  Spirit  of  the  Age.  — 
Hunt  (Leigh),  The  Seer,  I,  204:  Wordsworth  and  Milton.  —  De  Quince y 
(T.),  Works,  edited  by  David  Masson:  Vol.  V,  On  Wordsworth's  Poetry; 
and  especially  Vol.  XI,  Wordsworth  (Essay  of  1845).  —  Lamb  (Charles), 
Critical  Essays:  On  Wordsworth's  Excursion;  from  the  Quarterly  Review, 
October,  1814.  —  Landor  (W.  S.),  Imaginary  Conversations:  Southey 
and  Porson.  —  Wilson  (John),  Essays. 

Later   Criticism 

** Arnold  (M.),  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series,  1888.  —  **Bagehot 
(W.),  Literary  Studies,  Vol.  II:  Wordsworth,  Tennyson,  and  Browning, 
1858,  new  edition,  1879.  —  Bomig  (Karl),  William  Wordsworth  im  Urtheile 
seiner  Zeit,  Leipzig,  1906.  —  *Bradley  (A.  C),  Oxford  Lectures  on 
Poetry,  1909.  —  *Caird  (Edward),  Literature  and  Philosophy,  Vol.  I, 
1892. — Cestre  (Charles),  La  Revolution  francaise  et  les  poetes  anglais, 
1906. —Church  (R.  W.),  Dante  and  other  Essays,  1888.  —  Clough 
(A.  H.),  Prose  Remains;  from  the  North  American  Review,  April,  1865.  — 
Cooper  (Lane),  Some  Wordsworthian  Similes;  in  The  Journal  of  English 
and  Germanic  Philology,  Vol.  VI,  No.  2,  January,  1907.  — Cooper  (Lane), 
A  Glance  at  Wordsworth's  Reading,  in  Modern  Language  Notes,  March 
and  April,  1907:,  Vol.  XXII,  pp.  83-89  and  110-117.  —  Darmesteter 
(J.),  Nouvelles  Etudes  anglaises:  La  Revolution  et  Wordsworth,  Paris, 
1896;  translated  by  Mary  Darmesteter,  in  English  Studies,  London,  1896. — 
Dawson  (W.  J.),  The  Makers  of  English  Poetry,  1906.  — DeVere  (Aubrey), 
Essays,  Chiefly  on  Poetry,  1887  (three  essays  on  Wordsworth).  —  Dowden 
(Edward),  Studies  in  Literature:  The  French  Revolution  and  Literature; 
The  Transcendental  Movement  and  Literature;  The  Prose  Works  of  Words- 
worth, 1878.  —  Dowden  (Edward),  The  French  Revolution  and  English 
Literature:  Essay  V,  1897.  —  Hancock  (A.  E.),  The  French  Revolution 
and  the  English  Poets,  1899.  —  Hare  (J.  C.  &  A.  W.),  Guesses  at  Truth, 
1867.  —  Herford  (C.  H.),  The  Age  of  Wordsworth,   1894.  —  *Hutton 


LIST   OF   REFERENCES 


(R.  H.),  Literary  Essays,  1871,  1888.  —  Inge  (W.  R.),  Studies  of  English 
Mystics,  1906.  —  *Ker  (W.  P.),  Wordsworth,  in  Chambers's  Cyclopaedia 
of  English  Literature,  New  Edition,  Vol.  Ill,  1904.  —  Knight  (W.), 
Studies  in  Philosophy:  Nature  as  interpreted  by  Wordsworth,  1868. — 
Knight  (W.),  Wordsworthiana;  Selections  from  Papers  read  to  the  Words- 
worth Society,  1889.  —  Lowell  (J.  R.),  Prose  Works,  Vol.  IV  (Essay  of 
1876)  and  Vol.  VI  (Address  of  1884).  —  *Minto  (W.),  Wordsworth's  Great 
Failure,  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  Sept.,  1889.  —  *More  (Paul  E.), 
Shelburne  Essays,  Sixth  Series,  1909.  —  *Morley  (John),  Studies  in 
Literature,  1891.  —  *Pater  (W.),  Appreciations,  1889  (Essay  of  1874).  — 
Pater  (W.),  Essays  from  the  Guardian,  1901  (Essay  of  1889).  —  Payne 
(W.  M.),  The  Greater  English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907.  — 
Ruskin,  Modern  Painters,  passim,  and  especially  Chap.  17  of  Part  IV, 
1843.  —  Scherer  (Edmond),  Etudes,  Vol.  VII;  translated,  in  his  Essays 
on  English  Literature,  1891. — Shairp  (J.  C),  Aspects  of  Poetry:  The 
Three  Yarrows;  The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  1881.  —  Shairp  (J.  C), 
Studies  in  Poetry  and  Philosophy:  Wordsworth,  the  Man  and  the  Poet, 
1868,  new  edition,  1887.  —  Shairp  (J.  C),  On  Poetic  Interpretation  of 
Nature:  Wordsworth  as  an  Interpreter  of  Nature,  1877.  —  Shorthouse 
(J.  H.),  On  the  Platonism  of  Wordsworth,  1881.  —  *Stephen  (Leslie), 
Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  II,  new  edition,  1892.  —  Stephen  (Leslie),  Studies 
of  a  Biographer,  Vol.  I,  1898  (on  Legouis'  book).  —  *Swinburne  (A.  C), 
Miscellanies:  Wordsworth  and  Byron,  1886.  —  Symons  (A.),  The  Romantic 
Movement  in  English  Poetry,  1909.  — Texte  (Joseph),  Etudes  de  Litera- 
ture europeenne:  Wordsworth  et  la  Poesie  lakiste  en  France,  1898.  — 
Wood gerry  (G.  E.),  The  Torch,  1905. 

Austin'  (A.),  The  Bridling  of  Pegasus:  Wordsworth  and  Byron,  1910. 
—  Hudson  (H.  N.),  Studies  in  Wordsworth,  1884.  —  Huttom  (R.  H.), 
Brief  Literary  Criticisms,  1906:  Wordsworth  the  Man;  Mr.  Morley  on 
Wordsworth;  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Scotch  Journal.  —  Johnson  (C.  F.). 
Three  Americans  and  Three  Englishmen,  1886.  —  Jones  (H.),  Idealism 
as  a  Practical  Creed,  1909.  —  Lang  (Andrew),  Poets'  Country,  1907.  — 
Lienemann  (K.),  Wordsworth's  Belesenheit,  Berlin,  1908. — Macdonald 
(G.),  Imagination  and  other  Essays  (1883),  1886.  — Mackie  (A.),  Nature 
Knowledge  in  Modern  Poetiy,  1908.  —  Ricketts  (A.),  Personal  Forces  in 
Modern  Literature,  1906. 

Tributes  in  Verse 

**  Watson  (William),  Wordsworth's  Grave.  —  *  Arnold  (M.),  Memo- 
rial Verses,  April,  1850. —  Shelley,  Poems:  Sonnet  to  Wordsworth 
(arraignment  of  Wordsworth  for  apostasy  to  the  cause  of  liberty;  compare 
♦Browning,  The  Lost  Leader).  —  *  Whittier,  Poems:  Wordsworth. — 
Lowell,  Poetical  Works,  Vol.  I.  —  De  \'ere  (Aubrey),  Poetical  Works, 
Vol.  Ill:  two  Sonnets.  —  Palgrave.  (F.  T.),  Lyrical  Poems,  1871: 
William  Wordsworth.  —  Sill  (E.  R.),  Poems:  Wordsworth.  —  van  Dyke 
(Henry),  The  White  Bees,  1909, 


WORDSWORTH 


LINES 

Left  upon  a  Seat  in  a  Yew-tree,  which  stands 
near  the  lake  of  Estiiwaite,  on  a  desolate  part 
of  the  shore,  commanding  a  beautiful  prospect. 

Composed  in  part  at  school  at  Hawkshead. 
The  tree  has  disappeared,  and  the  slip  of  Com- 
mon on  which  it  stood,  that  ran  parallel  to  the 
lake  and  lay  open  to  it,  has  long  been  enclosed  ; 
so  that  the  road  has  lost  much  of  its  attraction. 
This  spot  was  my  favorite  walk  in  the  evenings 
during  the  latter  part  of  my  school-time. 

( Wordsworth's  note.) 

Nay,  Traveller  !  rest.     This  lonely  Yew- 
tree  stands 
Far  from  all  human  dwelling :  what  if 

here 
No  sparkling  rivulet  spread  the  verdant 

herb  ? 
What  if  the  bee  love  not  these  barren 

boughs  ? 
Yet,  if  the  wind  breathe  soft,  the  curling 

waves, 
That  break  against  the  shore,  shall  lull 

thy  mind 
By  one  soft  impulse  saved  from  vacancy. 

Who  lie  was 

That   piled   these   stones  and  with  the 

mossy  sod 
First  covered,  and  here  taught  this  aged 

Tree 
With  its  dark  arms  to  form  a  circling 

bower, 
I   well   remember. — He   was    one    who 

owned 
No  common  soul.     In  youth  by  science 

nursed. 
And  led  b}r  nature  into  a  wild  scene 
Of   lofty   hopes,  he   to  the  world  went 

forth 
A  favored  Being,  knowing  no  desire 
Which   genius  did  not  hallow ;  'gainst 

the  taint 
Of  dissolute  tongues,  and  jealousy,  and 

hate, 
And    scorn, — against    all  enemies  pre- 
pared, 


All  but  neglect.     The  world,  for  so  it 

thought, 
Owed  him  no  service  ;  wherefore  he  at 

once 
With  indignation  turned  himself  away, 
And  with  the  food  of  pride  sustained  his 

soul 
In    solitude. — Stranger!    these    gloomy 

boughs 
Had  charms  for  him  ;  and  here  he  loved 

to  sit. 
His  only  visitants  a  straggling  sheep, 
The  stone-chat,  or  the  glancing  sand- 
piper : 
And  on  these  barren  rocks,   with  fern 

and  heath, 
And  juniper  and  thistle,  sprinkled  o'er, 
Fixing  his  downcast  eye,  he  many  an 

hour 
A  morbid   pleasure   nourished,  tracing 

here 
An  emblem  of  his  own   unfruitful  life : 
And,  lifting  up  his  head,  he  then  would 

gaze 
On  the  more  distant  scene, — how  lovely 

'tis 
Thou  seest, — and  he  would  gaze  till  it 

became 
Far  lovelier,  and  his  heart  could  not  sus- 
tain 
The  beauty,  still  more  beauteous  !    Nor, 

that  time, 
When  nature  had  subdued  him  to  her- 
self, 
Would  he  forget  those  Beings  to  whose 

minds, 
Warm  from  the  labors  of  benevolence, 
The  world,  and  human  life,  appeared  a 

scene 
Of  kindred  loveliness  :  then  he  would 

sigh, 
Inly  disturbed,  to  think  that  others  felt 
What  lie  must  never  feel :  and  so,  lost 

Man  ! 
On  visionary  views  would  fancy  feed, 
Tdl  his  eye  streamed  with  tears.     In  this 

deep  vale 


4 


WORDSWORTH 


He  died, — this  seat  his  only  monument. 

If  Thou  be  one  whose  heart  the  holy 

forms 

Of  young  imagination  have  kept  pure, 

Stranger  !    henceforth  be  warned  ;  and 

know  that  pride. 
Howe'er  disguised  in  its  own  majesty. 
Is   littleness ;  that   he,    who   feels   con- 
tempt 
For  any  living  thing,  hath  faculties 
Which  he  has  never  used  ;  that  thought 

with  him 
Is  in  its  infancy.     The  man  whose  eye 
Is  ever  on  himself  doth  look  on  one, 
The   least  of   Nature's   works,  one  who 

might  move 
The  wise  man  to  that  scorn  which   wis 

(loin  holds 
Unlawful,  ever.     O  be  wiser.  Thou  ! 
Instructed  that  true  knowledge  leads  to 

love  ; 
True  dignity  abides  with  him  alone 
Who,     in    the    silent    hour    of    inward 

thought, 
Can  still  suspect,  and  still  revere  him- 
self, 
In  lowliness  of  heart.  1787-1795.     1798.1 


THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN 

This  an iso  out  of  my  observation  of  the  affect- 
ing music  of  these  birds  hanging  in  this  way  in 
the  London  streets  during  the  freshness  and 
stillness  of  the  Spring  morning.— (  Wordswoi  th.  I 

AT  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  day- 
light appears. 

Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has 
sung  for  three  years; 

Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and 
has  heard 

In  the  silence  of  morning  the  son-'  of 
the  Bird. 

Tis  a  note  of  enchantment;  what  ails 

her  ?     She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees  ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapor  through  Loth- 

bury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale 

of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst 
of  the  dale, 

1  Ttalic  figures  indicate  the  year  of  writing; 
upright  figures  the  year  of  publication.  The 
dates  for  "Wordsworth  are  taken  from  the  latest 
editions  "I  William  Knight,  .v.  J.  George,  and 
Thomas  II utchinson. 


Down  which  she  so  often  has   tripped 

with  her  pail  ; 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a 

dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she 

loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven : 

but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the 

shade : 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill 

will  not  rise, 
And   the  colors  have  all  passed  away 

from  her  eyes  !  1797.     1800. 

A  NIGHT-PIECE 

Composed  on  the  road  between  Nether  Stowey 
and  Alfoxden.  extempore.  I  distinctly  recollect 
I  lie  i  ery  moment  when  I  was  struck,  as  described 
— '■  He  looks  up— the  clouds  are  split,"  etc. 
{Wordsworth  • 

•'  Wordsworth  particularly  recommended  to 
me  among  his  Poems  of  Imagination,  Yew 
Trees,  and  a  description  of  Night.  These,  he 
says,  are  amongst  the  best  for  the  imaginative 
power  displayed  in  them."  (Diury  of  Henry 
Crabb  Robinson,  May   9,   1815.) 

The  sky  is  overcast 

With  a  continuous  cloud  of  texture  close, 
Heavy  and  wan,  all    whitened    by    the 

Moon, 
Which  through  that  veil  is  indistinctly 

seen, 
A  dull,  contracted  circle,  yielding  light 
So  feebly  spread,  that  not  a  shadow  falls, 
Chequering    the     ground — from     rock, 

plant,  tree,  or  tower. 
At  length  a  pleasant  instantaneous  gleam 
Startles  the  pensive  traveller  while   he 

treads 
His    lonesome    path,  with  unobserving 

eye 
Bent     earthward  ;       he    looks    up— the 

clouds  are  split 
Asunder, — and  above  his  head  he  sees 
The  clear  Moon,   and   the  glory   of  the 

heavens. 
There,    in  a  black-blue    vault  she  sails 

along, 
Followed  by   multitudes  of  stars,  that, 

small 
And  sharp,  and  bright,  along  the  dark 

abyss 
Drive   as   she   drives:    how    fast     they 

wheel  away, 
Yei  vanish  not ! — the  wind  is  in  the  tree, 
But  they  are  silent  ;—  still  they  roll  along 
Immeasurably  distant ;  and  the  vault, 


ENGLISH  POETS 


Built  round  by  those  white  clouds,  enor- 
mous clouds, 
Still  deepens  its  unfathomable  depth. 
At    length    the  Vision  closes ;    and  the 

mind, 
Not  undisturbed  by  the  delight  it  feels, 
Which  slowly  settles  into  peaceful  calm, 
Is  left  to  muse  upon  the  solemn  scene. 

1798.     1815. 

WE  ARE  SEVEN 

— A  SIMPLE  Child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  Girl : 
She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  bad  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 
And  she  was  wildly  clad  : 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair  ; 
— Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  Maid, 
How  many  may  you  be  ?  " 
"How  many?    Seven  in  all,"  she  said 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"  And  where  are  they  ?  I  pray  you  tell." 
She  answered,    "  Seven  are  we  ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie. 
My  sister  and  my  brother  ; 
And  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  ! — I  pray  you  tell. 
Sweet  Maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  Maid  reply, 
"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 
Beneath  the  church-yard  tree." 

"  You  run  about,  my  little  Maid, 
Your  limbs  they  are  alive  ; 
If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid, 
Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"Their  graves  are   green,  they  may  be 

seen." 
The  little  Maid  replied, 


"  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's 

door. 
And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 
My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit, 
And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"  And  often  after  sunset,  Sir, 
When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 
And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  sister  Jane  ; 
In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain  ; 
And  then  she  went  away. 

"  So  in  the  church-yard  she  was  laid  ; 
And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 
My  brother  John  and  I. 

"  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with 

snow, 
And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  -brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 
And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 
"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ?  " 
Quick  was  the  little  Maid's  reply, 
"  O  Master  !  we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are 

dead  ! 
Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  !  " 
'Twas  throwing  words  away  ;  for  still 
The  little  Maid  would  have  her  will, 
And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven  !" 

179S.     1798. 

SIMON  LEE 

THE  OLD  HUNTSMAN  ; 

WITH   AN   INCIDENT  IN    WHICH   HE    WAS 
CONCERNED. 

This  old  man  had  been  huntsman  to  the  squires 
of  Alfoxden.  .  .  .  The  fact  was  as  mentioned  in 
the  poem  ;  and  I  have,  after  an  interval  of  forty- 
five  years,  the  imapre  of  the  old  man  as  fresh 
before  my  eyes  as  if  I  had  seen  him  yesterday. 
The  expression  when  the  hounds  were  out,  "I 
dearly  love  their  voice,"  was  word  for  word 
from  his  own  lips.  (Wordsivorth.) 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor-hall, 


WORDSWORTH 


An  old  Man  dwells,  a  little  man, — 
'Tis  said  he  once  was  tall. 
Full  five  and  thirty  years  lie  lived 
A  running  huntsman  merry  ; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound. 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee 

When  Echo  bandied,  round  and  round, 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days,  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage  ; 

To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 

The  sleepers  of  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun. 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind  : 

And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done, 

He  reeled  and  was  stone-blind. 

And  still  there's  something  in  the  world 

At  which  his  heart  rejoices  ; 

For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 

He  dearly  loves  their  voices  ! 

But,  oh  the  heavy  change  ! — bereft 

Of  health,  strength,  friends,  and  kindred, 

see  ! 
Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 
In  liveried  poverty. 
His  Master's  dead, — and  no  one  now 
Dwells  m  the  Hall  of  Ivor  ; 
Men.  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead  ; 
He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick  ; 
His  body,  dwindled  and  awry, 
Rests  upon  ankles  swoln  and  thick  ; 
His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 
One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one, 
His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 
Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall, 
Upon  the  village  Common. 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 
Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 
A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 
Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 
This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 
Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger  ; 
But  what  to  them  avails  the  land 
Which  he  can  till  no  longer? 

Oft.  working  by  her  Husband's  side, 
Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do  ; 
For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 
Is  stouter  of  the  two. 
And,  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 
From  labor  could  not  wean  them, 


'Tis  little,  very  little— all 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store 

As  he  to  you  will  tell, 

For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 

Do  his  weak  ankles  swell. 

My  gentle  Reader,  I  perceive 

How  patiently  you've  waited, 

And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 

Some  tale  will  be  related. 

O  Reader  !  had  you  in  your  mind 
Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

0  gentle  Reader  !  you  would  find 
A  tale  in  every  thing. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short, 
And  }'Ou  must  kindly  take  it : 
It  is  no  tale  ;  but.  should  you  think, 
Perhaps  a  tale  you'll  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I  chanced  to  see 
This  old  Man  doing  all  he  could 
To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 
A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 
The  mattock  tottered  in  his  hand ; 
So  vain  was  his  endeavor, 
That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 
He  might  have  worked  for  ever. 

"  You're  overtasked,  good  Simon  Lee, 
Give  me  your  tool,"  to  him  I  said  ; 
And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 
Received  my  proffered  aid. 

1  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 
The  tangled  root  I  severed, 

At  which  the  poor  old  Man  so  long 
And  vainly  had  endeavored. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought, 
And  thanks  and  praises  seemed  to  run 
So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 
— I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning  ; 
Alas  !  the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

1798.     1798. 


LINES     WRITTEN    IN    EARLY 
SPRING 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes, 

While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclined, 

In    that    sweet    mood    when    pleasant 

thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 


BRITISH    POETS 


To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that,  through  me  ran  : 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through   primrose  tufts,    in  that  green 

bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths  ; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  t lie  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure  : — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 

To  eat eli  the  breezy  air  ; 

And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man? 

1798.     1TU8. 


TO  MY   SISTER 

It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March  : 
Each  minute  sweeter  than  before 
The  redbreast  sings  from  the  tall  larch 
That  stands  beside  our  door. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  air. 
Which  seems  a  sense  of  joy  to  yield 
To  the  bare  trees,  and  mountains  bare, 
And  grass  in  the  green  held. 

My  sister  !  ('tis  a  wish  of  mine) 
Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done, 
Make  haste,  your  morning  task  resign  ; 
Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

Edward  will  come  with  you  ; — and.  pray, 
Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress  ; 
And  bring  no  book  :  for  this  one  dajr 
We'll  give  to  idleness. 

No  joyless  forms  shall  regulate 
Our  living  calendar: 
We  from  to-day,  my  Friend,  will  date 
The  opening  of  the  year. 

Love,  now  a  universal  birth, 
From  heart  to  heart  is  stealing, 
From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth  : 
— It  is  the  hour  of  feeling. 


One  moment  now  may  give  us  more 
Than  years  of  toiling  reason  : 
Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 
The  spirit  of  the  season. 

Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  will  make, 
Which  they  shall  long  obey  : 
We  for  the  year  to  come  may  take 
Our  temper  from  to-day. 

And  from  the  blessed  power  that  rolls 
About,  below,  above, 
We'll  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls  : 
They  shall  be  tuned  to  love. 

Then  come,  my  Sister  !  come.  I  pray, 
With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dress 


And  bring  no  book  :  for  this  one  day 
We '11  give  to  idleness.  1798.     171 


A    WHIRL-BLAST    FROM 
THE   HILL 


708. 


BEHIND 


A  WHIRL-BLAST  from  behind  the  hill 
Rushed    o'er   the    wood   with    startling 

sound  ; 
Then— all  at  once  the  air  was  still, 
And    showers    of     hailstones    pattered 

round. 
WThere  leafless  oaks  towered  high  above, 
I  sat  within  an  undergrove 
Of  tallest  hollies,  tall  and  green  ; 
A  fairer  bower  was  never  seen. 
From  year  to  year  the  spacious  floor 
With  withered  leaves  is  covered  o'er, 
And  all  the  year  the  bower  is  green. 
But  see  !  where'er  the  hailstones  drop 
The  withered  leaves  all  skip  and  hop  ; 
There's  not  a  breeze-?  no.  breath   of  air — 
Yet  here,  and  tkere,  and  everywhere 
Along  the  floor,  beneath  the  shade 
By  those  embowering  hollies  made, 
The  leaves  in  myriads  jump  and  spring, 
As  if  with  pipes'  and  music  rare 
Some  Robin  Good-fellow  were  there, 
And  all  those  leaves,  in  festive  glee, 
Were  dancing  to  the  minstrelsy. 

1798.     1800. 


EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY 

"Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away  ? 


WORDSWORTH 


"  Where  are  your  books  ? — that  light  be- 
queathed 
To  Beings  else  forlorn  and  blind  ! 
Up!   up!   and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 
From  dead  men  tu  their  kind. 

"You  look  round  on  your  Mother  Earth, 
As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you  ; 
As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 
And  none  had  lived  before  you  !" 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite lake, 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew    not  why, 
To  me  my  good   friend  Matthew  spake, 
And  thus  I  made  reply  : 

"  The  eye — it  cannot  choose  but  see  ; 
We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still  ; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 
Against  or  with  our  will. 

"  Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress  ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
Of  things  for  ever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking? 

"  — Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 

Conversing  as  I  may, 

I  sit  upon  this  old  gray  stone, 

And  dream  my  time  away." 

1798.     1798. 


THE    TABLES    TURNED 

AX   EVENING   SCENE   ON   THE  SAME 
SUBJECT 

Up  !up  !  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books  ; 

Or  surely  you'll  grow  double  : 

Up!    up!    my  Friend,  and    clear    your 

looks  ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 

Through   all    the   long   green    fields  has 

spread, 
His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books  !  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife  : 
'  Some,  hear  the   woodland  linnet, 
How  sweet  his  music  !  on  my  life, 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 


And  hark  !  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings  ! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher  : 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore   which  Nature  brings  ; 

Our  meddling  intellect 

Mis-shapes    the     beauteous     forms     of 

things  : 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art ; 

Close  up  those  barren  leaves  ; 

Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 

That  watches  and  receives.     1798.     1798. 

LINES 

COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERX 
ABBEY,  ON  REVISITING  THE  BANKS  OF  THE 
WYE   DURING  A  TOUR.      JULY   13,  1798. 

No  poem  of  mine  was  composed  under  circum- 
stances more  pleasant  for  ine  to  remember  tha?: 
this.  I  began  it  upon  leaving  Tintern,  after 
crossing  the  Wye,  and  concluded  it  just  is  I  was 
entering  Bristol  in  the  evening,  alter  a  ramble 
of  four  or  five  clays,  with  my  sister.  Not  a  line 
of  it  was  altered,  and  not  any  part  of  it  written 
down  till    I  reached    Bristol.     It  was   published 

almost  immediately  after  in  the  little  volu of 

which  so  much  has  been  said  in  these  Notes. 
(  Wordsworth.  The  volume  referred  to  is  The 
Lyrical  Ballads,  as  first  published  at  Bristol  by 
Cottle.) 

Five  years  have   past ;    five  summers, 

with  the  length 
Of  five  long  winters  !  and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  moun- 
tain-springs 
With   a    soft    inland    murmur.1 — Once 

again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion  ;  and 

connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

1  The  river  is  not  affected  by  the  tides  a  few 
miles  above  Tintern.    — (  Wordsworth,  1798.; 


IO 


BRITISH  POETS 


Here,   under   this   dark   sycamore,  and 

view 
These    plots    of    cottage-ground,    these 

orchard-tufts, 
Which  at  tliis  season,  with  their  unripe 

fruits. 
Are  clad   in   one  green   hue,  and   lose 

themselves 
'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once   again  I 

see 
These  hedge-rows,    hardly   hedge-rows, 

little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  :  these  pas- 
toral farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door ;  and  wreaths  of 

smoke 
Sent   up,   in   silence,   from   among  the 

trees  ! 
With   some  uncertain  notice,  as  might 

seem 
Of   vagrant   dwellers   in   the    houseless 

woods, 
Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his 

fire 
The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been 

to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the 

din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,   and   felt  along  the 

heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration  : — feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure  :  such,  per- 
haps. 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of   kindness   and   of   love.     Nor  less,  I 

trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime  ;    that   blessed 

mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 
In   which    the    heavy    and    the   weary 

weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world, 
Is  lightened  :— that  serene  and  blessed 

mood , 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us 

on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And   even   the   motion   of    our    human 

blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 


In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul  : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the 

power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy. 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft— 
In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless   daylight  ;  when   the  fretful 

st  i  r 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have   hung  upon  the   beatings  of  my 

heart — 
How   oft,    in  spirit,   have  I  turned  to 

thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye  !  thou  wanderer  thro'  the 

woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 
And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extin- 
guished thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the 

sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with   pleasing 

thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and 

food 
For  future  years.      And  so   I   dare  to 

hope, 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I 

was  when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills ;  when  like  a 

roe 
I  bounded   o'er  the  mountains,  by  the 

sides 
Of    the    deep    rivers,    and    the    lonely 

streams, 
Wherever  nature  led  :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads, 

than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he   loved.      For 

nature  then 
(The  coarser    pleasures    of    my  boyish 

days, 
And  their  glad   animal  movements  all 

gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cata- 
ract 
Haunted    me  like    a  passion :  the  tall 

rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy 

wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then 

to  me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 


WORDSWORTH 


By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time 

is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur  ;  other 

gifts 
Have  followed ;  for  such  loss,  I  would 

believe, 
Abundant    recompense.       For    I    have 

learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth  ;  but  hearing  often- 
times 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample 

power 
To  chasten  and   subdue.     And   I   have 

felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the 

joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more    deeply   inter- 
fused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting 

suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of 

man ; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking   things,  all  objects  of  all 

thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore 

am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains  ;  and  of  all  that  we  be- 
hold 
From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty 

world 
Of  eye,  and  ear,-  -both  what  they  half 

create, 
And   what  perceive  ;    well    pleased    to 

recognize 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the 

nurse, 
The  guide,  the   guardian  of  my  heart, 

and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the 

more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 
For  thou   art   with   me   here   upon  the 

banks 
Of  this   fair   river;    thou    my    dearest 

Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend  ;  and  in  thy  voice 

I  catch 


The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and 

read 
My    former   pleasures   in   the    shooting 

lights 
Of    thy    wild    eyes.     Oh  !    yet  a  little 

while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister!  and  this  prayer  I 

make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her  ;  'tis  her  privi- 
lege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to 

lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With   lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil 

tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish 

men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor 

all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life. 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against   us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we 

behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the 

moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk  -, 
And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be 

free 
To  blow  againstthee  :  and,  in  after  years, 
When    these    wild    ecstasies    shall    be 

matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure  ;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all    sweet    sounds  and  harmonies ; 

oh  !  then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief. 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  heal- 
ing thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 
And  these  my  exhortations  !     Nor,  per- 
chance— 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes 

these  gleams 
Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 
That   on   the  banks  of    this   delightful 

stream 
We  stood  together  ;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 
Unwearied  in  that  service  :  rather  say 
With  warmer  love — oh  !  with  far  deeper 

zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  for- 
get, 


L2 


BRITISH    POETS 


That  after  many  wanderings,  many  3  ears 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty 

cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were 

to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for 

thy  sake!  179S.     1798. 

THE  SIMPLON    PASS 

Brook  and  road 


Were    fellow-travellers    in  this  gloomy 

Pass, 
And  with  them  did  we  journey  several 

hours 
At    a    slow   step.      The    immeasurable 

height 
Of  woods  decaying,  never  to  be  decayed, 
The  stationary  blasts  of  waterfalls. 
And  in  the  narrow  rent,  at  every  turn, 
Winds  thwarting  winds  bewildered  and 

forlorn , 
The   torrents   shooting   from  the   clear 

blue  sky, 
The  rocks  that  muttered  close  upon  our 

ears. 
Black  drizzling  crags  that  spake  by  the 

wayside 
As  if  a  voice  were  in  them,  the  sick  sight 
And  giddy  prospect  of  the  raving  stream. 
The  unfettered  clouds  and  region  of  the 

heavens, 
Tumult  and  peace,  the  darkness  and  the 

light- 
Were  all  like  workings  of  one  mind,  the 

features 
Of   the   same  face,  blossoms   upon   one 

tree, 
Characters  of  the  great  Apocalypse, 
The  types  and  symbols  of  Eternity, 
Of  first,  and  last,  and  midst,  and  with- 
out end.  1799.     1845. 


INFLUENCE  OF  NATURAL 
OBJECTS 

IN  CALLING  FORTH  AND  STRENGTHENING 
THE  IMAGINATION  IN  BOYHOOD  AND 
EARLY  YOUTH 

Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
Thou    Soul,   that    art    the   Eternity   of 

thought ! 
And  giv'st  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 
And  everlasting  motion  !  not  in  vain. 
By  day  or  star-light,  thus  from  my  first 

dawn 


Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for 

me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human 

soul  ; 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of 

Man. 
But  with   high  objects,   with   enduring 

tilings, 
With  life  and  nature  :  purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 
And  sanctifying  by  such  discipline 
Both  pain  and  fear, — until  we  recognize 
A  grandeur  in  the  heatings  of  the  heart. 
Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to 

me 
With  stinted   kindness.     In   November 

days. 
When  vapors  rolling   down  the  valleys 

made 
A  lonely  scene  more  lonesome  ;    among 

woods 
At  noon  ;  and  'mid  the  calm  of  summer 

nights, 
When  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling 

lake, 
Beneath  the  gloomy  hills,  homeward  I 

went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine  : 
Mine  was  it  in  the  fields  both  day  and 

night, 
And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 
And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a  mile, 
The  cottage-windows  through   the  twi- 
light blazed, 
I  heeded  not  the  summons  :  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us  ;  for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture  !    Clear  and  loud 
The  village-clock   tolled  six — I  wheeled 

about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home. — All  shod 

with  steel 
We   hissed  along  the  polished   ice,  in 

games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resound- 
ing horn, 
The  pack  loud-chiming,  and  the  hunted 

hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold 

we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle  :   with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron  ;  while  far-distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed  while  the 

stars, 


WORDSWORTH 


*3 


Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in 

the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced   side  way,  leaving   the   tumult- 
uous throng, 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star  ; 
Image,    that,    flying    still    before    me, 

gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain  :  and  oftentimes, 
When   we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the 

wind. 
And  all  the   shadowy  banks  on   either 

side 
Came  sweeping  through  the   darkness, 

spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopped  short ;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me — even   as   if   the   earth 

had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 
Behind  me   did  they  stretch  in  solemn 

train, 
Feebler  and   feebler,   and  I  stood  and 

watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea. 
1799.     1809. 


THERE  WAS  A  BOY 

Written  in  Germany.  This  is  an  extract  from 
the  poem  on  my  own  poetical  education.  (  Words- 
worth.    The  poem  referred  to  is  The  Prelude.) 

There  was  a  Boy  ;  ve  knew  him  well,  ye 

cliffs 
Ami  islandsof  Winander! — many  a  time, 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glimmering 

lake  ; 
And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both 

hands 
Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm  and  to  his 

mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls. 
That  they  might  answer  him. — And  they 

would  shout 
Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 
Responsive  to  his  call, — with  quivering 

peals. 
And    long    halloos,   and     screams,  and 

echoes  loud 
Redoubled    and    redoubled ;     concourse 

wild 


Of  jocund  din  !  And,  when  there  came 

a  pause 
Of  silence  such  as  baffled  his  best  skill. 
Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,   while 

he  hung 
Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of    mountain-torrents  ;  or    the    visible 

scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 
With  all  its   solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 
Its   woods,  and  that  uncertain   heaven 

received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 
This  boy  was  taken  from  his  mates, 

and  died 
In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years 

old. 
Pre-eminent  in  beauty  is  the  vale 
Where  he  was  born  and  bred  :  the  church- 
yard hangs 
Upon  a  slope  above  the  village-school ; 
And  through  that  church-yard  when  my 

way  has  led 
On    summer-evenings,    I    believe,  that 

there 
A  long  half-hour  together  I  have  stood 
Mute — looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he 

lies !  1798.     1800. 


NUTTING 

Written  in  Germany  ;  ntended  as  part  of  a 
poem  on  my  own  life,  out  struck  out  as  not 
being  wanted  there.  .  .      .  {Wordsworth). 

It  seems  a  day 

(I  speak  of  one  from  many  singled  out) 
One  of  those  heavenly  days  that  cannot 

die  ; 
When,  in  the  eagerness  of  boyish  hope, 
I   left   our    cottage-threshold,    sallying 

forth 
With  a  huge  wallet  o'er  my  shoulders 

slung, 
A  nutting-crook  in  hand  ;    and  tinned 

my  steps 
Tow'rd  some  far-distant  wood,  a  Figure 

quaint, 
Tricked  out  in  proud  disguise  of  cast-off 

weeds 
Which   for   that  service  had  been  hus- 
banded, 
By  exhortation  of  my  frugal  Dame — 
Motley  accoutrement,  of  power  to  smile 
At  thorns,  and  brakes,  and  brambles— 

and,  in  truth, 
More   ragged    than   need    was  !      O'er 

pathless  rocks, 


'4 


BRITISH    POETS 


Through  beds  of  matted  fern,  and  tan- 
gled t  liickets, 
Forcing  my  way,  1  came  to  one  dear  nook 
Unvisited,  where  not  a  broken  bough 
Drooped   with   its   withered   leaves,  un- 
gracious sign 
Of  devastation  ;  but  the  hazels  rose 
Tall   and  erect,  with  tempting   clusters 

hung, 
A  virgin  scene  ! — A  little   while  I  stood, 
Breathing  with  such  suppression  of  the 

heart  - 
As  joy  delights  in  ;  and,  with  wise  re- 
straint 
Voluptuous,  fearless  of  a  rival,  eyed 
The   banquet ; — or    beneath   the  trees  I 

sate 
Among  the  flowers,  and  with  the  flowers 

I  played  ; 
A   temper  known   to   those,  who,  after 

long 
And  weary  expectation,  have  been  blest 
With  sudden  happiness  beyond  all  hope. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  bower  beneath  whose 

leaves 
The  violets  of  five  seasons  re-appear 
And  fade,  unseen  by  any  human  eye; 
"Where  fairy  water-breaks  do  murmur  on 
For  ever  ;  and  I  saw  the  sparkling  foam. 
And — with    my  cheek  on   one   of  those 

green  stones 
That,  fleeced  with  moss,  under  the  shad y 

trees, 
Lay  round  me,  scattered  like  a  flock  of 

sheep — 
I  heard  the  murmur  and  the  murmuring 

sound. 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves 

to  pay 
Tribute  to  ease  ;  and,  of  its  joy  secure, 
The   heart   luxuriates  with    indifferent 

things, 
Wasting   its  kindliness    on   stocks  and 

stones 
And  on  the  vacant  air.     Then  up  I  rose, 
And  dragged  to  earth  both  branch  and 

bough,  witli  crash 
And   merciless  ravage  :  and  the   shady 

nook 
Of  hazels,  and   the  green    and  mossy 

bovver, 
Deformed  and  sullied,  patiently  gave  up 
Their  quiet  being  :  and,  unless  I  now 
Confound  my  present  feelings  with  the 

past ; 
Ere  from  the  mutilated  bower  I  turned 
Exulting,    rich    beyond    the   wealth   of 

kings, 
I  felt  a  sense  of  pain  when  I  beheld 


The  silent  trees,  and  saw  the  intruding 

sky.— 
Then,  dearest  Maiden,  move  along  these 

shades 
In  gentleness  of  heart ;  with  gentle  hand 
Touch — for  there  is  a  spirit  in  the  woods. 
1799.     1800. 


STRANGE  FITS  OF  PASSION  HAVE 
I  KNOWN 

The  next  three  poems  were  written  in 
Germany.     (Wordsworth.) 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known  : 

And  I  will  dare  to  tell, 

But  in  the  Lover's  ear  alone, 

What  once  to  me  befell. 

When  she  I  loved  looked  every  day 
Fresh  as  a  rose  in  June, 
I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way, 
Beneath  an  evening-moon. 

Upon  the  moon  I  fixed  my  eye, 

All  over  the  wide  lea  ; 

With  quickening  pace  my  horse   drew 

nigh 
Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 

And  now  we  reached  the  orchard-plot ; 
And,  as  we  climbed  the  hill, 
The  sinking  moon  to  Lucy's  cot 
Came  near,  and  nearer  still. 

In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I  slept, 
Kind  Nature's  gentlest  boon  ! 
And  all  the  while  my  eyes  I  kept 
On  the  descending  moon. 

My  horse  moved  on  ;  hoof  after  hoof 
He  raised,  and  never  stopped  : 
When  down  behind  the  cottage  roof, 
At  once,  the  bright  moon  dropped. 

What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will 

slide 
Into  a  Lover's  head  ! 
"  O  mercy  ! "  to  myself  I  cried, 
"  If  Lucy  should  be  dead  !  " 

1799.     1800. 


SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTROD- 
DEN WAYS 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praiss 

And  very  few  to  love : 


WORDSWORTH 


*5 


A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  !  1799.     1800. 

I  TRAVELLED  AMONG  UNKNOWN 
MEN 

I  travelled  among  unknown  men, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea  ; 
Nor,  England  !  did  I  know  till  then 

What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

'Tis  past,  that  melancholy  dream  ! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time  ;  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Among  the  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire  ; 
And  she  I  cherished  turned  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  con- 
cealed 
The  bowers  where  Lucy  played  ; 
And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy's  eyes  surveyed. 

1799.     1807. 

THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW  IN  SUN 
AND   SHOWER 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 
Tins  Child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 

"  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  :  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In    earth    and    heaven,    in    glade    and 

bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 
To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn. 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 


"  The   floating  clouds  their  state   shall 

lend 
To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 
Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 
Grace    that   shall   mould    the   Maiden's 

form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 
In  many  a  secret  place 
Where   rivulets   dance  their    wayward 

round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell  ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus    Nature    spake. —  The    work    was 

done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 
She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene  ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 
And  never  more  will  be.         1799.     1800. 


A  SLUMBER  DID  MY  SPIRIT  SEAL 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears  : 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force  ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees  ; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course. 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 
1799.     1800. 


A  POET'S    EPITAPH 

Art  thou  a  Statist  in  the  van 
Of  public  conflicts  trained  and  bred  ? 
— First  learn  to  love  one  living  man  ; 
Tlten  may'st  thou  think  upon  the  dead. 

A  Lawyer  art  thou  ? — draw  not  nigh  ! 
Go,  carry  to  some  fitter  place 
The  keenness  of  that  practised  eye, 
The  hardness  of  that  sallow  face. 


i6 


BRITISH    POETS 


Art  thou  a  Man  of  purple  cheer? 
A  rosy  Man,  righl  plump  to  see? 
Approach  :  yet,  Doctor,  not  too  near, 
This  grave  no  cushion  is  for  thee. 

Or  art  thou  one  of  gallant  pride, 
A  Soldier  and  no  man  of  chaff? 
Welcome  ! — but  lay  thy  sword  aside, 
And  lean  upon  a  peasant's  stalf. 

Physician  art  thou  ?  one  all  ej^es, 
Philosopher  !  a  lingering  slave. 
One  that  would  peep  and  botanize 
Upon  his  mother's  grave  ? 

Wrapt  closely  in  thy  sensual  fleece, 
O  turn  aside, — and  take,  I  pray, 
That  he  below  may  rest  in  peace, 
Thy  ever-dwindling  soul  away  ! 

A  Moralist  perchance  appears  ; 

Led,  Heaven  knows  how!  to  this  poor 

sod  : 
And  he  has  neither  e}"es  nor  ears  ; 
Himself  his  world,  and  his  own  God  ; 

One  to  whose  smooth-rubbed  soul   can 

cling 
Nor  form,  nor  feeling,  great  or  small  ! 
A  reasoning,  self-sufficing  thing, 
An  intellectual  All-in-all ! 

Shut   close   the   door  ;  press   down    the 

latch  ; 
Sleep  in  thy  intellectual  crust ; 
Nor  lose  ten  tickings  of  thy  watch 
Near  this  unprofitable  dust,  ' 

But  who  is  he,  with  modest  looks. 
And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown  ? 
He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noon-day  grove  ; 
And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  j'our  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed  ; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart, — 
The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 
That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 


But  he  is  weak  ;   both  Man  and  Boy, 
I  hit  h  been  an  idler  in  the  land  ; 
Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 
The  things  which  others  understand. 

—Come  hither  in  thy  hour  of  strength  ; 
( !ome,  weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave  ! 
Here  stretch  thy  body  at  full  length  ; 
Or  build  thy  house  upon  this  grave. 

1799.     1800. 


MATTHEW 

In  the  School  of is  a  tablet,  on  which  are 

inscribed  in  gilt  letters,  the  Names  of  the  sev- 
eral persons  who  have  been  Schoolmasters  there 
since  the  foundation  of  the  School,  with  the 
time  at  which  they  entered  upon  and  quitted 
their  office.  Opposite  to  one  of  those  names  the 
Author  wrote  the  following  lines. 

Such  a  Tablet  as  is  here  spoken  of  continued 
to  be  preserved  in  Hawkshead  School,  though 
the  inscriptions  were  not  brought  down  to  our 
time.  This  and  other  poems  connected  with 
Matthew  would  not  gain  by  a  literal  detail  of 
facts.  Like  the  Wanderer  in  "  The  Excursion," 
this  Schoolmaster  was  made  up  of  several  both 
of  his  class  and  men  of  other  occupations.  I  do 
not  ask  pardon  for  what  there  is  of  untruth  in 
such  verses,  considered  strictly  as  matters  of 
fact.  It  is  enough  if,  being  true  and  consistent 
in  spirit,  they  move  and  teach  in  a  manner  not 
unworthy  of  a  Poefs  calling.     ( Wordsworth.) 

If  Nature,  for  a  favorite  child, 
In  thee  hath  tempered  so  her  clay, 
That  every  hour  thy  heart  runs  wild, 
Yet  nevei  once  doth  go  astray, 

Read  o'er  these  lines  ;  and  then  review 
This  tablet,  that  thus  humbly  rears 
In  such  diversity  of  hue 
Its  history  of  two  hundred  years. 

— When   through   this   little   wreck   of 

fame, 
Cipher  and  syllable  !  thine  eye 
Has  travelled  down  to  Matthew's  name. 
Pause  with  no  common  sympathy. 

And,  if  a  sleeping  tear  should  wake. 
Then  be  it  neither  checked  nor  stayed  : 
For  Matthew  a  request  I  make 
Which  for  himself  he  hath  not  made. 

Poor  Matthew,  all  his  frolics  o'er, 
Is  silent  as  a  standing  pool ; 
Far  from  the  chimney's  merry  roar, 
And  murmur  of  the  village  school. 

The  sighs  which  Matthew  heaved  were 

sighs 
Of  one  tired  out  with  fun  and  madness  ; 


WORDSWORTH 


17 


The    tears    which   came   to    Matthew's 

eyes 
Were  tears  of  light,  the  dew  of  gladness. 

Yet.  sometimes,  when  the  secret  cup 
Of  still  and  serious  thought  went  round, 
It  seemed  as  if  he  drank  it  up — 
He  felt  with  spirit  so  profound. 

— Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould  ! 
Thou  happy  Soul !  and  can  it  be 
That  these  two  words  of  glittering  gold 
Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  ? 

1799.     1800. 


THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 

Uprose  the  morning  sun  ; 

And  Matthew  stopped,  he  looked,  and 

said, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  !  " 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 
With  hair  of  glittering  gray  : 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass, 
And  by  the  steaming  rills, 
We  travelled  merrily,  to  pass 
A  day  among  the  hills. 

"  Our  work,"   said  I,    "  was  well  begun, 
Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun. 
So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ?  " 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop  ; 
And  fixing  still  his  e}-e 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 
To  me  he  made  reply  : 

"  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this  winch  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

"   \nd  just  above  .yon  slope  of  corn 
Such  colors,  and  no  o?fier. 
Were  in  the  sky.  that  April  morn, 
Of  this  the.  very  brother. 

"  With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 

And,  to  the  church-yard  come,  stopped 

short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 


"  Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 

The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 

And  then  she  sang  ; — she  would  have 

been 
A  very  nightingale. 

"Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay  ; 
And  jet  I  loved  her  more. 
For  so  it  seemed,  than  till  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

"  And.  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met, 
Beside  the  church-yard  yew, 
A  blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew, 

"  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare  ; 
Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white : 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 
It  was  a  pure  delight  ! 

''  No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free  ; 
Site  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea; 

"  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
Which  I  could  ill  confine  ; 
I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again  : 
And  did  not  wish  her  mine  !" 

Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now, 
Methinks,  I  see  him  stand. 
As  at  that  moment,  witli  a  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand.       1799.     1800. 


THE  FOUNTAIN 

A   CONVERSATION 

~\Ve  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true. 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two, 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 
Beside  a  mossy  seat  ; 

And  from    the  turf   a    fountain    broke, 
And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

'•  Now.  Matthew  !  "  said  I,  "  let  us 

match 
This  water's  pleasant  tune 
With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch 
That  suits  a  summer's  noon  ; 

"  Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 
1  Sing  here  beneath  the  shade, 


iS 


BRITISH    POETS 


That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made  !  " 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree  ; 
And  thus  the  dear  old  Man  replied, 
The  gray  haired  man  of  glee  : 

"  No  check,  no  stay,  tins  Streamlet 

fears ; 
How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

"  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 
I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

"  My  ej'es  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 
My  heart  is  idly  stirred, 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 
Which  in  those  days  I  heard, 

"Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay  : 
And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

"The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 
The  lark  above  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please 
Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

"  With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife  ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free  : 

*'  But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws  ; 
And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  }7ore. 

"  If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 
His  kindred  laid  in  earth. 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own  ; 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"  My  days,  my  Friend,  are  almost  gone, 
My  life  has  been  approved, 
And  many  love  me  ;  but  by  none 
Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"  Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains  ; 
I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains  ; 


"  And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 
I'll  be  a  son  to  thee  !  " 
At  this  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 
"  Alas  !  that  cannot  be." 

We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side  ; 
And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide  ; 
And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And,  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  rock, 
He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 
And  the  bewildered  chimes. 

1799.     1800. 

LUCY  GRAY 

OR,  SOLITUDE 

Written  at  Goslar  in  Germany.  It  was  founded 
on  a  circumstance  told  me  by  my  Sister,  of  a 
little  girl  who,  not  far  from  Halifax  in  Yorkshire, 
was  bewildered  in  a  snow-storm.  Her  footsteps 
were  traced  by  her  parents  to  the  middle  of  the 
lock  of  a  canal,  and  no  other  vestige  of  her, 
backward  or  forward,  could  be  traced.  The 
body  however  was  found  in  the  canal.  The  way 
in  which  the  incident  was  treated  and  the  spirit- 
ualizing of  the  character  might  furnish  hints  (or 
contrasting  the  imaginative  influences  which  1 
have  endeavored  to  throw  over  common  life 
with  Crabbe's  matter  of  fact  style  of  treating 
subjects  of  the  same  kind.  This  is  not  spoken 
to  his  disparagement,  far  from  it,  but  to  direct 
the  attention  of  thoughtful  readers,  into  whose 
hands  these  notes  may  fall,  to  a  comparison  that 
may  both  enlarge  the  circle  of  their  sensibilities, 
and  tend  to  produce  in  them  a  catholic  judg- 
ment.    (  Wordsworth.') 

See  also  Henry  Crabb  Robinson's  Diary,  Sept. 
11,  1816. 

Oft  I   had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray  : 
And,  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew  ; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
— The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door  ! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  upon  the  green  ; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
W  ill  never  more  be  seen. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — 
You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"  That,  Father  !  will  I  gladly  do  : 
Tis  scarcely  afternoon — 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yondsr  is  the  moon  !  " 


WORDSWORTH 


l9 


At  this  the  Father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  fagot  band  ; 
He  plied  his  work  ; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe  : 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time  : 
She  wandered  up  and  down  ; 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb  : 
But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide  ; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  daybreak  on  the  hill  they  stood 
That  overlooked  the  moor  ; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 
A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They    wept — and,   turning    homeward, 

cried, 
"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet  ;  " 
—When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's 

edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small ; 
And    through    the     broken     hawthorn 

hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall  ; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed: 
The  marks  were  still  the  same  ; 
Thej-  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost  ; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank  ; 
And  further  there  were  none  ! 

— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child  ; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind  ; 
A  nd  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

l7C>r>.     1800. 


MICHAEL 

A   PASTORAL   POEM 

Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere,  about  the 
same  time  as  "  The  Brothers."  The  Sheepfold, 
on  which  so  much  of  the  poem  turns,  remains,  or 
rather  the  ruins  of  it.  The  character  and  cir- 
cumstances  of  Luke  were  taken  from  a  family 
to  whom  had  belonged,  many  years  before,  the 
house  we  lived  in  at  Town  end,  along  with  some 
fields  and  woodlands  on  the  eastern  shore  of 
< :  rasmere.  The  name  of  the  Evening  Star  was  not 
in  fact  given  to  this  house,  but  to  another  on 
the  same  side  of  the  valley,  more  to  the  north. 
(Wordswortli.) 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your 

steps 
Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Greenhead 

Ghyll, 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright 

path 
Your  feet  must  struggle  ;  in  such  bold 

ascent 
The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face 

to  face. 
But,  courage  !  for  around  that  boister- 
ous brook 
The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  them- 
selves, 
And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 
No  habitation  can  be  seen  ;  but  they 
Who  journey   thither   rind   themselves 

alone 
With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones, 

and  kites 
That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 
It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude  ; 
Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this 

Dell 
But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass 

by, 
Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside  the 

brook 
Appears  a  straggling  heap  of  unhewn 

stones ! 
And  to  that  simple  object  appertains 
A     story — unenriched      with      strange 

events, 
Yet  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside. 
Or  for  the  summer  shade.    It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  tome 
Of  shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys, 

men 
Whom  I  already  loved  ;  not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields 

and  hills 
Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 
And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I  was  vet  a 

Boy 
Careless   of   books,  yet  having    felt  the 
power 


20 


BRITISH    POETS 


( >f  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 
Of  natural  objects,  Led  me  on  to  feel 
For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and 

think 
(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 
On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human 

life. 
Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 
Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 
For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts  ; 
And,   with   yet  fonder   feeling,  for  the 

sake 

Of  youthful  Poets,  whoamongthese  hills 

Will  be  my  second  self  when  1  am  gone. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmei'e  Vale 

There  dwelt  a  Shepherd,  Michael  was  his 

name  ; 
An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong 

of  limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth 

to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength  :  his  mind  was 

keen, 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs. 
And  in  his  shepherd's   calling    he    was 

prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all 

winds. 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone  ;  and,  oftentimes. 
When  others  heeded  not,  He  heard  the 

South 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his 

flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would 

say, 
'•  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for 

me ! " 
And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm  that 

drives 
The  traveller  to  shelter,  summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains  :  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists. 
That  came  to  him,  and  left  him,  on  the 

heights. 
So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was 

past. 
And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should 

suppose 
That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams 

and  rocks, 
Were   things   indifferent   to   the   Shep- 
herd's thoughts. 
Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had 

breathed 
The  common  air;  hills,  which  with  vig- 
orous step 


lie    had  so  often  climbed;    which    had 

impressed 
So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 
Of   hardship,    skill   or   courage,   joy   or 

fear  ; 
Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  the  mem- 
ory 
Of   the   dumb   animals,  whom   he   had 

saved, 
Had  fed  or   sheltered,   linking  to  such 

acts 
The  certainty  of  honorable  gain  ; 
Those  tields.  those  hills — what  could  they 

less  ?  had  laid 
Strong  hold    on  his  affections,  were  to 

him 
A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love, 
The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 
His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  sin- 
gleness. 
His    Helpmate   was  a  comely   matron, 

old— 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty 

years. 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 
Whose  heart   was  in   her  house :    two 

wheels  she  had 
Of  antique  form  :  this  large,  for  spinning 

wool ; 
That  small,  for  flax  ;  and  if  one  wheel 

had  rest 
It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 
The  Pair   had  but  one  inmate  in  their 

house, 
An  only  Child,  who  had  been  born  to 

them 
When   Michael,  telling   o'er   his   years, 

began 
To   deem   that   he   was    old, — in    shep- 
herd's phrase, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.     This  only 

Son, 
With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many 

a  storm, 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 
Made  all  their  household.     I  may  truly 

say, 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 
For  endless  industry.      When  day  was 

gone, 
And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 
The  Son  and  Father  were  come  home, 

even  then, 
Their  labor  did  not  cease  ;  unless  when 

all 
Turned  to  the  cleanly  supper-board,  and 

there, 
Each    with     a    mess    of    ootlage    and 

skimmed  milk. 


WORDSWORTH 


21 


Sat  round  the  basket  piled   with  oaten 
cakes, 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.    Yet 
when  the  meal 

Was  ended,   Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was 
named) 

And  his  old  Father  both  betook  them- 
selves 

To  such  convenient  work  as  might  em- 
ploy 

Their  hands  by  the  fireside  ;  perhaps  to 
card 

Wool   for   the   Housewife's   spindle,    or 
repair 

Some   injury    done    to    sickle,   flail,   or 
scythe, 

Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 
Down   from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chim- 
ney's edge, 

That   in  our   ancient   uncouth   country 
style 

With   huge  and  black  projection  over- 
browed 

Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 

Of  da}'  grew  dim  the  Housewife  hung  a 
lamp  ; 

An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 

Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 

Early  at  evening  did  it  burn — and  late, 

Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours. 

Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had 
found, 

And  left,  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps 

Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with 
hopes, 

Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 

And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his 
eighteenth  year, 

There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they 
sate, 

Father  and  Son.  while  far  into  the  night 

The  Housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar 
work, 

Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent 
hours 

Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer 
flies. 

Tin's  light  was  famous  in  its  neighbor- 
hood, 

And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life 

That  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.     For,  as  it 
chanced, 

Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 

Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  north 
and  south, 

High  into  Easedale,    up   to    Dunmail- 
Raise, 

And  westward  to  the  village  near  the 
lake  ; 


And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regulat 
And  so  far  seen,  the  House  itself,  by  al 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale. 

Both  old   and   young,    was  named  The 
Evening  Star. 
Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length 
of  years, 

The  Shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must 
needs 

Have  loved   his  Helpmate  ;  but  to  Mi- 
chael's heart 

This  son   of   his  old  age   was  yet  more 
dear — 

Less   from   instinctive    tenderness,   the 
same 

Fond   spirit    that   blindly   works  m  the 
blood  of  all — ■ 

Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other 
gifts 

That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man. 

Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-look- 
ing thoughts, 

And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 

By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 

Exceeding  was  the  love  lie  bare  to  him, 

His   heart   and   his   heart's    joy  !      For 
oftentimes 

Old   Michael,    while   he   was   a  babe  in 
arms, 

Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 

For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 

Of  fathers,  but  with   patient  mind  en- 
forced 

To    acts    of    tenderness;    and    he    had 
rocked 

His   cradle,  as  with   a  woman's  gentle 
hand. 
And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  Boy 

Had   put   on    boy's   attire,   did   Michael 
love. 

Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind. 

To   have   the   Young-one   in   his   sight, 
when  he 

Wrought   in    the   field,  or   on  his  shep- 
herd's stool 

Sate  with  a  fettered  sheep  before  him 
stretched 

Under  the  large  old  oak,  that  near  his 
door 

Stood  single,  and,  from  matchless  depth 
of  shade, 

<  Ihosen  for  the  Shearer's  covert  from  the 
sun, 

Thence  in  our  rust  ic  dialect  was  called 

The  Cupping  Tree,1  a  name  which  yet 
it  bears. 


1  Clipping  Is  the  word  used  in  the  North  ol 
England  for  shearing.    {Wordsworth.) 


?2 


BRITISH    POETS 


There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in 

the  shade, 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and 

hlithe, 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with 

looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon   the    Child,    if    he   disturbed   the 

sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  witli  his 

shouts 
Scared   them,    while   they   lay   still  be- 
neath the  shears. 
And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the 

boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  Lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years 

old  ; 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he 

hooped 
With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff, 
And   gave   it   to  the  Boy  ;    wherewith 

equipt 
He    as    a    watchman    oftentimes    was 

placed 
At   gate   or  gap,   to  stem   or  turn  the 

flock; 
And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called, 
There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  di- 
vine, 
Something   between  a  hindrance  and  a 

help  ; 
And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe, 
Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise  ; 
Though  nought  was  left  undone  which 

staff,  or  voice, 
Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,  could 

perform. 
But  soon  as   Luke,  full  ten   years  old, 

could  stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts  ;  and  to  the 

heights, 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length   of   weary 

ways, 
He  with  Jus  Father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved 

before 
Were  dearer   now?  that   from  the   Boy 

there  came 
Feelings  and  emanations — tilings  which 

were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind  ; 
And  that  the  old  Man's  heart  seemed  born 

again  ? 
Thus  in  his  Father's  sight  the  Boy  grew 

up: 


And  now,  when  he  had  reached  his  eigh- 
teenth year, 

He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 
While  in  this  sort  the  simple  house- 
hold lived 

From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there 
came 

Distressful  tidings.  Long  before  the 
time 

Of  which  I  speak,  the  Shepherd  had  been 
bound 

In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 

Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means  ; 

But  unforeseen    misfortunes    suddenly 

Had  prest  upon  him  ;  and  old  Michael 
now 

Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeit- 
ure, 

A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 

Than  half  his  substance.  This  unlooked* 
for  claim, 

At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 

More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  sup- 
posed 

That  any  old  man  ever  could  have 
lost. 

As  soon  as  he  had  armed  himself  with 
strength 

To  look  his  trouble  in  the  face,  it  seemed 

The  Shepherd's  sole  resource  to  sell  at 
once 

A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 

Such  was  his  first  resolve  ;  he  thought 
again. 

And  his  heart  failed  him.  "  Isabel,"  said 
he, 

Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the 
news, 

"  I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy 
years, 

And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 

Have  we  all  lived  ;  yet  if  these  fields  of 
ours 

Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I 
think 

That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 

Our  lot   is  a  hard   lot;  the   sun   himself 

Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I  ; 

And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 

To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 

That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 

Were  false  to  us  ;  and  if  he  were  not 
false, 

There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like 
this 

Had  been  no  sorrow.  I  forgive  him  ; — 
but 

'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk 
thus. 


WORDSWORTH 


23 


"  When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to 

speak 
Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel :  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free  ; 
He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 
That   passes     over  it.     We   have,    thou 

know'st, 
Another  kinsman — he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.     He  is  a  prospei'ous  man, 
Thriving   in   trade — and    Luke   to   him 

shall  go, 
And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own 

thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
He  may   return  to  us.     If   here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done  '(     Where  every  one  is 

poor. 
What  can  be  gained  ?  " 

.At  this  the  old  Man  paused, 
'And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
There's  Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to 

herself. 
He  was  a  parish-boy — at  the  church-door 
They   made  a  gathering   for  him,  shil- 
lings, pence 
And  halfpennies,  wherewith  the   neigh- 
bors bought 
A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  pedlar's 

wares  ; 
And,  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 
Went   up   to   London,    found   a  master 

there, 
Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  boy 
To  go  and  overlook  Ins  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas  ;  where  he  grew  won- 
drous rich, 
And  left  estates  and  monies  to  the  poor 
And,  at  his  birthplace,  built  a  chapel, 

floored 
With  marble  which  he  sent  from  foreign 

lauds. 
These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like 

sort. 
Passed   quickly    through   the    mind   of 

Isabel, 
And  her  face  brightened.     The  old  Man 

was  glad. 
And    thus    resumed: — "Well,    Isabel! 

this  scheme 
These   two    days,    has   been   meat  and 

drink  to  me. 
Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
— We  have  enough — I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger  ; — but  this  hope  is  a  good 

hope. 
— Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of 

the  best 


Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him 

forth 
To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night : 
— If  he  could  go,  the  boy  should  go  to- 
night." 
Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields 

went  forth 
With  a  light  heart.     The  Housewife  for 

five  days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day 

long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  pre- 
pare 
Things   needful  for  the  journey   of  her 

son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work  :  for,  when  she  lay 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  last 

two  nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his 

sleep  : 
And   when   they   rose   at   morning  she 

could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.     That  daj 

at  noon 
She   said   to   Luke,  while  they   two  by 

themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "Thou  must 

not  go  : 
We  have  no  other  child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember — do  not  go  away, 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father  he  will  die." 
The  Youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund 

voice  ; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears, 
Recovered    heart.      That    evening    her 

best  fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like   happy  people   round  a  Christmas 

fire. 
With    daylight  Isabel    resumed    her 

work  ; 
And   all   the   ensuing   week   the   house 

appeared 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove   in   Spring :  at 

length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  kinsman 

came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he   would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy  ; 
To   which,   requests    were   added,   that 

forthwith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.     Ten  times  or 

more 
The  letter  was  read  over  ;  Isabel 
Went  fortli  to  show  it  to  the  neighbors 

round  ; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English 

land 


BRITISH    POETS 


A   prouder   heart   than   Luke's.     When 
Isabel 

Had  to  her  house  returned,  (he  ohl  Man 
said, 

'•  Be  shall   depart  to-morrow.''     To  this 
word 

The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much 
of  tilings 

Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should 
go, 

Would   surely    be    forgotten.      But   at 
Length 

She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at 
ease. 
Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green- 
head  Ghyll, 

In  that    deep    valley,  Michael  had  de- 
signed 

To  build  a   Sheepfold ;   and,   before    he 
heard 

The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss, 

For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered 
up 

A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  stream- 
let's edge 

Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 

With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  lie 
walked  : 

And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place 
he  stopped. 

And  thus  the  old  Man  spake  to  him: — 
"  My  Son, 

To-morrow  thou   wilt   leave  me:    with 
full  heart 

I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 

That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 

And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 

I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 

Of  our  two  histories  ;  'twill  do  thee  good 

When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should 
touch 

On  things  thou  canst  not  know  of. 

After  thou 

First  can i'st  in  to  the  world — as  oft  befalls 

To  new-born  infants — thou   didst  sleep 
away 

Two    days,     and    blessings     from     tliy 
Father's  tongue 

Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  passed 
on, 

And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing 
love. 

Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 

Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fire- 
side 

First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural 
tune  ; 

While  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy 

joy 


Sing  at  thy  Mother's  breast.     Month  fol- 
low ed  month. 
And  in  t  lie  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 
And  on  the  mountains  ;  else  I  think  that 

thou 
I  hnlst  h^en  brought  up  upon  thy  Father's 

knees. 
But  we  were  playmates,  Luke  :  among 

these  hills, 
As  well  thou  kuowest,  in  us  the  old  and 

young 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst 

thou 
Lack   any    pleasure    which   a   boy   can 

know." 
Luke  had  a  manly  heart  ;  but  at  these 

words 
He  sobbed  aloud.     The  old  Man  grasped 

his  hand, 
And  said,  "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so — I  see 
That  these  are  things  of  which  1  need 

not  speak. 
■ — Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 
A  kind  and  a  good  Father  :  and  herein 
I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 
Received  at  others'  hands  ;  for,  though 

now  old 
Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 
Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my 

youth. 
Both  of  them  sleep  together  :  here  they 

lived, 
As  all  their  Forefathers  had  done  ;  and 

when 
At  length  their  time  was  come,  they 

were  not  loth 
To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 
I  wished  that  thou  should'st  live  the  life 

they  lived  : 
But,  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my 

Son, 
And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore 

years. 
These  fields  were  burthened  when  they 

came  to  me : 
Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 
Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 
I  toiled  and  toiled  ;  God  blessed  me  in 

my  work, 
And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land 

was  free. 
— It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 
Another  Master.     Heaven    forgive    me, 

Luke, 
If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 
That  thou  should'st  go." 

At  this  the  old  Man  paused  ; 
Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which 

they  stood, 


WORDSWORTH 


25 


Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed  : 
••  This  was  a  work  for  us  ;  and  now.  my 

Son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.     But.  lay  one  stone — 
Here,  lay   it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine 

own  hands. 
Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good   hope ; — we   both 

may  live 
To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale  ; — do  thou  thy 

part : 
I  will  do  mine. — I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to 

thee  : 
Up  to  the  heights,    and  in  among  the 

storms, 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone, 
Before  I  knew  thy  face. — Heaven  bless 

thee,  Boy  ! 
Thy   heart   these   two  weeks    has   been 

beating  fast 
With  many  hopes  ;  it  should  be  so — yes — 

yes — 
I  knew  that  thou  could'st  never  have  a 

wish 
To    leave    me,    Luke :    thou   hast   been 

bound  to  me 
Only  by  links  of  love  :  when  thou  art 

gone. 
What  will  be  left  to  us  !— But.  I  forget 
My  purposes.    Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 
As  I  requested  ;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  tliou  art  gone  away,  should  evil 

men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  Son, 
Anil  of  this  moment;  hither  turn  thy 

thoughts, 
And  God  will  strengthen  thee  :  amid  all 

fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that 

thou 
May'st  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  Fathers 

lived, 
Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir   them   in  good  deeds.     Now,  fare 

thee  well — 
When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place 

wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here:  a  covenant 
'Twill  be  bet  ween  us  ;  but,  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee.  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last. 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the 

grave." 
The  Shepherd  ended  here;  and  Luke 

si  ooped  down, 
And,  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  Sheepfold.    At  the 

•sight 


The  old  Man's  grief  broke  from  him  ;  to 

his  heart 
He  pressed  his  Son,  he  kissed  him  and 

wept  ; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 
—Hushed  was  that  House  in  peace,  or 

seeming  peace, 
Ere  the  night  fell  : — with  morrow's  dawn 

the  Boy 
Began  his  journey,  and   when   he   had 

reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face  ; 
And  all  the  neighbors,  as  he  passed  their 

doors. 
Came  forth  with  wishes   and  with  fare 

well  prayers, 
That   followed   him   till   he   was  out  of 

sight. 
A  good  report  did  from  their  Kinsman 

come, 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing  :  and  the  Boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous 

news, 
Which,   as   the   Housewife   phrased   it, 

were  throughout 
'•  The  prettiest  letters  that   were   ever 

seen." 
Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing 

hearts. 
So,  many  months  passed  on  :  and  once 

again 
The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts  ; 

and  now 
Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure 

hour 
He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought  at  the   Sheepfold.     Meantime 

Luke  began 
To  slacken  in   his  duty;  and,  at  length, 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses  :  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 
There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of 

love  ; 
'Twill   make   a  thing  endurable,  which 

else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the 

heart : 
I   have  conversed  with  more   than  one 

who  well 

Remember  the  old  Man.  and  what  he  was 
Years    after    he    had    heard   this   heavy 

news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth 

to  a,L;e 
Of   an    unusual   strength.     Among   the 

rocks 


26 


BRITISH    POETS 


He  went,  and  still  looked  up  to  sun  and 

cloud, 
And  listened  to  the  wind  ;  and,  as  before, 
Performed   all    kinds   of   labor   for    his 

sheep, 
And  for  the  land,  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  be  repair,  to  build  the  Fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.  'Tis  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  old  Man — and  "tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither 

went, 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 
There,  by   the   Sheepfold,  sometimes 

was  he  seen 
Sitting  alone,  or  with  his  faithful  Dog, 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The   length    of    full   seven   years    from 

time  to  time, 
He   at   the   building   of   this  Sheepfold 

wrought, 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he 

died. 
Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
Survive  her  Husband  :  at  her  death  the 

estate 
Was  sold,  and  went   into  a  stranger's 

hand. 
The  Cottage  which  was  named  the  Even- 
ing Star 
Is    gone — the     ploughshare     has    been 

through  the  ground 
On  which  it  stood  ;  great  changes  have 

been  wrought 
In  all  the  neighborhood  : — yet  the  oak  is 

left 
That   grew   beside  their  door ;  and  the 

remains 
Of  the  unfinished  Sheepfold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous   brook   of   Green- 
head  Ghyll.  1800.     1800. 

THE  SPARROWS'  NEST 

Written  in  the  Orchard,  Town-end,  Grasmere. 
At  the  end  of  the  garden  of  my  father's  house 
at  Cockermouth  was  a  high  terrace  that  com- 
manded a  fine  view  of  the  river  Derwent  and 
Cockermouth  Castle.  This  was  our  favorite 
play-ground.  The  terrace-wall,  a  low  one,  was 
covered  with  closely-clipt  privet  and  roses, 
which  gave  an  almost  impervious  shelter  to 
birds  that  built  their  nests  there.  The  latter  of 
these  stanzas  alludes  to  one  of  those  nests. 
(  Wordsworth. ) 

Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade, 
Those  bright  blue  eggs  together  laid  ! 
On  me  the  chance-discovered  sight 
Gleamed  like  a  vision  of  delight. 
I  started — seeming  to  espy 
The  home  and  sheltered  bed, 


The  Sparrow's  dwelling,  which,  hard  hy 
My  Father's  house,  in  wet  or  dry 
My  sister  Einmeline  x  and  I 

Together  visited. 
She  looked  at  it  and  seemed  to  fear  it : 
Dreading,  tho'  wishing,  to  be  near  it : 
Such  heart  was  in  her,  being  then 
A  little  Prattler  among  men. 
The  Blessing  of  my  later  years 
Was  with  me  when  a  boy  : 
She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears  ; 
And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears  ; 
A  heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears  ; 

And  love   and  thought,  and  jov. 

1801.  1807. 

MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP  WHEN  1 
BEHOLD 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began  ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man  ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  tlie  ! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  ty  natural  piety. 

1802.  1807. 

WRITTEN  IN  MARCH 

WHILE   RESTING    ON   THE    BRIDGE  AT  THE 
FOOT  OF  BROTHER'S  WATER 

Extempore.  This  little  poem  was  a  favorite 
with  Joanna  Baillie.     (  Wordsworth) 

Compare  the  description  of  the  same  scene  by 
Wordsworth's  sister:  "There  was  the  gentle 
flowing  of  the  stream,  the  glittering,  lively  lake, 
green  fields  without  a  living  creature  to  be  seen 
on  them  ;  behind  us,  a  flat  pasture  with  forty- 
two  cattle  feeding  ;  to  our  left,  the  road  leading 
to  the  hamlet.  No  smoke  there,  the  sun  shone 
on  the  bare  roofs.  The  people  were  at  work 
ploughing,  harrowing,  and  sowing ;  .  .  .  a  dog 
barking  now  and  then,  cocks  crowing,  birds 
twittering,  the  snow  in  patches  at  the  top  of  the 
highest  hills,  yellow  palms,  purple  and  green 
twigs  on  the  birches,  ashes  with  their  glittering 
spikes,  stems  quite  bare.  The  hawthorn  a 
bright  green,  with  black  stems  under  the  oak. 
The  moss  of  the  oak  glossy.  We  went  on  .  .  . 
William  finished  his  poem  before  we  got  to  the 
foot  of  Kirkstone."  (Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Jour- 
nul,  April  16,  1802.) 

The  Cock  is  crowing, 
The  stream  is  flowing, 
The  small  birds  twitter, 
The  lake  doth  glitter, 

1  Dorothy  Wordsworth,  called  Emmeline  also 
in  the  poem  To  a  Butterfly.  See  the  beautiful 
lines  To  my  Sister,  p.  8,  the  last  lines  of  the 
Sonnet  p.  31,  and  notes  on  the  Sonnets  of  1802. 


WORDSWORTH 


2J 


The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun  ; 

The  oldest  and  youngest 

Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 

The  cattle  are  grazing. 

Their  heads  never  raising  ; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one  ! 

Like  an  army  defeated 

The  snow  hath  retreated, 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill  : 
The    ploughboy    is    whooping— anon— 
anon  : 

There's  joy  in  the  mountains; 

There's  life  in  the  fountains  • 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Blue  sky  prevailing  : 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone  ! 

1S02.     1807. 

TO  THE  SMALL  CELANDINE 

"Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.  It  is  re- 
markable that  this  flower,  coming  out  so  early 
in  the  spring  as  it  does,  and  so  bright  and  beauti- 
ful, and  in  such  profusion,  should  not  havs  been 
noticed  earlier  in  English  verse.  What  adds 
much  to  the  interest  that  attends  it  is  its  habit 
of  shutting  itself  up  and  opening  out  according 
to  the  degree  of  light  and  temperature  of  the 
air.     ( Wordsworth. ) 

Pansies,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies, 
Let  them  live  upon  their  praises  ; 
Long  as  there's  a  sun  that  sets. 
Primroses  will  have  their  glory  ; 
Long  as  there  are  violets, 
They  will  have  a  place  in  story  : 
There's  a  flower  that  shall  be  mine, 
Tis  the  little  Celandine. 

Eyes  of  some  men  travel  far 
For  the  finding  of  a  star  ; 
Up  and  down  the  heavens  they  go, 
Men  that  keep  a  mighty  rout ! 
I'm  as  great  as  they,  I  trow, 
Since  the  day  I  found  thee  out, 
Little  Flower  !— I'll  make  a  stir, 
Like  a  sage  astronomer. 

Modest,  yet  withal  an  Elf 
Bold,  and  lavish  of  thyself  ; 
Since  we  needs  must  first  have  met 
I  have  seen  thee,  high  and  low, 
Thirty  years  or  more,  and  yet 
Twas  a'  fare  I  did  not  know  ; 
Thou  hast  now,  go  where  I  may, 
Fifty  greetings  in  a  day. 

Ere  a  leaf  is  on  a  bush, 

In  the  time  before  the  thrush 


Has  a  thought  about  her  nest, 
Thou  wilt  come  with  half  a  call, 
Spreading  out  thy  glossy  breast 
Like  a  careless  Prodigal  ; 
Telling  tales  about  the  sun, 
When  we've  little  warmth,  or  none 

Poets,  vain  men  in  their  mood  ! 
Travel  witli  the  multitude  : 
Never  heed  them  ;  I  aver 
That  they  all  are  wanton  wooers; 
But  the  thrifty  cottager, 
Who  stirs  little  out  of  doors, 
Joys  to  spy  thee  near  her  home  ; 
Spring  is  coming,  Thou  art  come  ! 

Comfort  have  thou  of  thy  merit, 
Kindly,  unassuming  Spirit ! 
Careless  of  thy  neighborhood, 
Thou  dost  show  thy  pleasant  face 
On  the  moor,  and  in  the  wood, 
In  the  lane  ;  there's  not  a  place, 
Howsoever  mean  it  be. 
But  'tis  good  enough  for  thee. 

Ill  befall  the  yellow  flowers. 
Children  of  the  flaring  hours! 
Buttercups,  that  will  be  seen, 
Whether  we  will  see  or  no  ; 
Others,  too,  of  lofty  mien  ; 
They  have  done  as  worldlings  do, 
Taken  praise  that  should  be  thine 
Little,  humble  Celandine  ! 

Prophet  of  delight  and  mirth, 
Ill-requited  upon  earth  ; 
Herald  of  a  mighty  band, 
Of  a  joyous  train  ensuing, 
Serving  at  my  heart's  command. 
Tasks  that  are  no  tasks  renewing, 
I  will  sing,  as  doth  behove. 
Hymns  in  praise  of  what  I  love  ! 

1802.     1807. 

TO  THE   SAME  FLOWER 

Pleasures  newly  found  are  sweet 

When  they  lie  about  our  feet  : 

February  last,  my  heart 

First  at  sight  of  thee  was  glad  ; 

All  unheard  of  as  thou  art. 

Thou  must  needs.  I  think,  have  had, 

Celandine  !  and  long  ago. 

Praise  of  which  I  nothing  know. 

I  have  not  a  doubt  but  he. 
Whosoe'er  the  man  might  be, 
Who  the  first  with  pointed  rays 
(Workman  worthy  to  be  sainted) 


BRITISH    POETS 


Set  the  sign-board  in  a  blaze, 
When  the  risingsun  lie  painted, 
Took  the  fancy  from  a  glance 
At  thy  glittering  countenance. 

Soon  as  gentle  breezes  bring 
News  of  w  inter's  vanishing, 
And  the  children  build  their  bowers, 
si  icking  'kerchief-plots  of  mould  . 

All  about  with  lull-blown  flowers, 
Thick  as  sheep  in  shepherd's  fold  ! 
With  the  proudest  thou  art  there, 
Mantling  in  the  tiny  square. 

Often  have  I  sighed  to  measure 
By  myself  a  lonely  pleasure. 
Sighed  to  think  I  read  a  book 
Only  read,  perhaps,  by  me  ; 
Yet  I  long  could  overlook 
Thy  bright  coronet  and  Thee, 
And  thy  arch  and  wily  ways, 
And  thy  store  of  other  praise. 

Blithe  of  heart,  from  week  to  week 
Thou  dost  play  at  hide-and-seek  ; 
While  the  patient  primrose  sits 
Like  a  beggar  in  the  cold, 
Thou,  a  flower  of  wiser  wits, 
Slipp'st  into  thy  sheltering  hold  ; 
Liveliest  of  the  vernal  train 
When  ye  all  are  out  again. 

Drawn  by  what  peculiar  spell. 
By  what  charm  of  sight  or  smell, 
Does  the  dim-eyed  curious  Bee, 
Laboring  for  her  waxen  cells, 
Fondly  settle  upon  Thee 
Prized  above  all  buds  and  bells 
Opening  daily  at  thy  side, 
By  the  season  multiplied  ? 

Thou  are  not  beyond  the  moon, 
But  a  thing  "  beneath  our  shoon  :  " 
Let  the  bold  Discoverer  thrid 
In  his  bark  the  polar  sea  ; 
Rear  who  will  a  pyramid  ; 
Praise  it  is  enough  for  me, 
If  there  be  but  three  or  four 
Who  will  love  my  little  Flower. 

1802.     1807. 


RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE 

This  poem  was  originally  known  as  The  Leech 
Gatherer,  and  is  still  often  called  by  that  title. 
Compare  the  account  of  its  origin,  in  Dorothy 
Wordsworth's  Jim  run/  : 

•'  When  William  and  I  returned,  we  met  an  old 
man  almost  double.  He  had  on  a  coat,  thrown 
over  his  shoulders,  above  his  waistcoat  and  coat. 


Under  this  he  carried  a  bundle,  and  had  an  apron 
un  and  a  night-cap.  His  tare  was  interesting. 
He  had  dark  eyes  and  a  long  nose.  John,  who 
afterwards  met  him  at  Wylheburn,  took  him  for 
a  Jew.  He  was  of  Scotch  parents,  but  had  been 
born  in  the  army.  He  had  had  a  wife,  and  "she 
was  a  good  woman,  and  it  pleased  God  to  bless  us 
with  ten  children.'  All  these  were  dead  but  one, 
of  whom  he  had  not  heard  for  many  years,  a 
sailor.  His  trade  was  to  gather  leeches,  but  now 
leeches  were  scarce,  and  he  had  not  strength  for 
it.  He  lived  by  begging,  and  was  making  his  way 
to  Carlisle,  where  he  should  buy  a  few  godly 
books  to  sell.  He  said  leeches  were  very  scarce, 
partly  owing  to  this  dry  season,  but  many  years 
they  have  been  scarce.  He  supposed  it  owing  to 
their  being  much  sought  after,  that  they  did  not 
breed  fast,  and  were  of  slow  growth.  Leeches 
were  formerly  2s.  Gd.  per  100;  they  are  now  30s. 
He  had  been  hurt  in  driving  a  cart,  his  leg  broken, 
his  body  driven  over,  his  skull  fractured.  He 
felt  no  pain  till  he  recovered  from  his  first  insen- 
sibility. ...  It  was  then  late  in  the  evening, 
when  the  light  was  just  going  away."  (Dorothy 
WordsworWs Journal,  Octobers,  1800.) 

There  was  a  roaring  in   the  wind  all 

night ; 
The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods  ; 
But   now   the  sun   is   rising   calm   and 

bright  ; 
The   birds  are    singing   in   the   distant 

woods  ; 
Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  Stock-dove 

broods ; 
The  Jay  makes  answer  as   the   Magpie 

chatters  ; 
And  all  the  air   is   filled   with   pleasant 

noise  of  waters. 


All  things  that  love  the  sun  are  out  of 

doors ; 
The  sky  rejoices  in  the  morning's  birth  ; 
The  grass  is  bright  with  rain-drops  ; — on 

the  moors 
The  hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth  ; 
And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy 

earth 
Raises  a  mist,  that,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Runs  with  her  all  the  way,  wherever  she 

doth  run. 

I  was  a  Traveller  then  upon  the  moor, 
I  saw   the   hare   that  raced  about  with 

joy  ; 

I  heard  the  woods  and  distant  waters 
roar ; 

Or  heard  them  not,  as  happy  as  a  boy : 

The  pleasant  season  did  my  heart  em- 
ploy : 

My  old  remembrances  went  from  me 
wholly  ; 

And  all  the  ways  of  men,  so  vain  and 
melancholy. 


WORDSWORTH 


29 


But,  as  it  sometimes  chancetli,  from  the 

might 
Of  joy  in  minds  that  can  no  further  go, 
As  high  as  we  have  mounted  in  delight 
In  our  dejection  do  we  sink  as  low  ; 
To  me  that  morning  did  it  happen  so  ; 
And  fears  and   fancies  thick  upon  me 

came ; 
Dim     sadness — ard     blind   thoughts,   I 

knew  not.  nor  could  name. 

I  heard  the  skylark  warbling  in  the  sky  ; 
And  I  bethought  me  of  the  playful  hare  : 
Even  such  a  happy  Child  of  earth  am  I ; 
Even  as  these  blissful  creatures  do  I  fare  ; 
Far  from  the  world  I  walk,  and  from  all 

care  ; 
But  there  may  come  another  day  to  me — 
Solitude,    pain   of   heart,   distress,    and 

poverty. 

My  whole  life  I  have  lived  in  pleasant 
thought, 

As  if  life's  business  were  a  summer 
mood  ; 

As  if  all  needful  things  would  come  un- 
sought 

To  genial  faith,  still  rich  in  genial  good  ; 

But  how  can  he  expect  that  others 
should 

Build  for  him,  sow  for  him,  and  at  his 
call 

Love  him,  who  for  himself  will  take  no 
heed  at  all  ? 

I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous 
Boy, 

The  sleepless  Soul  that  perished  in  his 
pride  ; 

Of  him  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy 

Following  his  plough,  along  the  moun- 
tain-side : 

By  our  own  spirits  are  we  deified  : 

We  Poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  glad- 
ness ; 

But  thereof  come  in  the  end  desponden- 
cy and  madness. 

Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace, 
&.  iaading    from    above,   a  something 

given, 
Yet  it  befell,  that,  in  (his  lonely  place, 
When  I  with  these  untowai'd   thoughts 

had  si  riven. 
Beside  a-  pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  heaven 
I  saw  a,  Man  before  me  unawares: 
Theoldesl  man  he  seemed  that  ever  wok; 

gray  hairs. 


As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence  ; 
Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy, 
By  what  means  it   could  thither   corns, 

and  whence  ; 
So  that   it  seems  a  thing  endued  with 

sense : 
Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  that  on  a 

shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there   to  sun 

itself  ; 

Such  seemed  this  Man,  not  all  alive  nor 

dead, 
Nor  all  asleep,  in  his  extreme  old  age  : 
His  body  was  bent  double,  feet  and  head 
Coming  together  in  life's  pilgrimage  ; 
As  if  some  dire  constraint  of  pain,  or  rage 
Of  sickness   felt   by   him  in  times  long 

past. 
A   more   than   human    weight  upon  his 

frame  had  cast. 

Himself   he   propped,  limbs,  body,   and 

pale  face, 
Upon  a  long  gray  staff  of  shaven  wood  : 
And,  still  as   I   drew  near  with  gentle 

pace, 
Upon  the  margin  of  that  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  Man  stood, 
That  heareth  not  the  loud   winds   when 

they  call 
And  moveth  all  together,  if  it   move  at 

all. 

At  length,  himself   unsettling,   he   the 

pond 
Stirred  with  his  staff,  and  fixedly  did  look 
Upon    the     muddy    water,    which     he 

conned, 
As  if  he  had  been  reading  in  a  book  : 
And  now  a  stranger's  privilege  I  took  ; 
And,  drawing  to  his  side,  to  him  did  say. 
"This  morning   gives   us  promise  of  a 

glorious  clay.*' 

A  gentle  answer  did  the  old  Man  make. 
In  courteous    speech    which   forth    he 

slowly  drew  : 
And  him  with  further  words  I  thus  be- 
spake, 
"  What  occupation  do  you  there  pursue  1 
This  is  a  lonesome  place  for  one  like  you.'* 
Ere  he  replied,  a  flash  of  mild  surprise 
Broke   from   the   sable  orbs  of  his  yet- 
vivid  eyes, 

His   words  came  feebly,  from  a  feeble 

chest, 
But  each  in  solemn  order  followed  each. 


3° 


BRITISH    POETS 


With  something  of  a   lofty   utterance 

drest — 
Choice    word    and     measured     phrase, 

above  the  reach 
Of  ordinary  men  ;  a  stately  speech  ; 
Such  as  grave  Livers  do  in  Scotland  use, 
Religious  men,   who   give   to   God  and 

man  their  dues* 

He  told,  that  to  these  waters  he  had 

come 
To  gather  leeches,  being  old  and  poor  : 
Employment  hazardous  and  wearisome  I 
And  lie  had  many  hardships  to  endure : 
Prom  pond  to   pond   he   roamed,   from 

moor  to  moor ; 
Housing,  with  God's  good  help,  by  choice 

or  chance, 
And  in  this  way  he  gained  an  honest 

maintenance. 

The  old  Man  still  stood  talking  by  my 
side  ; 

But  now  his  voice  to  me  was  like  a 
stream 

Scarce  heard  ;  nor  word  from  word 
could  1  divide  ; 

And  the  whole  body  of  the  Man  did  seem 

Like  one  whom  I  had  met  with  in  a 
dream  ; 

Or  like  a  man  from  some  far  region  sent, 

To  give  me  human  strength,  by  apt  ad- 
monishment. 

My  former  thoughts  returned  :  the  fear 
that  kills; 

And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  fed  ; 

Cold,  pain,  and  labor,  and  all  fleshly  ills  ; 

And  mighty  Poets  in  their  misery  dead. 

— Perplexed,  and  longing  to  be  com- 
forted, 

My  question  eagerly  did  I  renew, 

"  How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it 
you  do  ?  " 

He  with  a  smila  did   then  his   words 

repeat ; 
And   said,  that,  gathering  leeches,  far 

and  wide 
He  travelled  ;  stirring   thus  about   his 

feet 
The   waters  of    the    pools   where   they 

abide. 
"  Once  I  could  meet  with  them  on  every 

side  ; 
But  they  have  dwindled  long   by  slow 

decay ; 
Vet   still    I    persevere,   and   find   them 

where  I  may." 


"While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely 
place, 

The  old  Man's  shape,  and  speech — all 
troubled  me  : 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  seemed  to  see  him 
pace 

About  the  weary  moors  continually, 

Wandering  about  alone  and  silently. 

While  I  these  thoughts  within  myself 
pursued, 

He,  having  made  a  pause,  the  same  dis- 
course renewed. 

And  soon   with  this  he  other  matter 

blended, 
Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanor  kind, 
But  stately  in  the  main  ;  and  when  he 

ended, 
I  could  have  laughed  myself  to  scorn,  to 

find 
In  that  decrepit  Man  so  firm  a  mind. 
'•  God,"  said  I,   "  be  my  help  and  stay 

secure  ; 
I'll  think  of  the  Leech-gatherer  on  the 

lonely  moor  !  "  1802.     1807. 


I  GRIEVED   FOR   BUONAPARTE 

The  direct  influence  of  Milton  seems  evident 
in  many  of  the  following  sonnets,  and  is  con- 
firmed by  the  entry  in  Dorothy  Wordsworth's 
Journal,  May  21,  1802:  "  William  wrote  two 
sonnets  of  Buonaparte,  after  I  had  read  Milton's 
sonnets  to  him."  See  also  Wordsworth's  note  on 
"  Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room." 
p.  48. 

I  grieved  for  Buonaparte,  with  a  vain 
And  an  unthinking  grief  !    The  tenderest 

mood 
Of  that   Man's  mind — what  can  it  be? 

what  food 
Fed   his   first   hopes  ?  what   knowledge 

could  he  gain  ? 
'Tis  not  in  battles  that  from  youth  we 

train 
The   Governor  who  must   be  wise    and 

good, 
And  temper   with  the  sternness  of  the 

brain 
Thoughts  motherly,  and  meekas  woman- 
hood. 
Wisdom  doth  live  with  children  round 

her  knees : 
Books,  leisure,  perfect  freedom,  and  the 

talk 
Man  holds  with   week-dayr  man   in  the 

hourly  walk 
Of  the  mind's  business:    these  are  the 

degrees 


WORDSWORTH 


3* 


By  which  true  Sway  doth  mount ;  this 

is  the  stalk 
True  Power  cloth  grow  on  ;  and  her  rights 

are  these.  1802,     1802. 

COMPOSED     UPON     WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE,  September  3,  1802 

"We  left  London  on  Saturday  morning  at 
half-past  five  or  six,  the  30th  of  July.  •  We 
mounted  the  Dover  coach  at  Charing  Cross.  It 
was  a  beautiful  morning.  The  city,  St.  Paul's, 
with  the  river,  and  a  multitude  of  little  boats, 
made  a  most  beautiful  sight  as  we  crossed 
Westminster  Bridge.  The  houses  were  not  over- 
hung by  their  cloud  of  smoke,  and  they  were 
spread  out  endlessly ;  yet  the  sun  shone  so 
brightly,  with  such  a  fierce  light,  that  there  was 
even  something  like  the  purity  of  one  of  nat  lire's 
own  grand  spectacles."  (Dorothy  Wordsworth's 
Journal,  July,  1802.) 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more 

fair  : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass 

by  .... 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 
This   City   now  doth,  like   a    garment, 

wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  :  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres  and  tem- 
ples lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky  : 
AH   bright  and  glittering  in  the  smoke- 
less air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In   his  first    splendor,  valley,  rock,   or 

hill  ; 
Ne'er  saw  I.  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will  : 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep  ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 
1802.     1807. 

COMPOSED  BY  THE  SEA-SIDE, 
NEAR  CALAIS,  August,  1802 

"  We  had  delightful  walks  afd-r  the  heat  of  the 
d£»y  was  passed— seeing  far  off  in  the  west  the 
const  of  England  like  a  cloud  crested  with  Dover 
Castle,  which  was  but  like  the  summit  of  the 
cloud  —the  evening  starand  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
the  reflections  in  the  water  were  more  beautiful 
,  than  the  sky  itself,  purple  waves  brighter  than 
precious  stones,  for  ever  melting  away  upon  the 

sands Nothing  in  romance  wasever  half  10 

beautiful.  Now  came  in  view,  as  the  evening 
star  sunk  down,  and  the  colors  of  th<>  west 
f;i  led  away,  the  t  wo  lights  of  England."  (  Doro- 
th  1/  Wordsworth's  Journal,  August,  1802.) 

Fair  Star  of  evening,  Splendor  of   the 
west. 


Thou  hangest,  stooping,  as  might  seem, 

to  sink 
On  England's  bosom  ;  yet  well   pleased 

to  rest, 
Meanwhile,  and  be  to  her  a  glorious  crest 
Conspicuous   to   the   Nations.     Thou,   I 

think, 
Should'st  be  my  Country's  emblem  ;  and 

should'st  wink, 
Bright  Star!  with  laughter  on  her  ban- 
ners, drest 
In  thy  fresh  beauty.     There  !  that  dusky 

spot 
Beneath  thee,  that  is  England  ;  there  she 

lies. 
Blessings  be  on  you  both  !  one  hope,  one 

lot, 
One  life,  one  glory  ! — I,  with  many  a  fear 
For  my   dear  Country,  many  heartfelt 

sighs, 
Among  men  who  do  not  love  her,  linger 

here.  1802.     1807. 


IT 


IS    A    BEAUTEOUS    EVENING, 
CALM  AND  FREE 


This  was  composed  on  the  beach  near  Calais, 
in  the  autumn  of  1802.    (Wordsworth.) 

The  last  six  lines  are  addressed  to  Words- 
worth's sister  Dorothy.  See  note  to  the  preced- 
ing Sonnet. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the 

Sea, : 
Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear   Child  !    dear   Girl !    that   walkest 

with  me  here, 
If  thou   appear    untouched   by   solemn 

thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the 

year  ; 
And    worship'st  at   the  Temple's  inner 

shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it 

not,  1802.     1807. 

ON  THE    EXTINCTION  OF   THE 
VENETIAN   REPUBLIC 

Once  did  Site  hold  the  gorgeous  east  i« 
fee  ; 


Star  of  my  Country  ! — on    the  horizon's    J  And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  west:  the 
brink  worth 


32 


BRITISH    POETS 


Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,  bright  and  free  ; 
No  guile  seducedj  uo  force  could  violate  ; 
And  when  .she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories 

fade. 
Those   titles  vanish,  and  that   strength 

decay  ; 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final 

day : 
Men  are  we.  and  must  grieve  when  even 

the  Shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great,  is  passed 

away.  1S02.     1807. 

TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE 

Toussaint,    the  most   unhappy   man  of 

men  ! 
Whether  the  whistling  Rustic  tend  his 

plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless 

den  ; — 

0  miserable  Chieftain  !  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?     Yet  die  not  ; 

do  thou 
Wear   rather   in   thy   bonds  a  cheerful 

brow  : 
Though    fallen   thyself,    never    to    rise 

again, 
Live,   and   take    comfort.      Thou    hast 

left  behind 
Powers   that   will   work  for   thee  ;   air, 

earth,  and  skies  ; 
There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common 

wind 
That  will  forgot  thee;  thou  hast  great 

allies : 
Thy  friends  t.p.  exultations,  agonies. 
And    love,    and    man's     unconquerable 

mind.  1802.     1803. 

NEAR  DOVER,  September,  1802 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood  ; 

And  saw.  while  sea  was  calm  and  air 
was  dear, 

The  coast  of  France— the  coast  of  France 
how  near  ! 

Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neighbor- 
hood. 

1  shrunk  ;  for  verily  the  barrier  flood 
Was  like   a   lake,   or  river   bright   and 

fair, 


A  span  of  waters  ;    yet   what  power   is 

there  ! 
What  mightiness  for  evil  and  for  gocd  ! 
Even  so  doth  God  protect  us  if  we  be 
Virtuous  and   wise.     Winds   blow,  and 

waters  roll, 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  Power,  and 

Deity  ; 
Yet.  in   themselves  are    nothing  I    One 

decree 
Spake  laws  to  them,  and  said  that  by  the 

soul 
Only,  the  Nations  shall  be  great  and  free. 
1802.     1807. 

WRITTEN   IN  LONDON,   September, 
1802 

This  was  written  immediately  after  my  return 
from  France  to  London,  when  I  could  not  but 
be  struck,  as  here  described,  with  the  vanity 
and  parade  of  our  own  country,  especially  in 
great  towns  and  cities,  as  contrasted  with  the 
quiet,  and  I  may  say  the  desolation,  that  the 
revolution  had  produced  in  France.  This  must 
be  borne  in  mind,  or  else  the  reader  may  think- 
that  in  this  and  the  succeeding  Sonnets  I  have 
exaggerated  the  mischief  engendered  and  fos- 
tered among  us  by  undisturbed  wealth.  It  would 
not  be  easy  to  conceive  with  what  a  depth  of  feel- 
ing I  entered  into  the  struggle  carried  on  by  the 
Spaniards  for  their  deliverance  from  the  usurped 
power  of  the  French.  Many  times  have  I  gone 
from  Allan  Bank  in  Grasmere  vale,  where  we 
were  then  residing,  to  the  top  of  the  Raise-gap 
as  it  is  called,  so  late  as  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, to  meet  the  carrier  bringing  the  newspaper 
from  Keswick.  Imperfect  traces  of  the  state  of 
mind  in  which  I  then  was  may  be  found  in  my 
Tract  on  the  Convention  of  Cintra,  as  well  as  in 
these  Sonnets.     (Wordsworth.) 

O  Friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must 

look 
For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am.  opprest, 
To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 
For  show  ;  mean  handy-work  of  crafts- 
man, cook, 
Or  groom  !— We  must  run  glittering  like 

a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest : 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the 

best : 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense 
This  is  idolatry  ;  and  these  we  adore  • 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no 

more  : 
The   homely   beauty   of    the    good    old 

cause 
Is   gone;   our  peace,   our  fearful  inno- 
cence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household 
laws,  1802.     1807. 


WORDSWORTH 


33 


LONDON,  1802 

Milton  !  thou  sbouldst  be  living  at  this 

hour  : 
England  hath  need  of  thee;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,   sword,  and 

pen. 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and 

bower, 
Have    forfeited   their   ancient    English 

dower 
Of   inward   happiness.     We  are   selfish 

men  ; 
Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom, 

power. 
Thy  soul    was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt 

apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice   whose   sound   was 

like  the  sea: 
Pure  as   the  naked  heavens,  majestic, 

free, 
So  didst  thou   travel  on  life's   common 

way, 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lav. 
1802.     1807. 

GREAT   MEN   HAVE   BEEN 
AMONG  US 

Great  men  have  been  among  us;  hands 
that  penned 

And  tongues  that  uttered  wisdom — bet- 
ter none  : 

The  later  Sidney,  Marvel,  Harrington, 

Young    Vane,    and    others   who   called 
Milton  friend. 

These  moralists  could  act  and  compre- 
hend : 

They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put 
on  ; 

Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone 

In  splendor  :    what  strength    was,   that 
would  not  bend 

But  in  magnanimous  meekness.  France, 
'tis  strange^ 

Hath  brought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we 
had  then. 

Perpetual  emptiness!  unceasing  change  ! 

No  single  volume  paramount-  no  code, 

N<>  muster  spirit,  no  determined  road; 

But  equally  a  want  of  hooks  and  men  ! 
1802.     1807. 

IT  IS  NOT  TO  BE  THOUGHT  OF 

It   is   not   to   be    thought  of   that  the 

Flood 
Of  British  freedom, whirh,  totheopensea 


Of   the  world's   praise,   from   dark   an 

tiquity 
Hath  flowed,  "  with  pomp  of  waters,  un- 

withstood." 
Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 
Which    spurns    the   check   of   salutary 

bands, 
That  this  most  famous  stream  in  bogs 

and  sands 
Should  perish  ;  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  for  ever.     In  our  halls  is  hung 
Armory    of   the   invincible  Knights   of 

old  : 
We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the 

tongue 
That   Shakspeare  spake;   the  faith  and 

morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held. — In  everything  we 

are  sprung 
Of  Earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  mani- 
fold. 1802  or  1803.    April  16,  1803. 

WHEN  I  HAVE   BORNE   IN 
MEMORY 

When  1  have  borne  in  memory  what  has 

tamed 
Great  Nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts 

depart 
When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers, 

and  desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears 

unnamed 
I    had.     my     Country! — am    I     to     be 

blamed? 
Now,  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what 

thou  art, 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 
For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee;  we  who 

find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men  : 
And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled  : 
What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 
Among    the    many    movements  of   his 

mind. 
Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  ! 

1802  or  1803.     Sept.  17,  1803. 

TO  HARTLEY  COLERIDGE 

SIX  YEARS  OLD 

O  thou  !  whose  fancies  from  afar  an? 
brought ; 

Who  of  thy  words  dost  make  a.  mo«k 
apparel. 

And  fittest  to  unutterable  thought 

The  breeze  like  motion  and  the  self- 
born  carol : 


34 


BRITISH    POETS 


Thou  faery  voyager!  that  dost  float 
In  such  clear  water,  that  thy  boat 
May  rather  seem 
To  brood   on   air  than    on   an   earthly 

stream  ; 
Suspended  in  a  stream  as  clear  as  sky. 
Where  earth  and  heaven  do  make  one 

imagery  : 

0  blessed  vision  !  happy  child  ! 
Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 

1  think  of  thee  with  many  fears 

For  what  may  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 
I  thought  of  times  when  Pain  might 
be  thy  guest, 

Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality  ; 

And  Grief,  uneasy  lover  !  never  rest 

But  when  she  sate  within  the  touch  of 
thee. 

O  too  industrious  folly  ! 

O  vain  and  causeless  melancholy  ! 

Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite  ; 

Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight, 

Preserve  for  thee,  by  individual  right, 

A  young  lamb's  heart  among  the  full- 
grown  flocks. 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  sorrow, 

Or  the  injuries  of  to-morrow  ? 

Thou  art  a  dew-drop,  which  the  morn 
brings  forth, 

111  fitted  to  sustain  unkindly  shocks, 

Or  to  be  trailed  along  the  soiling  earth  ; 

A  gem  that  glitters  while  it  lives, 

And  no  forewarning  gives  ; 

But,  at  the  touch  of  wrong,  without  a 
strife 

Slips  in  a  moment  out  of  life. 

1802.     1807. 

TO  THE  DAISY 

In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went, 
From  hill  to  hill  in  discontent 
Of  pleasure  high  and  turbulent, 

Most  pleased  when  most  uneasy  ; 
But  now  my  own  delights  I  make, — 
My  thirst  at  every  rill  can  slake, 
And  gladly  Nature's  love  partake, 

Of  Thee,  sweet  Daisy  ! 

Thee  Winter  in  the  garland  wears 
That  thinly  decks  his  few  gray  hairs  ; 
Spring  parts  the  clouds  with  softest  airs, 

That  she  may  sun  thee  ; 
Whole  Summer-fields  are  thine  by  right  ; 
And  Autumn,  melancholy  Wight  ! 
Doth  in  thy  crimson  head  delight 
When  rains  are  on  thee. 

T;i  shoals  and  bands,  a  morrice  train, 
Thou  greet'st  the  traveller  in  the  lane  ;      i 


Pleased  at  his  greeting  thee  again  ; 

Yet  nothing  daunted. 
Nor  grieved  if  thou  be  set  at  nought  : 
And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee,  like  a  pleasant  thought, 

When  such  are  wanted. 

I!r  violets  in  their  secret  mews 

The  flowers  the  wanton  Zephyrs  choose  : 

Proud  be  the  rose,  with  rains  and  dews 

Her  head  impearling  ; 
Thou  liv'st  with  less  ambitious  aim, 
Yet  hast  not  gone  without  thy  fame  ; 
Thou  art  indeed  by  many  a  claim 

The  Poet's  darling. 

If  to  a  rock  from  rains  he  fly, 
Or,  some  bright  day  of  April  sky, 
Imprisoned  by  hot  sunshine  lie 

Near  the  green  holly, 
And  wearily  at  length  should  fare  ; 
He  needs  but  look  about,  and  there 
Thou  art ! — a  friend  at  hand,   to  scare 

His  melancholy. 

A  hundred  times,  by  rock  or  bower, 
Ere  thus  I  have  lain  couched  an  hour, 
Have  I  derived  from  thy  sweet  power 

Some  apprehension  ; 
Some  steady  love  ;  some  brief  delight ; 
Some  memory  that  had  taken  flight  ; 
Some  chime  of  fancy  wrong  or  right  ; 

Or  stray  invention. 

If  stately  passions  in  me  burn. 

And  one  chance  look  to  Tliee  should  turn, 

I  drink  out  of  an  humbler  urn 

A  lowlier  pleasure  ; 
The  homely  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life  our  nature  breeds ; 
A  wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 

Of  hearts  at  leisure. 

Fresh-smitten  by  the  morning  ray, 
When  thou  art  up,  alert  and  gay, 
Then,  cheerful  Flower  !  \\\y  spirits  play 

"With  kindred  gladness: 
And  when,  at  dusk,  by  dews  opprest 
Thou  sink'st,  the  image  of  thy  rest 
Hath  often  eased  my  pensive  breast 

Of  careful  sadness. 

And  all  day  long  I  number  yet, 
All  seasons  through,  another  debt, 
Which  I,  wherever  thou  art  met, 

To  thee  am  owing  ; 
An  instinct  call  it,  a  blind  sense; 
A  happy,  genial  influence, 
Coming  one  knows  not  how,  nor  whence. 

Nor  whither  going. 


WORDSWORTH 


35 


Child  of  the  Year  !  that  round  dost  run 
Thy  pleasant  course, — when  day's  begun 
As  ready  to  salute  the  sun 

As  lark  or  leveret. 
Thy  long-lost  praise  thou  shalt  regain  ; 
Nor  be  less  dear  to  future  men 
Than  in  old  time  :  thou  not  in  vain 

Art  Nature's  favorite.1     1802.     1807. 

TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Daisy  !  again  I  talk  to  thee, 

For  thou  art  worth}'. 
Thou  unassuming  Common-place 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face. 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace, 

Which  Love  makes  for  thee  ! 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 
I  sit.  and  play  with  similes. 
Loose   types   of   things   through  all  de- 
grees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising  : 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame, 
As  is  the  humor  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing. 

A  nun  demure  of  lowly  port ; 

Or  sprightly  maiden,  of  Love's  court, 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations  ; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest  ; 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  cyclops,  with  one  eye 
Staring  to  threaten  and  defy. 
That  thought  comes  next — and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over, 
The  shape  will  vanish — and  behold 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold, 
That  spreads  itself,  some  faery  bold 

In  right  to  cover! 

I  sec  thee  glittering  from  afar — 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star; 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee  ! 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'sl  to  rest  ;— 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest, 

Who  shall  reprove  thee  ! 

'-  Bee,  in    Chaucer  and  the  elder  Poets,  the 
honors  formerly  paid  to  this  flower. 

(,  Wordsworth.) 


Bright  Flower!  for  by  that  name  at  last, 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 
I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  creature  ! 
That  breath's t  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature  !    1802.     1807. 

TO  THE  DAISY 

Bright  Flower  !  whose  home  is  every 

where, 
Bold  in  maternal  Nature's  care, 
And  all  the  long  year  through,  the  heii 

Of  joy  or  sorrow  ; 
Methinks  that  there  abides  in  thee 
Some  concord  with  humanity, 
Given  to  no  other  flower  I  see 

The  forest  thorough ! 

Is  it  that  Man  is  soon  deprest? 

A  thoughtless  Thing  !    who,   once   un- 

blest, 
Does  little  on  his  memory  rest, 

Or  on  his  reason, 
And  Thou  would'st  teach   him  how  to 

find 
A  shelter  under  every  wind. 
A  hope  for  times  that  are  unkind 

And  every  season? 

Thou  wander'st  the  wide  world  about, 
Unchecked  by  pride  or  scrupulous  doubt, 
With  friends  to  greet  thee,  or  without, 

Yet  pleased  and  willing  ; 
Meek,  yielding  to  the  occasion's  call, 
And  all  things  suffering  from  all, 
Thy  function  apostolical 

In  peace  fulfilling.         1802.     1807. 

THE  GREEN  LINNET 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that 

shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With     brightest     sunshine     round     me 

spread 
Of  spring's  unclouded  weather. 
In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat  ! 
And   birds   and   flowers   once   more   to 

greet, 
My  last  year's  friends  together. 

One  have  I  marked,  the  happiest  guest 
In  all  this  covert  of  the  blesl  : 
1 1  ail  to  Thee,  far  above  the  rest 
In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion  1 


36 


1IR1TISH    POETS 


Thou,  Linnet !  in  thy  green  array, 
Presiding  Spirit  here  to-day, 
Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May  ; 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds,  and   butterflies,  and  flow- 
ers, 
.Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 
Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers. 

Art  sole  in  thy  employment  : 
A  Life,  a  Presence  like  the  Air. 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 
Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair  ; 

Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 

Amid  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees. 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstasies, 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover  ; 
There  !  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings, 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives, 
A  Brother  of  the  dancing  leaves  : 
Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage-eaves 

Pours  forth  his  song  in  gnshes  ; 
As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mocked  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign, 

While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 

1803.     1807. 

YEW-TREES 
Compare  the  note  on  A  Night-Piece. 

There   is  a  Yew-tree,  pride   of   Lorton 

Vale, 
Which  to  this  day  stands  single,  in  the 

midst 
Of    its    own  darkness,   as    it    stood    of 

yore  ; 
Not   loth   to   furnish    weapons   for   the 

bands 
Of  Umf raville  or  Percy  ere  they  marched 
To    Scotland's     heaths  ;    or   those   that 

crossed  the  sea 
And  drew  their  sounding  bows  at  Azin- 

cour, 
Perhaps  at  earlier  Crecy,  or  Poictiers. 
Of  vast   circumference   and   gloom  pro- 
found 
This  solitary  Tree  !     a  living  thing 
Produced  too  slowly  ever  to  decay  ; 
Of  form  and  aspect  too  magnificent 
To  be    destroyed.     But   worthier  still  of 

note 


Are  those  fraternal  Four  of  Borrowdale, 
Joined    in   one   solemn    ami    capacious 

grove  ; 
Huge  trunks;  and  each  particular  trunk 

a  growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine 
Up-coiling,  ami  inveteiately  convolved  ; 
Nor     uninformed  with     Phantasy,   and 

looks 

That  threaten  the  profane  ; — a  pillared 

shade, 
Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red-brown 

hue. 
By  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage 

tinged 
Perennially — beneath   whose   sable  roof 
Of    boughs,  as    if    for    festal    purpose, 

decked 
With        unrejofcing       berries — ghostly 

Shapes 
May  meet  at  noontide;  Fear  and  trem- 
bling Hope. 
Silence  and  Foresight ;  Death  the  Skele- 
ton 
And  Time   the   Shadow  ; — there  to  cele- 
brate. 
As  in  a  natural  temple  scattered  o'er 
With  altars  undisturbed  of  mossy  stone, 
United  worship;    or  in  mute  repose 
To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain  flood 
Murmuring    from   Glaramara's   inmost 
caves.  1S03.     1815. 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  BURNS 

1803 

SEVEN  YEARS  AFTER  HIS  DEATH 

For    illustration,    see    my    Sister's    Journal, 
(  Wordsworth). 

I  shiver.  Spirit  fierce  and  bold. 
At  thought  of  what  I  now  behold: 
As     vapors     breathed    from    dungeons 
cold, 

Strike  pleasure  dead, 
So  sadness  comes  from  out  the  mould 

Where  Burns  is  laid. 

And  have  I  then  thy  bones  so  near, 
And  thou  forbidden  to  appear? 
As  if  it  were  thyself  that's  here 

I  shrink  with  pain  ; 
And  both  my  wishes  and  my  fear 

Alike  are  vain. 

Off    weight — nor    press    on  weight  i— ■ 

away 
Dark  thoughts  ! — they  came,  but  not  to 

stay  ; 


WORDSWORTH 


37 


With  chastened  feelings  would  I  pay 

The  tribute  due 
To  him,  and  aught  that  hides  his  clay 

From  mortal  view. 

Fresh  as  the  flower,  whose  modest  worth 
He  sang,  his  genius  "  glinted  "  forth, 
Rose  like  a  star  that  touching  earth, 

For  so  it  seems. 
Doth  glorify  its  humble  birth 

With  matchless  beams. 

The  piercing  eye.  the  thoughtful  brow, 
The   struggling   heart,    where   be   they 

now  ? — 
Full  soon  the  Aspirant  of  the  plough, 

The  prompt,  the  brave, 
Slept,  with  the  obscurest,  in  the  low 

And  silent  grave. 

I  mourned  with  thousands,  but  as  one 

More  deeply  grieved,  for  He  was  gone 
Whose  light  I  hailed  when  first  it  shone, 

And  showed  my  youth 
How  Verse  may  build  a  princely  throne 

On  humble  truth. 

Alas  !  where'er  the  current  tends, 
Regret  pursues  and  with  it  blends, — 
Huge  Uriffel's  hoary  top  ascends 

B}r  Skiddaw  seen. — 
Neighbors  we  were,  and  loving  friends 

We  might  have  been  ; 

True  friends  though  diversely  inclined  ; 
But   heart  with   heart   and  mind   with 

mind. 
Where  the  main  fibres  are  entwined, 

Through  Nature's  skill, 
May  even  by  contraries  be  joined 

More  closely  still. 

The  tear  will  start,  and  let  it  flow  ; 
Thou  "poor  Inhabitant  below," 
At  this  dread  moment — even  so — 

Might  we  together 
Have  sate  and   talked   where    gowans 
blow, 

Or  on  wild  heather. 

What  treasures  would  have  then  been 

placed 
Within  my  reach  :  of  knowledge  graced 
By  fancy  what  a  rich  repast  ' 

But  why  k(T  on  ? — 
Oli  !    spare   to    sweep,    thou    mournful 
blast, 
His  grave  grass-grown. 


There,  too.  a  Son,  his  joy  and  pride, 
(Not    three    weeks    past    the    Stripling 

died.) 
Lies  gathered  to  his  Father's  side, 

Soul-moving  sight  ! 
Yet  one  to  which  is  not  denied 

Some  sad  delight : 

For  he  is  safe,  a  quiet  bed 

Hath  early  found  among  the  dead, 

Harbored  where  none  can  be  misled, 

Wronged,  or  distrest  ; 
And  surely  here  it  may  be  said 

That  such  are  blest. 

And  oh  for  Thee,  by  pitying  grace 
Checked  oft-times  in  a  devious  race, 
May  He  who  halloweth  the  place 

Where  Man  is  laid 
Receive  thy  Spirit  in  the  embrace 

For  which  it  prayed  ! 

Sighing  I  turned  away  ;  but  ere 
Night  fell  1  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 
Music  that  sorrow  comes  not  near, 

A  ritual  hymn. 
Chanted  in  love  that  casts  out  fear 

By  Seraphim. 

1S03.     1845. 

TO  A  HIGHLAND  GIRL 

AT  INVERSNEYTDE,  UPON  LOCH  LOMOND 

This  delightful  creature  and  her  demeanor  are 
particularly  described  in  rny  Sister's  Journal. 
{Wordsworth.) 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower  ! 
Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 
And  these  gray  rocks  ;  that  household 

lawn  ; 
Those  trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn  ; 
This  fall  of  water  that  dotli  make 
A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake  ; 
This  little  bay  ;  a  quiet  road 
That  holds  in  shelter  thy  Abode — 
In  truth  together  do  ye  seem 
Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream  ; 
Such  Forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 
But,  O  fair  <  ireature  !  in  the  light 
Of  common  day.  so  heavenly  bright, 
I  bless  Thee,  Vision  as  thou  art 
1  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart  ; 
God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years  ! 
Thee  neither  know  I,  nor  thy  peers; 
And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with   tears. 


33 


BRITISH    POETS 


With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 

For  ( iu'"  when  1  am  far  away  : 
For  never  saw  I  mien,  or  face, 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect   innocence. 
Bere  scattered,  Like  a  random  seed. 
Rem  >te  from  men.  Thou   dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness  : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  Mountaineer  : 
V  face  with  gladness  overspread  ! 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred! 
An  1  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  ; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Qf  thoughts  that  lie  bsyond  the  reach 
#f  thy  few  words  of  English  speech: 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest  loving  kind— 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 

0  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell  ; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress, 
A  Shepherd,  thou  a  Shepherdess  ! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality  : 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 

Of  the  wild  sea  ;  and  I  would  have 

Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could. 

Though  but  of  common  neighborhood. 

What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  ! 

Thy  elder  Brother  I  would  he, 

Thy  Father — anything  to  thee  ! 

Now  thanks    to    Heaven  !    that    of    its 

grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 
Joy  have  I  had  ;  and  going  hence 

1  bear  away  my  recompense. 
In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 

Our  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes: 
Then,  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir? 
I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her; 
To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 
Noram  I  loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  Girl !  from  thee  to  part : 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old, 
As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 
As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 
The  lake,  the  bav,  the  waterfall; 
And  Thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all  ! 

1803.     1807. 


STEPPING  WESTWARD 

While  my  Fellow-traveller  and  I  were  walk' 
ing  by  the  side  of  Loch  Ketterine,  one  fine  even, 
ing  after  sunset,  in  our  road  to  a  Hut  where,  in 
th<'  course  of  our  Tour,  we  had  been  hospitably 
entertained  some  weeks  before,  we  met,  in  one 
of  tlif  loneliest  parts  of  that  solitary  region,  two 
well-dressed  Women,  one  of  whom  said  to  us  by 
way  of  greeting,  "  What,  you  aresteppiug  west- 
ward i  "  i  Wordsworth.) 

"  What,  you  are  stepping  westward  f 
• — "  Yea.'' 
— 'Twould  be  a  wildish  destiny, 
If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 
In  a  strange  Land,  and  far  from  home, 
Were  in  this  place  the  guests  of  Chance: 
Yet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance 
Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none, 
With  such  a  sky  to  lead  him  on? 

The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold  ; 
Behind,  all  gloomy  to  behold  ; 
And  stepping  westward  seemed  to  be 
A  kind  of  heavenly  destiny  : 
I  liked  the  greeting  ;  't  was  a  sound 
Of  something  without  place  or  bound  ; 
And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 
To  travel  through  that  region  bright. 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  who  spake 

Was  walking  by  her  native  lake : 

The  salutation  had  to  me 

The  very  sound  of  courtesy  : 

Its  power  was  felt ;  and  while  my  eye 

Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  Sky, 

The  echo  of  the  voice  en  wrought 

A  human  sweetness  with  the  thought 

Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 

Before  me  in  my  endless  way. 

1803.     1807. 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 
O  listen  !  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chant 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands  : 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 


WORDSWORiH 


39 


Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago  : 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ? 

Whafce'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending  ; — 
I  listened,  motionless  and  still  ; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

1803.     1S07. 

YARROW  UNVISITED 

See  the  various  Poems  the  scene  of  which  is 
laid  upon  the  banks  of  the  Yarrow  ;  in  particu- 
lar, the  exquisite  Ballad  of  Hamilton  beginning 
"Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  Bride, — 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  Marrow  ' — " 
(Wordsworth). 

From  Stirling  castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravelled  : 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde,  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled  ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Cloven  fori  l. 
Then  said  my   "  winsome  Marrow" 
"Whate'er  betide,  we'll  turn  aside, 
And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow." 

"  Let  Yarrow  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling. 

Go  back  to  Yarrow,  'tis  their  own  ; 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling  ! 

On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow  ! 

But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

"There's  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us  ; 

And  Dryborough,  where   with   chiming 

Tweed 
The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus  ; 
Tin-re's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 
Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow  : 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 
To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

"  What's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare, 
That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 
There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 
As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 


— Strange  words  they  seemed  of  slight 

and  scorn 
My  True-love  sighed  for  sorrow  ; 
And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 
I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 

"  Oh  {    green,"   said   I,    "are   Yarrow's 

holms, 
And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing! 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 
But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path,  and  open  Strath, 
We'll  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

"  Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow  ; 
The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 
We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go, 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow, 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

"  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  1 
It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it  : 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  ; 
Ah!  why  shoidd  we  undo  it? 
The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past. 
We'll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow  ! 
For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair. 
'Twill  be  another  Yarrow  ! 

"If   Care   with    freezing   years   should 

come. 
And  wandering  seem  but  folly, — 
Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 
Ami  yet  be  melancholy  ; 
Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 
'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow, 
That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 
The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  !  " 

1803.     1807. 

ODE 

INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY  FROM  REC- 
OLLECTIONS OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD 

"In  my  Ode  onthe  Intimations  of  Immor- 
tality in  Childhood,  I  do  not  profess  to  give  a 
literal  representation  of  t lie  state  of  the  affec- 
tions and  of  tin'  moral  being  in  childhood.  I  re- 
cord my  own  feelings  at  thai  time— my  absolute 
spirituality,  my  '  all-soulness,'  if  I  may  so  speak. 
,\i  that  time  [could  nor  believe  that  I  should  lie 
down  quietly  in  the  grave,  and  that  my  body 
would  moulder  into  dust."  (Knight's  Words- 
worth, II,  326.  See  also,  in  the  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica,  the  article  "  Poetry.") 
I 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove, 
and  stream, 


4° 


BRITISH   POKTS 


Tin1  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 

Apparelled  in  celosi i;il  lighl . 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
li  is  not  now  as  ii  hath  been  of  yore  ; — 
Turn  whereso'er  I  may, 
By  nighi  or  daj . 
The  things  which  1  have  seen  I  now  can 
see  ii"  more. 

ii 
Tlie  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
An. I  lovely  is  l  he  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round   her  when  the  heavens  are 
bare  ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beaui  iful  and  fa  ir  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
Bui  yet  1  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from 
the  earth. 


Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous 
song, 
A  ml  while  the  young   lambs  hound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone   there  came  a  thought  of 

grief  : 
A    timely  utterance  gave  that  thought 
relief, 

A  ml  T  again  am  si  rong  : 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from 

the  steep  : 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season 

wrong : 
I  hear  the   Echoes  through  the  moun- 
tains throng. 

The  Winds  co to  me  from   the  fields 

of  sleep, 

And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  ( he  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  B  'asl  keep  holiday; — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  lei  me  near  thy  shouts, 
thou  happy  Shepherd-boy  ! 

IV 
Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the 
call 
Ye  to  each  other  make  :  I  see 
The  heavens   laugh    with  you   in  your 
jubilee  : 
My  hearl  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal. 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  1  feel     I  feel 
it  all. 


( )h  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  *  Ihildren  are  culling 

<  >n  e\  ery  side. 
In  ;i  thousand  \alle\s  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers  ;  while  t  he  sun  shines 
warm. 

And  the  Babe  haps  up  on  his  Mother's 
arm  : — 

I  hear.  1  hea  i",  W  ith    joy  1  hear  ! 
— Bui   there's  a.  Tree,  Of  many.  

A    single    Field   which    I   have    looked 

upon, 
Botli  of  t  hem  speak  of  something  that  is 
gone : 
The  Pansy  at  my  feel 
Doth  i  he  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where    is    it    now,    the   glory    and    the 
dream  ? 

V 
Our   birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forget- 
ting : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's 
Star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  < iet  h  from  afar  : 

Net  in  entire  forge tfuln ess, 
Ami  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
Bui  trailing  clouds  of  glory  d<>  we  conn; 

From  ( rod,  who  is  our  home  : 
I  lea  \  en  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades    of    the    prisondiouse     begin     to 

close 

Upon  I  be  growing  Boy, 
lint  he  beholds  this  light,  and  whence  it 

How  s, 
1  le  sees  it  in  bis  joy  ; 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the 

east 

Musi  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

A  ml  by  the  \  ision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  at  tended  ; 

At  length    the    Man    perceives    it    die 

away, 
Ami  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her 

own  ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural 

kind. 
A  ad,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's 
mind. 
A  nd  no  unworthy  aim. 
The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To    make  her  Foster-child,  her   Inmate 
Alan, 


WORDSWORTH 


4i 


Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
Aiut   that   imperial   palace   whence    he 

came. 

VII 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born 

blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand 

he  lies. 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  tight  upon  him  from  his  father's 

eyes  ! 
See,   ;it    his    feet,   some  little  plan  or 

charl . 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  hu- 
man life, 
Shaped  by  liiinself  with  newly-learned 
art  : 
A  \\  edding  or  a  festival, 
A  mourning  or  a  funeral  ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart. 
And  unto  this  ho  frames  his  sonj;- : 
Then  will  he  lit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 
Bui  it  will  not  lie  long 
Ere  this  l»e  thrown  aside, 
Aii'l  with  now  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part  ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  •'humor- 
ous stage  " 
With  all    the    Persons,   down   to   palsied 

^ge, 
That  Pile  brings  with  her  in  her  equip- 
age ; 
As  if  his  whole  voeat  ion 

Were  endless  imitat  ion. 

VIII 

Thou,   whose    exterior   semblance    cloth 
belie 
Thy  Soul's  immensity  ; 
Thou    best    Philosopher,    who    yel    dost 

keep 
Thy    heritage,    thou    Eye    among   the 
blind, 

That,  deaf  and  silent.  r<  ad'st  the  eternal 

deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet  !    Seer  blest  ! 
On  whom  those  tint hs  do  rest . 
Which    we  are   toiling  all  our  lives  to 

Bnd, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the 

grave  : 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 

Is    like    the    I  );h  ,    a    Master    o'er   a 
Slave. 
A.  Presence  which  is  not  to  ho  put  by  ; 


Thou   little  Child,   yet   glorious   in  the 

might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's 

height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou 

provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke. 
Thus   blindly    with    thy    blessedness    at 

st  rife  '.J 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her earthl) 

freight . 
And     custom     lie     upon     thee    with    a 

weigh! . 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  .' 

IX 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 
[s  something  that  doth  live. 
That  nature  yet  r<  members 
What  was  so  fugil  ive  ! 
The   thought   of   our    past  years   in  me 

doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For   that  which    is  most  worthy  to  be 

blest- 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Oft  hildhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 

With    new-Hedged    hope  still   fluttering 
in  his  breast  : — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  : 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  : 
Blank  misgivings  *^'  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal 

Nature 
Did  tremble   like   a  guilty   Thing   sur- 
prised : 
But  for  those  first  affections. 

Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be   they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day. 
\ie  yet  a  master  light  (Tall  our  seeing  : 
Uphold  us.  cherish,  and  have  power 
to  make 
Our  noisy   years  seem   moments  in  the 

being 
Of     the    eternal     Silence:     truths    that 
wake. 

To  perish  never  ; 

Which  neither   listleSSneSS,  nor  mail  en- 
dea\  or. 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 

Nor  all  that   IS  at  enmity  with   joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  dest  rov  ! 

Hence  in  a  s.  asoil  >^'  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be. 


42 


JSK1T1SII    POETS 


Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal 
sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And   see    the   Children   sport;   upon  the 

shore. 
And    hoar   the    mighty   waters    rolling 
evermore. 

X 

Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous 
song  ! 
And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
ATe  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 
What  though    the   radiance  which  was 

once  so  bright 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the 
hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the 
flower  ; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be  ; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring- 
Out  of  human  suffering  ; 
In    the    faith    that    looks   through 
death. 
In    years    that    bring    the    philosophic 
mind. 


And  O  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,   Hills, 
and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your 
might  ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To    live    beneath    your   more    habitual 
sway. 

I   love   the   Brooks  which   down    their 
channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly 
as  they  ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born 
Day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  set- 
ting sun 

Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 

That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mor- 
tality ; 

Another    race    hath    been,    and    other 
palms  are  won. 


Thanks  to  the  human   heart  by  which 

we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and 

fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows 

can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for 

tears.  1803-6.     ISO?. 

TO  THE  CUCKOO 

0  BLITHE  New-comer  !  I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

0  Cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear, 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale, 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  br ingest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring  ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery  ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

1  listened  to  ;  that  Cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green  ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird  !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place  ; 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee  ! 

1S02.     1807. 

SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF 
DELIGHT 

Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.  The  germ  of 
this  poem  was  four  lines  composed  as  a  part  of 
the  verses  on  the  Highland  Girl.  Though  begin- 
ning in  this  way,  it  was  written  from  my  heart, 
as  is  sufficiently  obvious.     (  Wordsworth.) 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 


WORDSWORTH 


43 


A  lovely  Apparition  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair  ; 
Like  Twilight's-',  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  tilings  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn; 
A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  : 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet  . 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 
A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,    blame,  love,  kisses,   tears   and 
smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 

A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  Traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,     foresight,     strength,    and 

skill ; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light. 

1804.     1807. 

I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A 
CLOUD 

Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.  The  Daf- 
fodils grew  and  still  grow  on  the  margin  of  Ulls- 
water,  and  probably  may  be  seen  to  this  day  as 
beautiful  in  the  month  of  March,  nodding  their 
golden  heads  beside  the  dancing  and  foaming 
waves.    {Wordsworth.) 

T  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils  : 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way. 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  hay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  1  at  a  glance. 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside   them    danced ;   but 

they 
Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 
A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 


In  such  a  jocund  company  : 
I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 
What    wealth    the    show    to   me    had 
brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

1S04.     1807. 

THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET 

Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.  This  was 
taken  from  the  case  of  a  poor  widow  who  lived 
in  the  town  of  Penrith.  Her  sorrow  was  well 
known  to  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  to  my  Sister,  and,  I 
believe,  to  the  whole  town.  She  kept  a  shop, 
and  when  she  saw  a  stranger  passing  by,  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  going  out  into  the  street  to  sn- 
quire  of  him  after  her  sou.  ( Wordsworth.) 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son, 
Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  dead  ? 
Oh  find  me,  prosperous  or  undone  ! 
Or,  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed, 
Why  am  I  ignorant  of  the  same, 
That  I  may  rest,  and  neither  blame 
Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name  ? 

Seven  years,  alas  !  to  have  received 
No  tidings  of  an  only  child  ; 
To  have  despaired,  have  hoped,  believed, 
And  been  for  evermore  beguiled  ; 
Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss  ! 
I  catch  at  them,  and  then  I  miss  ; 
Was  ever  darkness  like  to  this  ? 

He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 

An  object  beauteous  to  behold  ; 

Well  born,  well  bred  ;  I  sent  him  forth 

Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold  : 

If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace, 

As  hath  been  said,  they  were  not  base  ; 

And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 

Ah  !  little  doth   the  young   one  dream, 
When  full  of   play   and   childish   cares, 
What  power  is  in  his  wildest   scream, 
Heard  by  his  mother  unawares  ! 
He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess: 
Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress  ; 
But  do  n<  t  make  her  love  the  less. 

Neglect  me  !  no.  I  suffered  long 

From  that  ill  thought;  and,  being  blind, 

Said,  •'  Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong  ; 

Kind  mother  have  I  been,  as  kind 

As    ever  breathed:"  and  that  is  true; 

I've  wet  my  path    with    tears  like    dew, 

Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 


44 


BRITISH    POETS 


My  Son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor, 

Hopeless  of  honor  and  of  gain, 

Oli  !  do  not  dread  thy  mother's  door ; 

Think  not  of  me   with  grief  and  pain  : 

I  now  can  see  with  better  eyes  ; 

And  worldly  grandeur  I  despise, 

And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 

Alas!  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  wings, 
And  blasts  of  heaven  will  aid  their  flight ; 
They  mount — how  short  a  voynge  brings 
The  wanderers  back  to  their  delight  I 
Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea  ; 
And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 
All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee. 

Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan, 
Maimed,  mangled  by  inhuman  men  ; 
Or  thou  upon  a  desert  thrown 
Inheritest  the  lion's  den  ; 
Or  hast  been  summoned  to  the  deep, 
Thou,  thou  and  all  thy    mates,  to   keep 
An  incommunicable  sleep. 

I  look  for   ghosts  ;  but   none  will   force 
Their  way  to  me  :  'tis  falsely  said 
That  there  was  ever  intercourse 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead  ; 
For,  surely,  then  I  should  have  sight 
Of  him  I  wait  for  clay  and  night, 
With  love  and  longings  infinite. 

My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds  ; 
I  dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass ; 
The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 
Have  power  to  shake  me  as   they  pass: 
I  question  things  and  do  not  find 
One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind  ; 
And  all  the  world  appears  unkind. 

Beyond  participation  lie 
My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief: 
If  any  chance  to  heave  a  sigh, 
They  pity  me,  and  not  my  grief. 
Then  come  to  me,  my  Son,  or  send 
Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end  ; 
I  have  no  other  earthly  friend  ! 

ISOp    1807. 

ODE  TO  DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 
O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  ait  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  : 
From  vain  temptations  dcst  set  free  : 
And    oalm'st  the  weary   strife   of   frail 
humanity  I 


There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth. 
AVhere  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  Hearts !  without  reproach  or  blot 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not  : 
Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They     fail,    thy    saving     arms,     dread 
Power  !  around  them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  seeurit.y. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to 
their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray  ; 
But    thee    I    now    would    serve    more 
strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 
I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 
But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 
Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires  ; 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires  : 
My  hopes  no  more  must    change   their 

name, 
I  long    for   a   repose   that   ever  is   the 

same. 

Stern  Lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through 
Thee,  are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 
I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wisev 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman 
let  me  live  t  1805.     1807. 


WORDSWORTH 


45 


TO  A  SKY-LARK 

Up  with  me!  up  with  r.13  into  the  clouds ! 

For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong  ; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  ! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing 

Lift  me.  guide  me  till  I  find 
Ttiat  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind  ! 

1    nave    walked    through    wildernesses 

dreary 
And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary  ; 
Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery, 
Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 
There   is    madness  about  thee,  and  joy 

divine 
In  that  song  of  thine  : 
Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 
To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning  ; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy 

rest. 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 
Drunken  Lark  !  thou  would'st  be  loth 
To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 
Happy,  happy  Liver, 
With  a  soul 'as   strong  as   a    mountain 

river 
Pouring   out    praise    to   the    Almighty 

Giver, 
Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  ! 

Alas!  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 
Tli rough   prickly' moors  or  dusty  ways 

must  wind  ; 
But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy   kind. 
As    full    of    gladness    and    as    free    of 

heaven, 
I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on, 
And    hope   for   higher   raptures,    when 

life's  day  is  done.      1S05.     1807. 

ELEGIAC  STANZAS 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  OF  PEELE 
CASTLE,  IN  A  STORM,  PAINTED  BY  SIR 
GEORGE  BEAUMONT 

1  was  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged 

Pile  ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of 

thee : 
I  saw  thee  every  day  ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 


So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air  ! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day  ! 
Whene'er  I  looked,  thy  Image  still  was 

there  ; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm  !  it  seemed 

no  sleep  ; 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or 

brings  : 
I  could   have  fancied  that  the  mighty 

Deep 
Was    even    the    gentlest    of    all   gentle 

Things. 

Ah  !  THEN,  if  mine  had  been  the  Painter's 

hand. 
To  express  what  then  I  saw  ;  and  add 

the  gleam, 
The   light   that   never   was,    on   sea   or 

land. 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet  s  dream  ; 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thoi".  hoary 

Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  ! 
Beside  a    sea   that   could  not   cease   to 

smile  : 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

Thou  shouldst  have  seemed  a  treasure- 
house  divine 

Of  peaceful  years ;  a  chronicle  of 
heaven  ; — 

Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine 

The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been 
given. 

A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife  ; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze. 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 
Such  Picture  would  I  at  that  time  have 

made : 
And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 
A   steadfast    peace  that  might  not   be 

betrayed. 

So  once  it  would  have  been, — 'tis  so  no 

more  ; 
]  I i.ivr  submitted  to  a  new  control : 
A   power   is   gone,  which    nothing   can 

restore  : 
A  deep   distress    hath    humanized   my 

Soul. 


|C 


BRITISH    POETS 


N  >t  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been  : 
The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old  ; 
This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind 
serene. 

Then.  Beaumont,    Friend !    who  would 

have  been  the  Friend. 
If  he  had  lived,  of  Him  whom  I  deplore, 
This    work    of    thine    I    blame    not,  but 

commend : 
This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

0  'tis  a  passionate  Work  ! — vet  wise  and 

well. 
Well  chosen  in  the  spirit  that  is  here  : 
That  Hulk  which  labors  in  the  deadly 

swell. 
This  rueful  sky.  this  pageantry  of  fear  ! 

Aud  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sub- 
lime. 

1  love   to   see    the   look    with    which   it 

braves. 
Cased  in    the    unfeeling    armor    of  old 

time, 
The    lightning,    the    fierce    wind,    and 

trampling  waves. 

Farewell,  farewell    the  heart  that  lives 

alone. 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the 

Kind ! 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied  ;  for  't  is  surely  blind. 

But    welcome     fortitude,    and     patient 

cheer. 
And   frequent  sights   of   what   is  to  be 

borne! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me 

heie.— 
Not  without   hope   we    suffer    and    we 

mourn.  >.     1807. 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

WBO    HAD   BEEN     REPROACHED  FOR  TAK- 
ING  LONG   WALKS   IN  THE   COUNTRY 

Dear  Child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail! 

— There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A  harbor  and  a  hold  : 

Where  thou,  a    Wife  and   Friend,  shalt 

s,.e 
Thy  own  heart-stirring  days,  and  be 
A  light  to  young  and  old. 

There,  healthy  as  a  shepherd  boy, 
And  treading  among  flowers  of  joy 


Which  at  no  season  fade. 
Thou,  while  thy  babes  around  thee  cling 
shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 
A  Woman  may  be  made. 

Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not  die 
Nor  leave  thee,  when  gray  hairs  are  nigh 
A  melancholy  slave  ; 
But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 
And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night, 
Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 

1801t   'February  11,  1802. 

FRENCH  REVOLUTION 

as  it  appeared  to  enthusiasts  at  its 
commencement 

An  extract  from  the  long  poem  of  my  own 
poetical  education.  It  was  first  published  by 
Coleridge  in  bin  "  Friend,"  which  is  the  reason 
of  its  having  ha  1  a  place  in  every  edition  of  my 
poemssince.  t,  Wordsworth.)  From  The  Prelude. 
Bk.  XI. 

Oh!  pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy  ! 
For   mighty  were  the   auxiliars    which 

then  stood 
Upon  our  side,  we  who  were  strong  in 

love  ! 
Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive. 
But  to  be  young   was   very   heaven  !— 

Oh  !  times. 
In  which  the  meagre,  stale,  forbidding 

ways 
Of  custom,  law.  and  statute,  took  at  once 
The  attraction  of  a  country  in  romance  ! 
When  Reason  seemed  the  most  to  assert 

her  rights. 
When  most  intent  on  making  of  herself 
A  prime  Enchantress — to  assist  the  work. 
Which  then  was  going  forward  in  her 

name  ! 
Not  favored  spots  alone,  but  the  whole 

earth, 
The  beauty  wore  of  promise,  that  which 

sets 
(As  at  some  moment  might  not  be  tin  felt 
Among  the  bowers  of  paradise  itself) 
The    budding   rose    above   the  rose  ful! 

blown. 
What  temper   at   the    prospect  did  Do* 

wake 
To  happiness  unthoughtof?    The  inert 
Were    roused,    and    lively    natures  rapt 

away  ! 
They  who  had  fed  their  childhood  upon 

dreams. 
The  playfellows  of  fancy,  who  had  made 
All  powers  of  swiftness,   subtilty,  anJ 

strength 


WORDSWORTH 


47 


Their  ministers, — who  in  Lordly  wise  had 

stirred 
Among  the  grandest  ohjects  of  t'.ie  sense, 
And  dealt  with  whatsoever  they  found 

there 
As  if  they  had  within  some  lurking  right 
To  wield  it ; — they,  tot),   who,  of  gentle 

mood. 

Had  watched  all  gentle  motions,  and  to 

these 
Had  fitted  their  own  thoughts,  schemers 

more  mild, 
And   in    the    region    of   their  peaceful 

sel ves ; — 
Now  was  it  that  both  found,  the  meek 

and  lofty 
Did  both   find,  helpers  to  their  heart's 

desire. 
And  stuff  at  hand,  plastic  as  they  could 

wish  ; 
"Were  called  upon  to  exercise  their  skill, 
Not  in  Utopia,  subterranean  fields. 
Or  some  secreted  island,  Heaven  knows 

where ! 
But  in    the    very   world,    which   is   the 

world 
Of  all  of  us, — the  place  where  in  the  end 
We  find  our  happiness,  or  not  at  all  ! 
IXU4.     October  20,  180!). 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY 
WARRIOR 

Suggested  in  part  by  an  event  which  all  Eng- 
land was  lamenting  Ihedealh  of  Lord  Nelson  - 
ami  in  part  by  the  personal  loss,  which  he  still 
(ell  bo  keenly,  his  brother  John's  removal,  On 
Lhe  4th  of  February,  1806,  Sou  they  wrote  thus 
to  Sir  Walter  Sc.it:  .  .  .  'Wordsworth  was 
with  me  last  week;  Ik- lias  been  of  late  more 
employed  in  correcting  his  poems  than  in  writ* 
ting  others  ;  but  one  piece  he  has  written,  upon 
the  ideal  chars*  ier  of  a  Boldier,  than  which  I 
bave  never  seen  anything  more  full  of  meaning 
and  sound  thought.  The  subject  was  suggested 
by  I^elson's  most  glorious  death,  .  .  .' 

(Knight,  Life  of  Wordsworth,  11,  46-7.) 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?    Who  is  he 
That  every  man   ill  arms  should  wish  to 

be  ? 

— It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,   when 
brought 

Among     the    tasks    of    real     life,     hath 

wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish 
thought : 

Whose    high  endeavors   are   an  inward 

light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always 

bright  : 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 


What  knowledge  can   perform,  is  dili- 
gent to  learn  ; 

Abides   by   this   resolve,   and  stops  not 
there, 

But  makes   his   moral  being  his  prime 
care  ; 

Who,   doomed   to  go  in  company  with 
Pain, 

And    Fear,     and    Bloodshed,    miserable 
train  ! 

Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ; 

In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 

Which   is  our   human   nature's  highest 
dower ; 

Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes, 
bereaves 

Of  their  bad  influence,   and  their  good 
receives : 

By  objects,   which  might  force  the  soul 
to  abate 

Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassion- 
ate ; 

Ts  placable — because  occasions  rise 

So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice  : 

More    skilful    in   self-knowledge,    even 
more  pure, 

As  tempted  more;  more  able  to  endure, 

As  more   exposed  to  suffering  and  dis- 
tress ; 

Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

— 'Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason  ;  Who  de- 
pends 

Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends  ; 

Whence,    in   a    state   where    men    are 
tempted  still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best, 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 
He  labors  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows: 
— Who,  if  lie  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Rises   by   open   means;  and   there   will 

stand 
On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 
And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire  ; 
Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and   to  the 

same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim  5 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in 

wait 
For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for   worldly 

state  ; 
Whom  they  must  follow  ;  on  whose  head 

must  fall, 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at 

all  : 
Whose   powers  shed  round  him  in  the 

common  st  rife, 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 


i8 


BKjTISH  poets 


\  constant  Influence,  a  peculiar  grace  ; 
But  who,  it'  lie  be  called  upon  to  lace 
Some  awful    moment   to  which  Heaven 

has  joined 
Great   issues,    good   or   bad    for  human 

.kind. 
Is  happy  as  a  Lover  ;  and  attired 
With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  in- 
spired ; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps 

the  la  w 
In  calmness    made,    and  sees    what  he 

foresaw  ; 
Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 
Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: 
— He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with 

a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 
Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To   homefelt    pleasures   and    to   gentle 

scenes  ; 
Sweet   images  !    which,  wheiesoe'er  he 

be. 
Are  at  his  heart :  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve  ; 
More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much 

to  love  : — 
Tis,  finally,   the  Man,  who,  lifted  high, 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 
Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or   adverse,   to  his   wish   or 

not — 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that 

one 
Where  what  lie  most  doth  value  must 

be  won  : 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dis- 
may, 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betTay  ; 
Who,    not    content   that   termer    worth 

stand  fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk 

the  earth 
For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or   he   must  fall,    to    sleep  without   his 

fame, 
And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name — 
Finds   comfort   in    himself   and   in   his 

cause  ; 
■Ynd,  while  the  moral  mist  is  gathering. 

draws 
His   breath   in   confidence   of   Heaven's 

applause  : 
This  is  the  happy  Warrior  :  this  is  He 
That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to 

be.  1806..    1807, 


YES,  IT    WAS  THE   MOUNTAIN 
ECHO 

Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo, 
Solitary,  clear,  profound, 
Answering  to  the  shouting  Cuckoo, 
Giving  to  her  sound  for  sound  ! 

Unsolicited  reply 

To  a  babbling  wanderer  sent ; 

Like  her  ordinary  cry, 

Like — but  oh,  how  different  I 

Hears  not  also  mortal  Life? 
Hear  not  we,  unthinking  Creatures! 
Slaves  of  folly,  love,  or  strife — 
Voices  of  two  different  natures? 

Have  not  ioe  too  ? — yes,  we  have 
Answers,  and  we  know  not  whence; 
Echoes  from  beyond  the  grave, 
Recognized  intelligence  ! 

Such  rebounds  our  inward  ear 
Catches  sometimes  from  afar — 
Listen,  ponder,  hold  them  dear; 
For  of  God, — of  God  thev  are. 

"iSOG.     1807. 


NUNS  FEET   NOT   AT  THEIR  CON- 
VENTS  NARROW  ROOM 

In  the  cottage,  Town-end,  Grasmere,  one  after. 
ii'» 'ii  in  1 80 1 ,  my  sister  read  to  me  the  Sonnets  of 
Milton.  I  had  long  been  well  acquainted  with 
then,  but  I  was  particularly  struck  on  that  occa- 
sion witli  the  dignified  simplicity  and  majestic 
harmony  that  runs  through  most  of  them, — in 
character  so  totally  different  from  the  Italian, 
and  still  more  so  from  Shakspeare's  fine  Sonnets. 
I  took  fire,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  so,  and 
produced  three  Sonnets  the  same  afternoon,  the 
first  I  ever  wrote  except  an  irregular  one  at 
school.  Of  these  three,  the  only  one  I  distinctly 
remember  is—"  I  grieved  for  Buonaparte."  One 
was  never  written  down:  the  third,  which  was, 
I  believe,  preserved,  I  cannot  particularize. 
( Wordsworth.) 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow 

room  ; 
And  hermits  are  contented  with  their 

cells  ; 
And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels  ; 
Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his 

loom, 
Sit  blithe  and  happy  ;  bees  that  soar  for 

bloom. 
High  as  the  highest  Peak  of  Furn ess-fells, 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove 

bells: 


WORDSWORTH 


49 


In  truth  the  prison,  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is  :  and  hence  for 

me, 
In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be 

bound 
Within    the    Sonnet's    scanty    plot    of 

ground  ; 
Pleased  if  some  Souls    (for  such  there 

needs  must  be) 
Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much 

liberty, 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have 

found.  1806  f  1807. 

PERSONAL  TALK 


1  AM  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To    season    my   fireside    with    personal 

talk— 
Of  friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk. 
Or  neighbors,  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight : 
And,  for  my  chance-acquaintance,  ladies 

bright, 
Sons,  mothers,  maidens  withering  on  the 

stalk, 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  Forms, 

with  chalk 
Fainted  on  rich   men's   floors,   for   one 

feast-night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence 

long, 
Long,    barren  silence,  square  with  my 

desire; 
To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim. 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame, 
Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. 

II 

"Yet  life,"  you  say,  "  is  life;  we  have 
seen  and  see, 

And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe  ; 

And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 

The  languid  mind  into  activity. 

Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth 
and  glee 

Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the 
gibe." 

Even  be  it  so ;  yet  still  among  your 
tribe, 

Our  daily  world's  true  Worldlings,  rank 
not  me  ! 

Children  are  blest,  and  powerful ;  then- 
world  lies 

More  justly  balanced  ;  partly  at  their 
feet, 

And  part  far  from  them  :  sweetest  mel- 
odies 


Are  those  that   are   by   distance   made 

more  sweet ; 
Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own 

eyes. 
He    is  a  Slave ;  the    meanest    we   can 

meet  1 

ill 

Wings  have  we,— and  as  far  as  we  can 

We  may  find  pleasure  :  wilderness  and 

wood, 
Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that 

mood 
Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 
Dreams,   books  are  each   a  world  ;  and 

books,  we  know. 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and 

good : 
Round   these,    with   tendrils    strong  as 

flesh  and  blood, 
Our    pastime    and    our   happiness    will 

grow. 
There  find  I  personal  themes,   a  plente 

ous  store, 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am, 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear  ; 
Two    shall     be    named,    pre-eminently 

dear.— 
The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor  ; 
And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white 

Lamb. 

IV 

Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 
Great  gains  are  mine  ;  for  thus  I  live  re- 
mote 
From     evil-speaking ;      rancor,      never 

sought, 
Comes  to  me  not ;  malignant  truth,   or 

lie. 
Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have 

I 
Smooth  passions,  smooth  discourse,  and 

joyous  thought : 
And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 
Rocks  in  its  harbor,  lodging  peaceably. 
Blessings    be    with    them — and   eternal 

praise, 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler 

cares — 
The  Poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us 

heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenlv 

lays! 
Oh !    might    ray     name     be    numbered 

among  theirs, 
Then    gladly    would    I   end    my    mortal 

days.  lSUU?   1807. 


5° 


BRITISH    POETS 


THE  WORLD  IS   TOO    MUCH  WITH 
US 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and 

SOOI), 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our 

powers  : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sor 

did  hoon  ! 
The  Sea   that  bares   her  bosom  to  the 

moon  ; 
The  winds   that  will  be  howling  at  all 

hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping 

flowers  ; 
F>r  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of 

tune  ; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God  !  I'd  rather 

be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might   I,  standing  on  this  pleasant 

lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less 

forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the 

sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed 

horn.  1S06?   1S07. 

TO  SLEEP 
A   FLOCK  of  sheep  that   leisurely  pass 

by, 

One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and 

1>1   t'S 

Murmuring  ;    the    fall  of  rivers,  winds 

and  seas, 
Smooth    fields,   white  sheets  of   water, 

and  pure  sky  ; 
I  have  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet 

do  lie 
Sleepless !    and   soon    the    small   birds' 

melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard 

trees  ; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus    last  night,  and   two  nights 

more,  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep  !  by  any 

stealth : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away: 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's 

wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and 

day. 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  jov- 

ous  health  !  1806  f  1807." 


NOVEMBER,  1806 

Another  year  !— another  deadly  blow  1 
Another  mighty  Empire  overthrown  ! 
And  We  are  left,  or  shall  be  left,  alone,- 
The  last  that  dare  to  struggle  with  the 

Foe. 
Tfe  well  !    from    this  day    forward  we 

shall  know 
That   in  ourselves   our   safety   must  be 

sought ; 
That  by  our  own  right  hands  it  must  be 

wrought ; 
That   we  must  stand  unpropped,  or  be 

laid  low. 
O  dastard  whom  such  foretaste  doth  not 

cheer ! 
We   shall   exult,  if  they    who   rule  the 

land 
Be   men   who  hold  its    many   blessings 

dear, 
Wise,   upright,    valiant;   not    a   servile 

band, 
Who  are  to  judge  of  danger  which  they 

fear, 
And  honor  which  they  do    not  under- 
stand, isoi;.     1807. 

THOUGHT  OF    A   BRITON   ON  THE 
SUBJUGATION    OF   SWITZERLAND 

Two  Voices  are   there  ;   one   is   of  the 

sea, 
One  of  the  mountains  ;  each  a  mighty 

Voice : 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  re- 
joice, 
Thejr  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty  ! 
There  came   a   Tyrant,  and    with   holy 

glee 
Thou   fought'st  against  him  ;  but   hast 

vainly  striven  ■ 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length 

art  driven, 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by 

thee. 
Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath   been 

bereft : 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still 

is  left ; 
For,     high-souled     Maid,    what    sorrow 

would  it  be 
That  mountain  floods  should  thunder  as 

before, 
And    Ocean     bellow    from     his    rocky 

shore, 
And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by 

thee  ?  1807.     1807. 


WORDSWORTH 


5* 


HERE    PAUSE:    THE  POET  CLAIMS 
AT  LEAST  THIS  PRAISE 

Here  pause  :  the  poet  claims  at  least  this 

]  naise, 
That  virtuous   Liberty   hath  been    the 

scope 
Of  his  pure  song,  which  did  not  shrink 

from  hope 
Tn  the  worst  moment  of  these  evil  days  ; 
From    hope,    the   paramount   duty   that 

Heaven  lays, 
For  its  own  honor,    on   man's  suffering 

heart. 
Never  may   from  .our   souls   one   truth 

depart — 
That  an  accursed  thing  it  is  to  gaze 
On   prosperous  tyrants  with  a   dazzled 

eye  : 
Nor — touched  with    due  abhorrence  of 

their  guilt 
For  whose  dire    ends    tears    flow,    and 

blood  is  spilt, 
And  justice  labors  in  extremity — 
Forget  thy  weakness,  upon  which  is  built 
O  wretched  man,  the  throne  of  tyranny  ! 
1311.     1815. 

LAODAMIA 

Written  at  Rydal  Mount.  The  incident  of  the 
trees  growing  and  withering  put  the  subject  into 
my  thoughts,  and  I  wrote  lyith  the  hope  of  giving 
it  a  loftier  tone  than,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  been 
given  t<>  it  by  any  of  the  Ancients  who  have 
treated  of  it.  It  cost  me  more  trouble  than  al- 
most anything  of  equal  length  1  have  ever  writ- 
ten.   (  Wordsworth.  1 

"Laodamia  is  a  very  original  poem;  I  mean 
original  with  reference  to  your  own  manner. 
You  have  nothing  like  it.  I  should  have  seen 
it  in  a  strange  place,  and  greatly  admired  it, 
but  not  suspected  its  derivation..."  (Land) 
to  Wordsworth.  Talfourd,  Final  Memories  of 
Charles  Lamb,  p.  151.) 

"  With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 
Vows  have  I  made  by  fruitless  hope   in- 

spired  ; 
And  from  the  infernal  Gods,  'mid  shades 

forlorn 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered   Lord  have  I 

requited  : 
C  lestial  pity  I  again  implore; — 
Restore    him    to  my  sight — great  Jove, 

restore  ! " 

So  speaking,  .and  by  fervent  love  en- 
dowed 

With  faith,  the  Suppliant  heavenward 
lifts  her  hands  ; 

While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a 
cloud. 


Her  countenance  brightens — and  hei 
eye  expands  ; 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stat- 
ure grows  ; 

And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

O  terror!  what  hath  she  perceived? — O 

joy  ! 
What  doth  she  look  on  ? — whom  doth  she 

behold  ? 
Her  Hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy  ? 
His  vital  presence  ?  his  corporeal  mould  ! 
It  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not— 'tis  He? 
And  a  God  leads  him,  winged  Mercury  1 

Mild    Hermes    spake — and  touched  her 

witli  Ins  waud 
That  calms  all  fear  ;     "  Such  grace  hath 

crowned  thy  prayer, 
Laodamia!  that  at  Jove's  command 
Thy  Husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper 

air  : 
He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours' 

space  : 
Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face  I 

Forth  sprang   the  impassioned  Queen 

her  Lord  to  clasp  ; 
Again  that  consummation  she  essayed  ; 
But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 
As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 
The  Phantom  parts — but  parts  to  re-unite, 
And  re-assume  his  place  before  her  sight. 

"  Protesilaus,  lo  !  thy  guide  is  gone  ! 
Confirm,   I   pray,   the   vision   with   thy 

voice  : 
This  is  our  palace, — yonder  is  thy  throne  ; 
Speak,  and  the   floor  thou    tread'st    on 

will  rejoice. 
Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bestowed 
This    precious  boon  ;     and  blest  a    sad 

abode." 

"  Great  Jove.  Laodamia  !  doth  not  leave 
Ilis  gilts  imperfect  : — Spectre   though  I 

be, 
T  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive  ; 
Hut  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 
And  soi net .hing also  did  my  worth  obtain  ; 
For  fearless  virtue   bringeth   boundless 

gain. 

"  Thou  knowest,  the  Delphic  oracle  fore- 
told 

Thai  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the 
Trojan  strand 

Should  die  ;  but  me  the  threat  could  not 
withhold  ; 


52 


BRITISH    POETS 


A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  demand  , 
Ami  forth  I  leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain  ; 
A   self-devoted  chief — by  Hector  .slain." 

"Supreme  of  Heroes — bravest,  noblest, 

best ! 
Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more. 
Which    then,    when    tens  of  thousands 

were  deprest 
By   doubt,    propelled    thee  to  the  fatal 

shore  ; 
rhoufound'st — and  I  forgive  thee — here 

thou  art — 
A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

"  But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest 

deed, 
Wert    kind   as    resolute,   and    good    as 

brave  : 
And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,  bath 

decreed 
Thou  should'st  elude  the  malice  of  the 

grave  : 
Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 
As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessa- 

lian  air. 

"  No  Spectre  greets  me, — no  vain  Shadow 

this  ; 
Come,  blooming  Hero,  place  thee  by  my 

side  ! 
Give,    on    this   well-known   couch,   one 

nuptial  kiss 
To  me,   this   day,   a  second   time    thy 

bride  !  " 
Jove  frowned  in  heaven  :  the  conscious 

Parcaa  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 

'•  This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is 
past : 

Nor  should  the  change  be  mourned,  even 
if  the  joys 

Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 

And  surely  as  they  vanish.  Earth  de- 
stroys 

Those  raptures  duly — Erebus  disdains  ; 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide — majestic 
pains. 

"  Be  taught.  O  faithful  Consort,  to  con- 
trol 
Rebellious  passion  :  for  the  Gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the 

soul  ; 
A  fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 
Thy   transports  moderate  ;  and  meekly 

mourn 
When  I  depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn- •*' 


"  Ah,  wherefore  ? — Did  not  Hercules  bj 

force 
Wrest  from  the  guardian  Monster  of  the 

tomb 
Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse. 
Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal 

bloom  ? 
Medea's  spells  dispersed  the   weight  of 

years. 
And  iEson  stood  a  y  .uth  'mid  youthful 

peers. 

•'  The  Gods  to  us  are  merciful — and  they 
Yet  further  may  relent  :   for   mightier 

far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the 

sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star. 
Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest. 
And  though  his  favorite  seat  be  feeble 

woman's  breast. 

"  But  if  thou  goest,  I  follow — ""  Peace  !  " 
he  said  ; — 

She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed 
and  cheered  : 

The  ghastly  color  from  his  lips  had  fled  ; 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  ap- 
peared 

Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace. 

Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a  happy 
place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  Spirits 

feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and 

pure  ; 
No   fears   to    beat    away — no   strife    to 

heal — 
The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future 

sure  ; 
Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued  ; 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous — imaged 

there 
In     happier     beauty ;     more     pellucid 

streams, 
An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air, 
And    fields    invested     with     purpurea! 

gleams ; 
Climes  which  the   sun,  who  sheds   the 

brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  Soul  shall  enter  which 

hath  earned 
That  privilege  by  virtue.    "  111,"  said  he 
"  The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned, 
Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 


WORDSWORTH 


53 


Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain 

delight, 
While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day 

and  night ; 

"And  while  my  youthful  peers  before 
my  eyes 

(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 

Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enter- 
prise 

By  martial  sports, — or,  seated  in  the 
tent. 

Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  de- 
tained : 

What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  en- 
chained. 

"The  wished-for  wind  was  given: — I 
then  revolved 

The  oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea  : 

And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  re- 
solved 

That,  of  a  thousand  vessels,  mine  should 
be 

The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the 
strand. — 

Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Tro- 
jan sand. 

"  Yet   bitter,   oft-times  bitter   was  the 

pang 
When    of   thy   loss   I  thought,   beloved 

Wife  ! 
On    thee    too   fondly   did   my   memory 

hang, 
And  on  the   joys  we   shared  in  mortal 

life,— 
The   paths  which     we  had   trod — these 

fountains,  flowers. 
My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished 

towers. 

"  But  should  suspense  permit  the  Foe  to 

cry. 
'  Behold  they  tremble  ! — haughty  their 

array. 
Yet   of  their  number  no  one   dares   to 

die  ? ' 
In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away: 
Old  frailties  then  recurred  : — but  lofty 

thought, 
In     act     embodied,     my      deliverance 

wrought. 

"And  Thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art 

all  too  weak 
In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow  ; 
I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  fori  seek 
Our  blest  re-union  in  the  shades  below. 


The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sym- 
pathized ; 
Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnized. 

"Learn,  by  a  mortal  yearning:,  to  as- 
cend — 

Seeking  a  higher  object.  Love  was 
given. 

Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that 
end  ; 

For  tli  is  the  passion  to  excess  was 
driven — 

That  self  might  be  annulled  :  her  bond- 
age prove 

The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to 
love."' 

Aloud  she  shrieked  !  for  Hermes  reap- 
pears ! 

Round  the  dear  Shade  she  would  have 
clung — 't  is  vain  : 

The  hours  are  past— too  brief  had  they 
been  years : 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain  : 

Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not 
earthly  day, 

lie  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent 
way, 

And  on  the  palace-floor  a  lifeless  corse 
she  lay. 

Thus,  all  in  vain  exhorted  and  reproved, 
She  perished  :  and,  as  for  a  wilful  crime, 
By   the  just  Gods  whom  no  weak  pity 

moved, 
Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed 

time, 
Apart   from  happy  Ghosts,  that  gather 

flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 

— Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due  ; 
And   mortal   hopes    defeated   and   o'er- 

thrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man 

alone, 
As  fondly  he  believes. — Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont    (such    faith    was   enter- 
tained) 
A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 
From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she 

died  ; 
And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had 

gained 
That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to  their 

view, 
The  trees'  tall  summits  withered  at  the 

sight  : 
A  constant   interchange  of  growth  and 

blight  !  1SU.     1815. 


54 


BRITISH    POETS 


YABROW  VISITED 

SEPTEMBER,   1814 

As  mentioned  in  my  verses  on  the  death  of  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd,  my  first  visii  to  Yarrow  was 
in  his  company.  We  had  lodged  the  nipht  be- 
fore at  Traquhair,  where  Hogg  had  joined  us 
.  .  .  I  seldom  read  or  think  of  this  poem  without 
regretting  that  my  dear  sister  was  not  of  the 
party,  as  she  would  have  had  so  much  delight  in 
recalling  the  time  when,  travelling  together  in 
Scotland,  we  declined  going  in  search  of  this 
celebrated  stream,  nol  altogether,  I  will  frankly 
confess,  for  the  reasons  assigned  in  the  poem  on 
ilie  occasion,    t,  Wordsworth.) 

And  is  tin's — Yarrow  ? — Tin's  the  Stream 
Of  which  my  fancy  cherished, 
So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream  ? 

An  image  that  hath  perished ! 

()  thai  some  Minstrel's  harp  were  near, 

To  utter  notes  id'  gladness, 

Ami  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  rills  my  heart  with  sadness  I 

Yet  why? — a  silvery  current  flows 
With  uncontrolled  meanderings ; 
Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 
Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 
And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary's 

Lake 
Is  visibly  delighted  ; 
For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 
Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness  ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise  !  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection  ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding? 

His   bed    perchance    was    yon   smooth 

mound 
On  which  the  herd  is  feeding: 
And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 
Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 
The  Water-wraith  ascended  thrice — 
And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  Lay  that  sings 

The  haunts  of  happy  Lovers, 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  thai  rovers  ; 

And  Pity  sanctities  the  Verse 

That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 


The  unconquerable  strength  of  love  ; 
Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  ! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation  : 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread. 

A  softness  still  and  holy  , 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 

With    Yarrow     winding     through    the 

pomp 
Of  cultivated  nature  ; 
And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves, 
Behold  a  Ruin  hoary  ! 
The  shattered  front  of  Newark's  Towers, 
Renowned  in  Border  story. 

Fair    scenes     for    childhood's    opening 

bloom, 
For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in  ; 
For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength  ; 
And  age  to  wear  away  in  ! 
Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 
A  covert  for  protection 
Of  tender  thoughts,  that  nestle  there — 
The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day, 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 

And  on  my  True-love's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather  ! 

And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own  ! 

'Tvvere  no  offence  to  reason  ; 

The  sober  Hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see — hut  not  by  sight  alone. 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee ; 

A  ray  of  fancy  still  survives — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee  ! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure  ; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapors  linger  round  the  Heights, 
They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish  ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine — 
Sad  thought,  which  I  would  banish, 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow  ! 
Will  dwell  with  me — to  heighten  joy, 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 

18 14.     1815. 


WORDSWORTH 


55 


TO  B.  R.  HAYDON 

B.  R.  Haydon,  the  painter,  was  for  many  years 
a  friend  of' Wordsworth.  On  November  27,  1815, 
Haydon  wrote  :  ""  I  have  benefited  and  have  been 
supported  in  the  troublesof  life  by  your  poetry. 
.  .  I  will  bear  want,  pain,  misery,  and  blindness  ; 
but  I  will  never  yield  one  step  I  have  gained  on 
the  road  I  am  determined  to  travel  over." 
Wordsworth's  answer  to  this  letter  was  the 
following  sonnet. 

HIGH  is  our  calling,  Friend  ! — Creative 
Art 

(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she 
use, 

Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues.) 

Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 

Though  sensitive,  yet,  in  their  weakest 
part, 

Heroically  fashioned — to  infuse 

Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  Muse, 

While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to 
desert. 

And,  oil  !  when  Nature  sinks,  as  oft  she 
may. 

Through  long-lived  pressure  of  obscure 
distress. 

Still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  re- 
ward, 

And  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay. 

Brook  no  continuance  of  weak-minded- 
ness— 

Great  is  the  glory,  for  the  strife  is  hard  ! 
1815.     1816. 

NOVEMBER  1 

How  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously 
bright 

The  effluence  from  yon  distant  mount- 
ain's head, 

Which,  strewn  with  snow  smooth  as  the 
sky  can  shed, 

Shines  like  another  sun — on  mortal  sight 

Uprisen,  as  if  to  check  approaching 
Night, 

And  all  her  twinkling  stars.  Who  now 
would  tread, 

If  so  he  might,  yon  mountain's  glittering 
head — 

terrestrial,  but  a  surface,  by  the  flight 

Of  sad  mortality's  earth-sullying  wing, 

Unswept,  unstained  ?  Nor  shall  the 
aerial  Powers 

Dissolve  that  beauty,  destined  toendure, 

White,  radiant,  spotless,  exquisitely 
pure. 

Through  all  vicissitudes,  till  genial 
Spring 

Has  filled  the  laughing  vales  with  wel- 
come flowers.  1815.     1816. 


SURPRISED   BY   JOY  —  IMPATIENT 
AS  THE  WIND 

This  was  in  fact  suggested  by  my  daughter 
Catherine  long  after  her  death.     (  Wordsworth.') 

Surprised   by    joy — impatient    as    the 

Wind 
I   turned   to   share   the   transport — Oh  ! 

with  whom 
But  Thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb. 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find  ? 
Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my 

mind- 
But  how  coidd  I  forget  thee  ?     Through 

what  power, 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 
To    my    most    grievous     loss?  —  That 

thought's  return 
Was   the   worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever 

bore, 
Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 
Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was 

no  more  ; 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  un- 
born 
Could  to   my   sight  that   heavenly   face 

restore.  1815  f  1815. 

HAST  THOU  SEEN,   WITH    FLASH 
INCESSANT 

Hast  thou  seen,  with   flash  incessant, 
Bubbles  gliding  under  ice, 
Bodied  forth  and  evanescent, 
No  one  knows  by  what  device  ? 

Such     are     thoughts ! — A      wind-swept 

meadow 
Mimicking  a  troubled  sea, 
Such  is  life  ;  and  death  a  shadow 
From  the  rock  eternity  !       ISIS.  1820. 

COMPOSED  UPON  AN  EVENING  OF 

EXTRAORDINARY  SPLENDOR 

AND  BEAUTY 


Had  this  effulgence  disappeared 

With   flying  haste,  I  might  have  sent 

Among  the  speechless  clouds,  a  look 

Of  blank  astonishment ; 

But  'tis  endued  with  power  to  stay, 

Ami  sanctify  one  closing  day, 

That  frail  Mortality  may  see — 

What  is  ? — ah  no,  but  what  can  be  ". 

Time   was  when  field  and  watery   cove 


5* 


BRITISH    POETS 


Wiih  modulated  echoes  rang, 

While  choirs  of  fervent  Angels  sang 

Their  vespers  in  the  grove  ; 

Or,     crowning,      star-like,     each     some 

sovereign  height, 
Warbled,    for    heaven   above  and  earth 

below, 
Strains  suitable  to  both.— Such  holy  rite, 
Methinks,  it'  audibly  repeated  now 
From  hill  or  valley,  could  not  move 
Suhlimer  transport,  purer  love, 
Than    doth    this    silent   spectacle  —  the 

gleam  — 
The  shadow — and    the  peace  supreme! 

n 
No  sound  is  uttered, — out  a  deep 
Anu  solemn  harmony  pervades 

The  hollow  vale  from  steep  to  steep, 

And  penetrates  the  glades. 

Far-distant  images  draw  nigh. 

Called  forth  by  wondrous  potency 

Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues, 

Whate'er  it  strikes,  with  gem-like  hues  ! 

In  vision  exquisitely  clear, 

Herds   range  along  the   mountain  side ; 

And  glistening  antlers  are  descried  ; 

And  gilded  flocks  appear. 

Thine   is  the   tranquil   hour,   purpureal 

Eve! 
But    long    as    goddike    wish,   or   hope 

divine, 
Inform-  my  spirit,  ne'er  can  I  believe 
That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine  ! 
— From  worlds  not  quickened  by  the  sun 
A  portion  of  the  gift  is  won  ; 
An  intermingling   of  Heaven's  pomp  is 

spread 
On    ground    which    British     shepherds 

tread  ! 

in 

And,  if  there  be  whom  broken  tiet> 

Afflict,  or  injuries  assail, 

Yon  hazy  ridges  to  their  eyes 

Present  a  glorious  scale, 

<  llimbing  suffused  with  sunny  air. 

To  scop — no  record  hath  told  where  ! 

And  tempting  Fancy  to  ascend. 

And  with  immortal  Spirits  blend  ! 

—  Wings  at  my  shoulders  seem  to  play  ; 

But,  rooted  here,  I  stand  and  gaze 

On  those  bright  steps  that  heavenward 

raise 
Their  practicable  way. 
Come. forth,  ye  drooping  old  men,  look 

abroad. 
A.nd   see  to  what   fair   countries   ye  are 

bound  ! 


And  if  some  traveller,  weary  of  his  road, 
Hath  slept  since  noontide  on  the  grassy 

ground. 
Ye  Genii !  to  his  covert  speed  ; 
And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 
As    may   attune  his   soul  to   meet  the 

dower 
Bestowed  on  this  transcendent  hour! 

IV 

Such  hues  from  their  celestial  Urn 
Were  wont   to  stream  before   mine  eye, 
Where'er  it  wandered  in  the  morn 
Of  blissful  infancy. 
This  glimpse  of  glory,  why  renewed  ? 
Nay,  rather  speak  with  gratitude  ; 
For,  if  a  vestige  of  those  gleams 
Survived,  'twas  only  in  my  dreams. 
Dread   Power !  whom   peace  and   calm 

n ess  serve 
No  less  than  Nature's  threatening  voice, 
If  aught  unworthy  be  my  choice, 
From  Thee  if  I  would  swerve  ; 
Oh,   let   thv   grace   remind   me    of   the 

light 
Full  early  lost,  and  fruitlessly  deplored  ; 
Which,  at  this  moment,  on  my  waking 

sight 
Appears  to  shine,  by  miracle  restored  ; 
My  soul,  though  yet  confined  to  earth, 
Rejoices  in  a  second  birth  ! 
— 'Tis    past,    the     visionary     splendour 

fa  iles  ; 
And  night  approaches  with  her  shades. 
ISIS.     1820. 

SEPTEMBER,  1819 

Departing  summer  hath  assumed 
An  aspect  tenderly  illumed, 
The  gentlest  look  of  spring  ; 
That  calls  from  yonder  leafy  shade 
Un faded,  yet  prepared  to  fade, 
A  timely  carolling. 

No  faint  and  hesitating  trill, 
Such  tribute  as  to  winter  chill 
The  lonely  redbreast  pays  ! 
Clear,  loud,  and  lively  is  the  din, 
From  social  warblers  gathering  in 
Their  harvest  of  sweet  lays. 

Nor  doth  the  example  fail  to  cheer 
Me,  conscious  that  my  leaf  is  sere, 
And  yellow  on  the  bough  : — 
Fall,  rosy  garlands,  from  my  head  ! 
Ye  myrtle  wreaths,  your  fragrance  shed 
Around  a  younger  brow  ! 


WORDSWORTH 


57 


Yet  will  I  temperately  rejoice  ; 

Wide  is  the  range,  and  free  the  choice 

Of  uti discordant  themes  ; 

Which,  haply,  kindred  souls  may  prize 

Not  less  than  vernal  ecstasies, 

And  passion's  feverish  dreams. 

For  deathless  powers  to  verse  belong, 

And  they  like  Demi-gods  are  strong 

On  whom  the  Muses  smile  ; 

But  some  their  function  have  dis- 
claimed, 

Best  pleased  with  what  is  aptliest 
framed 

To  enervate  and  defile. 

Not  such  the  initiatory  strains 
Committed  to  the  silent  plains 
In  Britain's  earliest  dawn  : 
Trembled   the   groves,  the    stars    grew 

pale. 
While  all-too-daringly  the  veil 
Of  nature  was  withdrawn! 

Nor  such  the  spirit-stirring  note 
When  the  live  chords  Alcseus  smote, 
Inflamed  by  sense  of  wrong  ; 
Woe  !  woe  to  Tyrants  !  from  the  lyre 
Broke  threateningly,  in  sparkles  dire 
Of  tierce  vindictive  song. 

And  not  unhallowed  was  the  page 
By  winged  Love  inscribed,  to  assuage 
The  pangs  of  vain  pursuit ; 
Love  listening  while  the  Lesbian  Maid 
With  finest  touch  of  passion  swayed 
Her  own  ^Eolian  lute. 

0  ye,  who  patiently  explore 
The  wreck  of  Herculanean  lore, 
What  rapture  !  could  ye  seize 
Some  Theban  fragment,  or  unroll 
One  precious,  tender-hearted,  scroll 
Of  pure  Simonides. 

That  were,  indeed,  a  genuine  birth 
Of  poesy;  a  bursting  forth 
Of  genius  from  the  dust : 
What  Horace  gloried  to  behold, 
What  Maro  loved,  shall  we  enfold  ? 
Can  haughty  Time  be  just ! 

1819.     1820. 

AFTER-THOUGHT 

1  thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my 

guide, 
As  being  past  away. — Vain  sympathies  ! 
For,  backward,  Duddon,  as  I  cast  my 

eyes, 


I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide  ; 
Still   glides   the   Stream,  and   shall   for 

ever  glide  ; 
The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never 

dies  ; 
While   we.   the  brave,  the  mighty,  and 

the  wise, 
We  Men.  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  de- 
fied 
The  elements,  must  vanish  ;— be  it  so  ! 
Enough,  if   something  from  our  hands 

have  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future 

hour ; 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we 

go, 
Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's 

transcendent  dower. 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we 

know.  1820      1820. 

MUTABILITY 

From    low    to    high    doth    dissolution 

climb. 
And   sink   from   high   to   low,   along  a 

scale 
Of  awful  notes,  whose  concord  shall  not 

fail ; 
A  musical  but  melancholy  chime. 
Which  they  can  hear  who  meddle  not 

with  crime, 
Nor  avarice,  nor  over-anxious  care. 
Truth  fails  not ;  but  her  outward  fcrms 

that  bear 
The   longest   date   do   melt   like   frosty 

rime, 
That  in  the  morning  whitened  hill  and 

plain 
And   is   no   more;  drop  like  the  tower 

sublime 
Of  yesterday,  which  royally  did  wear 
His  crown  of  weeds,  but  could  not  even 

sustain 
Some  casual  shout  that  broke  the  silent 

air. 
Or  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time. 

1821.     1822. 

INSIDE    OF   KING'S  COLLEGE 
CHAPEL,  CAMBRIDGE 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  ex 

pense. 
With    ill-matched   aims   the    Architect 

who  planned — 
Albeit  labpring  for  a  scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  Scholars  only — this  im 

mense 


BRITISH    rOE'l- 


And  glorious  Work  of  fine  intelligence! 

Give  all  thou  canst;   high  Heaven  re- 
jects  the  lore 

Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more  ; 

So  deemed  the   man    who  fashioned  for 
the  sense 

These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branch- 
in.;-  roof 

Self-poised,  and  scooped  into  ten  thou- 
sand cells. 

Where  light    and    shade    repose,  where 
music  dwells 

Lingering — and  wandering  on  as  loth  to 
die : 

Like  thoughts   whose    very    sweetness 
yieldeth  proof 

That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 
1820  or  1821.     1822, 

MEMORY 

A  PEN— to  register;  a  key — 
That  winds  through  secret  wards  ; 
Are  well  assigned  to  Memory 
By  allegoric  Bards. 

As  aptly,  also,  might  be  given 

A  Pencil  to  her  hand  ; 

That,  softening  objects,  sometimes  even 

Outstrips  the  heart's  demand  ; 

That     smooths    foregone     distress,    the 

lines 
Of  lingering  care  subdues, 
Long-vanished  happiness  refines, 
And  clothes  in  brighter  hues  ; 

Yet,  like  a  tool  of  Fancy,  works 
Those  Spectres  to  dilate 
That  startle  Conscience,  as  she  lurks 
Within  her  lonely  seat. 

Oh  !  that  our  lives,  which  flee  so  fast, 
In  purity  were  such. 
That  not  an  image  of  the  past 
Should  fear  that  pencil's  touch  ! 

Retirement  then  might  hourly  look 
Upon  a  soothing  scene, 
Age  steal  to  his  allotted  nook 
Contented  and  serene  ; 

With  heart  as  calm  as  lakes  that  sleep, 
In  frosty  moonlight  glistening  ; 
Or  mountain  rivers,  where  they  creep 
Along  a  channel  smooth  and  deep. 
To  their  own  far-off  murmurs  listening. 
1823.     1827. 


TO   A   SKY-LARK 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky. 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares 

abound  ? 
Or,  while  the  wings    aspire,  are    heart 

and  eye 
Both   with   thy    nest    upon    the    dewy 

ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at 

will. 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  tluvt 

music  still  I 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady 
wood  ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine; 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world 
a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  di- 
vine ; 

Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never 
roam  ; 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven 
and  Home  !  1825.     1827. 

SCORN   NOT  THE  SONNET 


Composed,  almost  extempore,  in  a  short  walk 
on  the  western  side  of  RydalLake.  {^Wordsworth.} 


Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have 

frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honors;  with  this 

key 
Shakspeare    unlocked    his    heart  ;    the 

melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's 

wound  ; 
A  thousand    times  this  pipe   did   Ta-^so 

sound  ; 
With   it    Camoens    soothed    an    exile's 

grief  ; 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid    the    cypress    with    which    Dante 

crowned 
His  visionary  brow:  a  glow-worm  lamp, 
Id   cheered    mild    Spenser,    called   from 

Faeryland 
To   struggle    through   dark  ways  ;  and, 

when  a  damp 
Fell    round   the  path  of   Milton,  in    his 

hand 
The  Thing  became  a  trumpet;  whence 

he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few  ! 
1827  *   1827. 


WORDSWORTH 


59 


THE  PRIMROSE  OF  THE  ROCK 

Written  at  Rydal  Mount.  The  Rock  stands  on 
the  right  hand  a  little  way  leading  up  the  middle 
road  from  Rydal  to  Grasmere.  We  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  calling  it  the  glow-worm  rock 
from  the  number  of  glow-worms  we  have  often 
seen  hanging  on  it  as  described.  The  tuft  of 
primrose  has,  I  fear,  been  washed  away  by  the 
heavy  rains.     (  Wordsworth) 

See  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journal,  April  24th, 
1803. 

A  Rock  there  is  whose  homely  front 
The  passing  traveller  slights; 

Yet  there  the  glow-worms    hang  their 
lumps, 
Like  stare,  at  various  heights  ; 

And  one  coy  Primrose  to  that  Rock 
The  vernal  breeze  invites. 

What  hideous  warfare  hath  been  waged, 
What  kingdoms  overthrown, 

Since  first  I  spied  that  Primrose-tuft 
And  marked  it  for  my  own  ; 

A  lasting  link  in  Nature's  chain 
From  highest  heaven  let  down  ! 

The  flowers,  still  faithful  to  the  stems. 

Their  fellowship  renew  ; 
The  stems  are  faithful  to  the  root, 

That  worketh  out  of  view  : 
And  to  the  rock  the  root  adheres 

In  every  fibre  true. 

Close  clings  to  earth  the  living  rock, 

Though  threatening  still  to  fall ; 
The  earth  is  constant  to  her  sphere  ; 

And  God  upholds  them  all: 
So  blooms  this  lonely  Plant,  nor  dreads 

Her  annual  funeral. 

#  *  *  # 

Here  closed  the  meditative  strain  ; 

But  air  breathed  soft  that  day, 
The      hoary      mountain-heights      were 
cheered, 

The  sunny  vale  looked  gay; 
And  to  the  Primrose  of  the  Rock 

1  gave  this  after-lay. 

I  sang— Let  myriads  of  blight  flowers, 
Like  Thee,  in  field  and  grove 

Revive  unenvied  ; — mightier  far. 
Than  tremblings  thai  reprove 

Our  vernal  tendencies  to  hope, 
Is  God's  redeeming  love  ; 

That  love  which  changed— for  wan  dis- 
ease. 

For  sorrow  that  had  bent 
O'er  hopeless  dust,  for  withered  age— 

Their  moral  (dement, 
And  turned  the  thistles  of  a  curse 

To  types  beneficent. 


Sin-blighted  though  we  are,  we  too, 

The  reasoning  Sons  of  Men, 
From  one  oblivious  winter  called 

Shall  rise,  and  breathe  again  : 
And  in  eternal  summer  lose 

Our  threescore  years  and  ten. 

To  humbleness  of  heart  descends 
This  prescience  from  on  high, 

The  faith  that  elevates  the  just, 
Before  and  when  they  die  ; 

And  makes  each  soul  a  separate  heaven 
A  court  for  Deity.  1831.     1885. 

YARROW    REVISITED 

The  following  Stanzas  are  a  memorial  of  a  day 
passed  with  Sir  Walter  S<-<>tt  and  other  Friends 
visiting  the  Banks  of  the  Yarrow  under  his  guid- 
ance, immediately  before  his  departure  from 
Abbotsford,  for  Naples. 

The  title  Yarrow  Revisited  will  stand  in  no  need 
of  explanation  for  Readers  acquainted  with  the 
Aut  hor's  previous  poems  suggested  by  that  cele- 
brated Stream.    (Wordsworth.) 

The   gallant    Youth,    who    may    have 
gained, 

Or  seeks,  a  "  winsome  Marrow," 
Was  but  an  Infant  in  the  lap 

When  first  I  looked  on  Yarrow  ; 
Once  more,  by  Newark's  Castle-gate 

Long  left  without  a  warder, 
I  stood,  looked,  listened,  and  with  Th.ee, 

Great  Minstrel  of  the  Border  ! 

Grave    thoughts    ruled    wide    on    that 
sweet  day, 

Their  dignity  installing 
In  gentle  bosoms,  while  sere  leaves 

Were  on  the  bough,  or  falling  ; 
But     breezes      played,     and     sunshine 
gleamed — 

The  forest  to  embolden  ; 
Reddened  the  fiery  hues,  and  shot 

Transparence  through  the  golden. 

For  busy  thoughts  the  Stream  flowed  on 

In  foamy  agitation  ; 
And  slept  in  many  a  crystal  pool 

For  quiet  contemplation  : 
No  public  and  no  private  care 

The  freeborn  mind  enthralling, 
WTe  made  a  day  of  happy  hours, 

Our  happy  days  recalling. 

Brisk   Youth    appeared,    the   Morn    of 
youth, 

With  freaks  of  graceful  folly, — 
Life's  temperate  Noon,  lier  sober  Eve, 

!  !er  Night  not  melancholy  ; 
i':i^t    present,  future,  all  appeared 

In  harmony  united, 


Go 


BRITISH    POKTS 


Like  guests  that  meet,  and  some  from 
far, 
By  cordial  love  invited. 

A  n<l  if.  as  Yarrow,  Hi  rough  the  woods 

A 1 1<  1  down  the  meadow  ranging, 
Did  meet  us  with  unaltered  face, 

Though  we  were  changed  and  chang- 
ing ; 
If,  ///('/).  sonic  natural  shadows  spread 

Our  inward  prospect  over, 
The  soul's  deep  valley  was  not  slow 

Its  brightness  to  recover. 

Eternal  hlessingson  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment! 
The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  Sons 

For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment  ; 
Albeit  sickness,  lingering  }^et, 

Has  o'er  their  pillow  brooded  ; 
And  Care  waylays  their  steps — a  Sprite 

Not  easily  eluded. 

For  thee,  O  Scott  !  compelled  to  change 

Green  Eildon-hill  and  Cheviot 
For  warm  Vesuvio's  vine-clad  slopes  ; 

And  leave  thy  Tweed  and  Tiviot 
For  mild  Sorrento's  breezy  waves  ; 

May  classic  Fancy,  linking 
With  native  Fancy  her  fresh  aid, 

Preserve  thy  heart  from  sinking ! 

Oh  !  while  they  minister  to  thee, 

Each  vying  with  the  other, 
May  Health  return  to  mellow  Age 

With  Strength,  her  venturous  brother  ; 
And  Tiber,  and  each  brook  and  rill 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
With  unimagined  beauty  shine, 

Nor  lose  one  ray  of  glory  1 

For  Thou,  upon  a  hundred  streams, 

By  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 
Of  faithful  love,  undaunted  truth, 

Hast  shed  the  power  of  Yarrow  ; 
And  streams  unknown,  hills  yet  unseen, 

Wherever  they  invite  Thee, 
At  parent  Nature's  grateful  call, 

With  gladness  must  requite  Thee. 

A  gracious  welcome  shall  be  thine, 

Such  looks  of  love  and  honor 
As  thy  own  Yarrow  gave  to  me 

When  first  I  gazed  upon  her  ; 
Beheld  what  I  had  feared  to  see, 

Unwilling  to  surrender 
Dreams  treasured  up  from  early  days, 

The  holy  and  the  tender. 

And  what,  for  this  frail   world,  were  all 
That  mortals  do  or  suffer, 


Did  no  responsive  harp,  no  pen, 

Memorial  tribute  offer  ? 
Yea,  what  were  mighty  Nature's  self? 

Her  features,  could  they  win  us, 
Unhelped  by  the  poetic  voice 

That  hourly  speaks  within  us? 

Nor  deem  that  localized  Romance 

Plays  false  with  our  affections  ; 
Unsanctifies  our  tears — made  sport 

For  fanciful  dejections : 
Ah.  no  !  the  visions  of  the  past 

Sustain  the  heart  in  feeling 
Life  as  she  is — our  changeful  Life, 

With  friends  and  kindred  dealing. 

Bear  witness,  Ye,  whose  thoughts  that 
day 

In  Yarrow's  groves  were  centred  ; 
Who  through  the  silent  portal  arch 

Of  mouldering  Newark  entered  ; 
And  clomb  the  winding  stair  that  once 

Too  timidly  was  mounted 
By  the  "  last  Minstrel,"  (not  the  last !) 

Ere  he  his  Tale  recounted. 

Flow  on  for  ever.  Yarrow  Stream  ! 

Fulfil  thy  pensive  duty, 
Well  pleased   that  future  Bards  should 
chant 

For  simple  heartsthy  beauty  ; 
To  dream-light  dear  while  yet  unseen, 

Dear  to  the  common  sunshine, 
And  dearer  still,  as  now  I  feel, 

To  memory's  shadowy  moonshine  ! 
1831.     1835. 

THE  TROSACHS 

As  recorded  in  my  sister's  Journal,  I  had  first 
seen  the  Trosachs  in  her  and  Coleridge's  com- 
pany. The  sentiment  that  runs  through  this 
Sonnet  was  natural  to  the  season  in  which  I 
again  saw  this  beautiful  spot  ;  but  this  and  some 
other  sonnets  that  follow  were  eolored  by  the 
remembrance  of  my  recent  visit  to  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  and  the  melancholy  errand  on  which  he 
was  going.     (Wordsworth.) 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn 

Pass, 
But  were  an  apt   confessional   for  One 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn 

gone, 
That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 
Withered  at   eve.     From  scenes  of  art 

which  chase 
That    thought    away,   turn,  and    with 

watchful  eyes 
Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 
Rocks,  rivers,   and   smooth   lakes   more 

clear  than  glass 


WORDSWORTH 


6i 


Untouched,    unbreathed   upon.    Thrice 

happy  quest, 
If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 
The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 
That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven  taught 

lay.  :      ,  . 

Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to 
rest!    *  1S31.     1835. 

IF  THOU  INDEED  DERIVE  THY 
LIGHT  FROM  HEAVEN 

If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from 
Heaven , 

Then,  to  the  measure  of  that  heaven- 
born  light, 

Shine,  Poet !  in  thy  place,  and  be  content: 

The   stars    pre-eminent   in    magnitude, 

And  they  that  from  the  zenith  dart  their 
beams, 

(Visible  though  they  be  to  half  the  earth. 

Though  half  a  sphere  be  conscious  of 
their  brightness) 

Are  yet  of  no  diviner  origin, 

No  purer  essence,  than  the  one  that 
burns, 

Like  an  untemled  watch-fire  on  the  ridge 

Of  some  dark  mountain  ;  or  than  those 
which  seem 

Humbly  to  hang,  like  twinkling  winter 
lamps. 

Among  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees. 

All  are  the  undying  offspring  of  one  Sire  : 

Then,  to  the  measure  of  the  light  vouch- 
safed. 

Shine,  Poet  !  in  thv  place,  and  be  con- 
tent. 1832.     1836. 

IF  THIS  GREAT  "WORLD  OF  JOY 
AND  PAIN 

If  tins  great  world  of  joy  and  pain 

Revolve  in  one  sure  track  ; 
If  freedom,  set,  will  rise  agam, 

And  virtue,  flown,  come  back  ; 
Woe  to  the  purblind  crew  who  lill 

The  heart  with  each  day's  care  ; 
Nor  gain,  from  past  or  future,  skill 

To  bear,  and  to  forbear  ! 

1833.'    1885. 

"  THERE  !  "   SAID  A  STRIPLING, 
POINTING  WITH  MEET  PRIDE 

"There!"  said   a   Stripling,    pointing 

with  meet  pride 
Towards  a    low   roof  with   green   trees 

half  concealed, 


"  Is  Mosgiel  Farm  ;  and  that's  the   very 

field 
Where  Burns  ploughed   up   the    Daisy." 

Far  and  wide 
A. plain  below  stretched  seaward,  while, 

descried 
Above   sea-clouds,  the  Peaks   of   Arran 

r<  ise  ; 
And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea  and  air,  was   vivified. 
Beneath  "the  random  bield  of  clod  or 

stone  " 
Myriads  of  daisies  have  shone  forth  in 

flower 
Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural 

hour 
Have  passed  away  ;  less  happy  than  the 

One 
That,  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare,  died 

to  prove 
The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love. 
1833.     1S35. 

MOST   SWEET  IT  IS  WITH  UN- 
UPLIFTED  EYES 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 
To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or 

none. 
While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller 

lies 
Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon  ; 
Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 
The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 
Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 
The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 
If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that 

day 
Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the 

Muse  :  * 

With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of 

our  way, 
Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, 
The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her 

dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lav. 

1833.     1835. 

EXTEMPORE  EFFUSION  UPON  THE 
DEATH   OF   JAMES   HOGG* 

When  first,  descending  from  the  moor- 

lands, 
I  saw  the  Stream  of  Yarrow  glide 

i  Walter  Scott died  Sept.  21,  1838 

S   'I'.  CulcrMfie  ......  "    July    25,  1834 

Charles  Lamb    ......  "     Dee.     27,  1834 

Geo.  Crabbe "    Feb.     a.  1832 

Felicia  lb-mans "    May    15,  1834 


BRITISH    POETS 


Along  a  bare  and  open  valley, 

fhe  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  my  guide. 

When  last  along  its  banks  I  wandered 
Through  groves  that  had  begun  to  shed 
Their  golden  leaves  upon  the  pathways, 
My  steps  the  Border-minstrel  led. 

The  mighty  Minstrel  breathes  no  longer, 
'Mid  mouldering  nuns  low  lie  lies; 
A.nd  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow, 
Has  closed  the  Shepherd-poet's  eyes: 

Nor  lias  the  rolling  year  twice  measured, 
From  sign  to  sign, 'its  steadfast  course, 
since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge 
Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source  ; 

The  rapt  One,  of  the  godlike  forehead, 
The     heaven-eyed     creature    sleeps    in 

earth  : 
And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  the  gentle. 
Has  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth. 

Like   clouds  that   rake   the   mountain- 
summits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land  1 

Vet  T.  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber 
Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 
A  timid  voice,  that  asks  in  whispers, 
"  Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear?  " 

Our  haughty  life  is  crowned  with  dark- 
ness. 
Like  London  with  its  own  black  wreath 
On  which  with  thee,  O  Crabbe  !  forth' 

,       looking. 
I  gazed  from  Hampstead's  breezy  heath. 

As  if  but  yesterday  departed, 
Thou  too  art  gone"before  ;  but  why, 
O'er  ripe  fruit,  seasonably  gathered, 
Should  frail  survivors  heave  a  sigh  ?' 

Mourn  rather  for  that  holy  Spirit, 
s  veet  as  the  spring,  as  ocean  deep  ; 
i'  '■   HTer  who,  ere  her  summer  faded, 
lias  sunk  into  a  breathless  sleep. 

No  more  of  old  romantic  sorrows, 

For    slaughtered    Youth    or     love-lorn 

Maid  ! 
Witli  sharper  grief  is  YTarrow  smitten, 
And  Ettrick  mourns  with  her  their  Poet 

dead.        Nov.  ls,;r,      ^ec.  1835 


A  POET  !— HE  HATH  PUT  HIS 
HEART  TO   SCHOOL 

A   Poet!-lle    hath    put    his   heart    to 

school, 
Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon  the 

staff 
Which  Art  hath  lodged  within  his  hand 

—must  laugh 
By  precept,  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule. 
Thy   Art   be  Nature;  the   live   current 

quaff, 
And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant 

pool. 
In  fear  that  else,  when  Critics  grave  and 

cool 
Have  killed  him,  Scorn  should  write  his 

epitaph. 
How  does  the  Meadow-flower  its  bloom 

unfold? 
Because  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free 
Down  to  its  root,  and,  in  that  freedom, 

bold  ; 
And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  Forest-tree 
Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  formal  mould, 
But  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 

l&fi?   1842. 

SO   FAIR,   SO  SWEET,  WITHAL  SO 
SENSITIVE 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive, 
Would  that  the  little  Flowers  were  born 

to  live. 
Conscious   of   half  the   pleasure   which 

they  give  : 

That  to  this  mountain-daisy's  self  were 

known 
The  beauty  of  its  star-shaped  shadow, 

thrown 
On  the  smooth   surface   of   this   naked 

stone  ! 

And  what  if  hence  a  bold  desire  should 

mount 
High  as  the  Sun,  that  he  could   take 

account 
Of  all    that    issues    from    his  glorious 

fount  I 

So  might  he  ken  how  by  his  sovereign 

aid 
These     delicate     companionships      are 

made  ; 
And   how  lie  rules  the   pomp   of   light 

and  shade ; 


WORDSWORTH 


63 


(   nd  were  the   Sister-power   that  shines 

by  night 
1.      privileged,  what  a  countenance  of 

M      delight 
WjFdd  through  tlie  clouds  break  forth 

on  human  sight ! 

Fond   fancies !    wheresoe'er    shall  turn 

thine  eye 
On  earth,  air,  ocean,  or  the   starry  sky, 
Converse  with  Nature  in  pure    sympa- 
thy; 

All  vain  desires,  all  lawless  wishes 
quelled. 

Be  Thou  to  love  and  praise  alike  im- 
pelled 

Whatever  boon  is  granted  or  withheld. 
IS44.    1845. 

THE    UNREMITTING  VOICE  OF 
NIGHTLY  STREAMS 

The     unremitting      voice    of    nightly 

streams 
That  wastes  so  oft,  we  think,  its   tune- 
ful  powers. 
If  neither    soothing   to  the  worm  that 

gleams 
Through    dewy   grass,   nor  small   birds 

hushed  in  bowers, 
Nor    unto    sih-nt     leaves    and    drowsy 

flowers, — 
That  voice  of    unpretending    harmony 
(For  who  what  is  shall  measure  by  what 

seems 
To  be,  or  not  to  be, 

Or  tax  high  Heaven  with  prodigality?) 
Wants  not  a  healing  influence  that  can 

creep 


Into  the  human  breast,  and  mix  with 
sleep 

To  regulate  the  motion  of  our  dreams 

For  kindly  issues — as  through  every 
clime 

Was  felt  near  murmuring  brooks  in 
earliest  time  ; 

As  at  this  day,  the  rudest  swains  who 
dwell 

Where  torrents  roar,  or  hear  the  tink- 
ling knell 

Of  water-breaks,  with  grateful  heart 
could  tell.  1846.     1850. 

SONNET 

TO    AN     OCTOGENARIAN 

Affections    lose    their     object ;    Time 

brings  forth 
No  successors  ;  and,  lodged  in  memory, 
If  love  exist  no  longer,  it  must  die, — 
Wanting  "accustomed   food,   must   pass 

from  earth, 
Or  never  hope  to  reach  a  second  birth. 
This  sad  belief,  the  happiest  that  is  left 
To  thousands,  share  not  Thou  ;  howe'er 

bereft, 
Scorned,  or  neglected,  fear  not  such  a 

dearth. 
Though   poor  and   destitute   of  friends 

thou  art, 
Perhaps  the  sole  survivor  of  thy  race, 
One    to     whom     Heaven     assigns    that 

mournful  part 
The  utmost  solitude  of  age  to  face, 
Still  shall   be  left  some  corner  of  the 

heart 
Where  Love  for  living  Thing  can  find  a 

place.  1846.     1850. 


COLERIDGE 

LIST  OF   REFERENCES 

Editions 

*  Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  James  Dykes  Campbell,  The 
Macmillan  Co.,  181:3  (Globe  Edition).  —  Poems,  1  volume,  edited  by  E.  II. 
Coleridge,  John  Lane,  1907  (Illustrated  Edition).  —  Poems  and  Dramatic 
Works,  edited  by  William  Knight,  Scribner's,  1906  (Caxton  Thin  Paper 
Classics). — Complete  Works,  7  volumes,  edited  by  W.  G.  T.  Shedd, 
Harper  &  Bros.,  1853,  1884  (a  rather  poor  edition).  —  Poetical  Works, 
2  volumes,  Prose  Works,  6  volumes,  edited  by  T.  Ashe,  1885.  —  Poetical 
Works,  1  volume,  Crowell  &  Co.,  1908  (Astor  Edition).  —  Letters,  edited 
by  E.  H.  Coleridge,  2  volumes,  1895. 

Biography 

Gillman  (James),  The  Life  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  Vol.  I,  1838 
(all  published).  —  Brandl" (Alois),  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  unci  die  eng- 
lische  Romantik,  Berlin,  1SS6.  (English  edition  by  Lady  Eastlake,  as- 
sisted by  the  author,  1887.)  —  Traill  (H.  D.),  Coleridge  (English  Men 
of  Letters  Series),  1884.— Caine  (T.  Hall),  Coleridge  (Great  Writers 
Series),  1887.  —  *Campbell  (J.  D.),  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  a  Narrative 
of  the  Events  of  his  Life,  1894.  —  Aynard  (Joseph),  La  Vie  d'un  Pocte: 
Coleridge,  Paris,  1907.  —  (See  also  Knight's  Life  of  Wordsworth.) 

Personal  Reminiscences  and  Early  Criticism 

Coleridge  (S.  T.),  Biographia  Literaria.  Table  Talk.  Letters,  edited 
by  Ernest  Hartley  Coleridge.  —  Anima  Poetse,  Selections  from  the  unpub- 
lished Note-Books  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  edited  by  Ernest  Hartley 
Coleridge.  —  Letters,  Conversations,  and  Recollections  of  S.  T.  Coleridge, 
edited  by  Thomas  Allsop.  —  Memoir  and  Letters  of  Sara  Coleridge,  edited 
by  her  daughter.  —  Cottle  (Joseph),  Early  Recollections  of  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge.—  Talfourd  (T.  N.),  Final  Memorials  of  Lamb.  —  Robinson 
(H.  C),  Diary.  —  Hazlitt  (William),  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets. 

—  Hazlitt  (William),  Spirit  of  the  Age. — -Hazlitt  (William),  Lectures 
on  the  English  Poets;  Lecture  8.  —  De  Quincey  (Masson's  Edition),  Vol.  V, 
Coleridge  and  Opium-Eating.  —  Mitford  (M.  R.),  Recollections  of  a 
Literary  Life.  —  Wilson  (John),  Essays.  —  Jeffrey  (Lord  Francis), 
Critical  Essays:  Coleridge's  Literary  Life.  —  *  Carlyle,  Life  of  Sterling, 
Part  I,  Chap.  8.  —  Lamb  (Charles),  Works:  *  Christ's  Hospital  Five  and 
Thirty  Years  Ago;  Recollections  of  Christ's  Hospital;  On  the  Death  of 
Coleridge;  Letters.  —  *  Wordsworth  (Dorothy),  Journals. — •  Southey 
(R.),  Life  and  Correspondence. 

Later  Criticism 

Beers  (H.  A.),  English  Romanticism  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1901. 

—  Cestre  (Charles),  La  Revolution  francaise  et  les  poetes  anglsis,  1906.  — ■ 

64 


COLERIDGE  65 


Calvert  (G.  H.),  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Goethe,  1S80.  —Coleridge  (E.  H.), 
in  Chambers's  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  Ill,  new  edition, 
1904. — Dowden  (Edward),  New  Studies  in  Literature:  Coleridge  as 
a  Poet,  1895.  —  Dowden  (Edward),  French  Revolution  and  English 
Literature,  Es.ay  IV,  1897.  — *  Garnett  (R.),  Essays  of  an  Ex -Librarian, 
1901.  —  Legouis  (Emile),  La  Jeunesse  de  William  Wordsworth,  1896. — 
*  Lowell  (J.  R.),  Prose  Works,  Vol.  VI  (Address  of  1887).  —  *  Mill 
(J.  S.),  Dissertations  and  Discussions.  —  *  Pater  (Walter),  Appreciations 
(Essay  of  1865).  — Payne  (W.  M.),  The  Greater  English  Poets  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  1907.  — ■  Robertson  (John  M.),  New  Essays  towards 
a  Critical  Method,  1897.  —  Saintsbury  (G.),  Essays  in  English  Literature, 
second  series:  Coleridge  and  Southey,  1895. — -Shairp  (J.  C),  Studies  in 
Poetry  and  Philosophy,  1868, 1887. — Stephen  (Leslie),  Hours  in  a  Library, 
Vol.  Ill,  new  edition,  1892.  —  Swinburne  (A.  C),  Essays  and  Studies, 
1875.  —  Symons  (A.),  Coleridge,  in  the  International  Quarterly,  June- 
Sept.,  1904.  —  Watson  (William),  Excursions  in  Criticism,  1893.— 
Winter  (W.),  Shakspere's  England:  At  the  Grave  of  Coleridge,  1886. 
—  Woodberry  (G.  E.),  Makers  of  Literature  (1890),  1900. 

Bayne  (Peter),  Essays,  Vol.  II,  1858.  —  Brooke  (Stopford  A.), 
Theology  in  the  English  Poets,  1874.  —  Chancellor  (E.  B.),  Literary 
Types,  1895.  —  Cooper  (Lane),  The  Abyssinian  Paradise  in  Coleridge  and 
Milton,  in  Modern  Philology,  Jan.,  1906  (a  note  on  Kubla  Khan). —  Dawson 
(G.),  Biographical  Lectures,  1886.  —  Dawson  (W.  J.),  Makers  of  English 
Poetry,  1906. — •  Frothingham  (O.  B.),  Transcendentalism  in  New  Eng- 
land, 1876.  —  Hancock  (A.  E.),  The  French  Revolution  and  the  English 
Poets,  1899.  —  Helmholtz  (A.  A.),  The  Indebtedness  of  Coleridge  to  A.  W. 
von  Schlegel,  Madison,  1907.  —  Johnson  (C.  F.),  Three  Americans  and 
Three  Englishmen,  1886. — Mitchell  (D.  G.),  English  Lands,  Letters 
and  Kings,  Vol.  Ill,  1895.  —  Lang  (Andrew),  Poets'  Country,  1907.— 
Ossoli  (M.  F.),  Art,  Literature  and  the  Drama.  — Rossetti  (W.  M.),  Lives 
of  Famous  Poets,  1878.  — -Sharp  (R.  F.),  Architects  of  English  Literature, 
1900.  —  Siiedd  (W.  G.  T.),  Literary  Essays,  1878.  —  Symons  (A.),  Roman- 
tic Movement  in  English  Poetry,  1909. 

Tributes  in  Verse 

Shelley,  To  Coleridge.  —  *  Rossetti  (D.  G.),  Five  English  Poets: 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  —  De  Vere  (Aubrey),  Poetical  Works,  Vol.  "I: 
Sonnets:  To  Coleridge;  Miscellaneous  Poems:  Coleridge;  Vol.  Ill:  On 
visiting  a  Haunt  of  Coleridge's.  —  Browning  (E.  B.),  A  Vision  of  Poets.  — 
Watts-Dunton  (T.),  Coleridge  (in  Stedman's  Victorian  Anthology). — 
Watson  (William),  Lines  in  a  Fly-Leaf  of  Christabel.  —  Hellman  (G.  S.), 
The  Hudson  and  other  Poems,  1909. 

Bibliography 

Shepherd  (R.  II.),  Bibliography  of  Coleridge;  revised  by  W.  F.  Pri- 
deaux,  1900.  —  *Haney  (J.  L.),  Bibliography  of  S.  T.  Coleridge,  1903. 


COLERIDGE 


LIFE 

As  late  I  journey'd   o'er  the  extensive 

plain 
Where   native   Otter   sports   his   scanty 

stream. 
Musing  in  torpid  woe  a  sister's  pain. 
The   glorious   prospect    woke   me   from 

the  dream. 

At  every  step  it  widen'd  to  my  sight, 
Wood,  Meadow,  verdant  Hill,  and  dreary 

Steep, 
Following  in  quick  succession  of  delight, 
Till  all — at    once — did  my  eye  ravish'd 

sweep ! 

May   this   (I  cried)  my  course  through 
Life  portray  ! 

New  scenes  of  wisdom  may  each  step 
display, 

And    knowledge   open   as   my  days  ad- 
vance ! 

Till  what  time  Death  shall  pour  the  un- 
darken'd  ray, 

My    eye    shall    dart   thro'    infinite   ex- 
panse, 

And  thought  suspended  lie  in  rapture's 
blissful  trance. 

September,  17SD.     1834.1 

LINES 

»         ON  AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING 

0  THOU  wild  Fancy,  check  thy  wing  ! 

No  more 
Those   thin   white  flakes,   those  purple 

clouds  explore  ! 
Nor  there  with  happy  spirits  speed  thy 

flight 

1  The  dates  for  Coleridge's  poems  are  made  up 
from  the  Shepherd-Prideaux  and  the  Haney 
bibliographies,  and  from  the  excellent  notes  to 
Campbell's  edition  of  the  Poetical  Works. 


66 


Bathed  in  rich  amber-glowing  floods  oi 

light; 
Nor  in  yon  gleam,  where  slow  descends 

the  day, 
With  western  peasants  hail  the  morning 

ray  ! 
Alt  !   rather  bid  the  perished  pleasures 

move, 
A   shadowy    train,    across   the   soul   of 

Love  ! 
0"er  disappointment's  wintry  desert  fling 
Each    flower   that   wreathed   the   dewy 

locks  of  Spring, 
When  blushing,  like  a  bride,  from  Hope's 

trim  bower 
She   leapt,  awakened  by  the  pattering 

shower. 
Now  sheds  the  sinking  Sun  a   deeper 

gleam, 
Aid,    lovely   Sorceress  !   aid   thy   Poet's 

dieam  ! 
With  faery  wand  O  bid  the  Maid  arise. 
Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright- 
hit  ie  eyes  : 
As   erst   when    from   the    Muses'   calm 

abode 
I  came,   with  Learning's  meed  not  un- 

bestowed  : 
When  as  she  twined  a  laurel  round  my 

brow, 
And  met  my  kiss,  and  half  returned  my 

vow, 
O'er  all  my  frame  shot  rapid  my  thrilled 

heart, 
And  every  nerve  confessed  the  electric 

dart. 

0  dear  Deceit !  I  see  the  Maiden  rise. 
Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright- 
blue  eyes ! 

When  first  the  lark  high-soaring  swells 

his  throat, 
Mocks   the   tired  eyre,  and  scatters  the 

loud  note, 

1  trace  her  footsteps  on  the  accustomed 
lawn. 


COLERIDGE 


67 


I  mark  her  glancing  mid  the  gleams  of 

dawn. 
When  the  bent  flower  beneath  the  night- 
dew  weeps 
\nd  on  the  lake  the  silver  lustre  sleeps, 
Amid  t he  paly  radiance  soft  and  sad, 
She  meets  my  lonely  path  in  moonbeams 

clad. 
With  her  along  the  streamlet's  brink  I 

rove  ; 
With   her   I   list  the   warblings   of   the 

grove ; 
And  seems  in  each  low  wind  her  voice 

to  float 
Lone  whispering  Pity  in  eacli  soothing 

note  ! 

Spirits   of  Love!    ye  heard  her  name! 

6bey 
The   powerful   spell,   and   to  my  haunt 

repair. 
Whether  on   clustering  pinions  ye  are 

there, 
Where    rich    snows     blossom    on     the 

Myrtle-trees, 
Or  with  fond  languishment  around  my 

faii- 
Sigh   in    the   loose    luxuriance    of   her 

hair  ; 
O  heed  the  spell,  and  hither  wing  your 

way. 
Like  far-off  music,  voyaging  the  breeze  ! 

Spirits  !  to  you  the  infant  Maid  was 
given 

Formed  by  the  wondrous  Alchemy  of 
Heaven  ! 

No  fairer  Maid  does  Love's  wide  empire 
know. 

No  fairer  Maid  e'er  heaved  the  bosom's 
snow. 

A  thousand  Loves  around  her  forehead 
fly  ; 

A  thousand  Loves  sit  melting  in  her  eye  : 

Love  lights  her  smile — in  Joy's  red 
nectar  dips 

His  myrtle  flower,  and  plants  it  on  her 
lips. 

She  speaks!  and  hark  that  passion- 
warbled  song — 

Still,  Fancy  !  still  that  voice,  those  notes, 
prolong, 

As  sweet  as  when  that  voice  with  rap- 
turous falls 

Shall  wake  the  softened  echoes  of 
I  leaven's  I  falls  ! 

O  (have  T  sigh'd)  were  mine  the  wiz- 
ard's rod, 


Or  mine  the  power  of  Proteus,  changeful 

God  I1 
A  flower-entangled  Arbor  I  would  seen: 
To    shield    my   hove    from    Noontide's 

sultry  beam  : 
Or  bloom  a  Myrtle,  from  whose  odorous 

boughs 
My  hove  might  weave  gay  garlands  for 

her  brows. 
When  Twilight  stole  across  the  fading 

vale. 
To   fan    my   hove   I'd   be   the   Evening 

Gale; 
Mourn  in  the  soft  folds  of  her  swelling 

vest, 
And   flutter   my   faint   pinions   on   her 

breast ! 
On  Seraph    wing  I'd  float  a  Dream  by 

night, 
To   soothe   my   Love   with   shadows   of 

delight:— 
Or  soar  aloft  to  be  the  Spangled  Skies, 
And   gaze   upon    her    with   a   thousand 

eyes  ! 

As  when  the  Savage,  who  his  drowsy 

frame 
Had  basked  beneath  the  Sun's  unclouded 

flame. 
Awakes  amid  the  troubles  of  the  air, 
The  skiey  deluge,  and  white  lightning's 

glare — 
Aghast  he  scours  before  the  tempest's 

sweep, 
And    sad   recalls    the    sunny    hour    of 

sleep  :— 
So  tossed  by  storms  along  Life's  wilder- 

ing  way. 
Mine  eye  reverted  views  that  cloudless 

day, 
When   by   my   native   brook  I   wont  to 

rove, 
While  Hope  with  kisses  nursed  the  In- 
fant Love. 

^ear     native     brook!    like     Peace,     so 

placidly 
Smoothing    through    fertile    fields    thy 

current  meek  ! 
Dear  native  brook!  where  first  young 

Poesy 
Stared     wildly-eager    in    her    noontide 

dream  ! 
Where  blameless  pleasures  dimple  Quiet's 

cheek, 

1 1  entreat  the  Public's  pardon  for  having  care- 
lessly suffered  to  be  printed  such  intolerable  stuff 
as  this  and  the  thirteen  following  lines.  They 
have  not  the  merit  even  of  originality  :  as  every 
thought  is  to  be  found  in  the  Greek  Epigrams 
(From  Coleridge's  note  in  the  Putms,  17'.i0.) 


6S 


BRITISH    POETS 


As  water-lilies  ripple  thy  slow  stream! 
Dear  native  haunts!  where  Virtue  still 

is  gay, 
Where    Friendship's  fixed  star  sheds  a 

mellow  ftl  ray. 
Where  Love  a  crown  of  thornless  Roses 

wears. 
Where  soften'd  Sorrow  smiles  within  her 

bears  ; 
And    Memory,   with  a  Vestal's  chaste 

employ, 
Unceasing  feeds  the  lambenl   flame  of 

joy! 
Nomore  your  sky-larks  melting  from  the 

sight 
Shall  thrill  the  attuned  heart-string  with 

delight- 
No  more  shall  deck  your  pensive  Pleas- 
ures sun  t 
With  wreaths  of  sober  hue  my  evening 

seal  . 
Yet    dear    to    Fancy's    eye    your    varied 

scene 
Of  wood,  hill.  dale,  and  sparkling  brook 

between  ! 
Yet   sweet  to  Fancy's  ear  the  warbled 

song". 
That  soars  on  Morning's  wingyour  vales 

among. 

Scenes  of  my  Hope !  the  aching  eye  ye 

leave 
Like   yon    bright   hues   that   paint    the 

clouds  of  eve  ! 
Tearful  and  saddening  with  the  saddened 

blaze 
Mine  eye  t lie  gleam  pursues  with  wistful 

gaze  : 
Sees  shades  on  shades  with   deeper  tint 

impend, 
Till  chill  and  damp  the  moonless  night 

descend.  1798.     1796. 

LEWTI 

OR  THE   CIRCASSIAN    LOVE-CHANT 

At  midnight  by  the  stream  T  roved, 
TV>  forget  the  form  I  loved. 
[mage  of  Lewti  !  from  my  mind 
I  >epart  ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 

The    Moon    was    high,    the    moonlight 
gleam 

And  the  shadow  of  a  star 
Heaved  upon  Tamaha's  st  ream  : 

But  the  rock  shone  brighter  far. 
The  rock  half  sheltered  from  my  view 
By    pendent  houghs  of  tressy  yew. — 


So  shines  my  Lewti's  forehead  fair, 
( J  learning  t  hrough  her  sable  hair, 
linage  of  Lewti  !   from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 

I  saw  a  cloud  of  palest  hue, 

( >nward  to  the  moon  it   passed  ; 
Still  brighter  and  more  bright  it  grew, 
With  floating  colors  not  a  few, 

Till  it  reach'd  the  moon  at  last  ■ 
Then  the  cloud  was  wholly  bright, 
With  a  rich  and  amber  lighl  ! 
And  so  with  many  a  hope  I  seek 

And  with  such  joy  I  find  my  Lewti  ; 
And  even  so  my  pale  wan  cheek 

Drinks  in  as  deep  a  flush  of  beauty  ! 
Nay,     treacherous     image!    leave     mj 

mind. 
If  Lewti  never  will  be  kind, 

The  little  cloud — it  floats  away, 

Away  it  goes  ;  away  so  soon  ? 
Alas  !   it  has  no  power  to  stay  : 
Its  hues  are  dim,  its  hues  are  gray 

Away  it  passes  from  the  moon  ! 
How  mournfully  it  seems  to  fly, 

Ever  fading  more  and  more, 
To  joyless  regions  of  the  sky — 
And  now  'tis  whiter  than  before  ! 
As  white  as  my  poor  cheek  will  be, 

When,  Lewti  !  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
A  dying  man  for  love  of  thee. 
Nay,     treacherous     image!     leave     my 

mind — 
And  yet,  thou  didst  not  look  unkind. 

I  saw  a  vapor  in  the  sky. 

Thin,  and  white,  and  very  high  ; 
I  ne'er  beheld  so  thin  a  "loud  : 

Perhaps  the  breezes  that  can  fly 

Now  below  and  now  above, 
Have  snatched  aloft  the  lawny  shroud 

Of  Lady  fair — that  died  for  love. 
For    maids,    as    well   as    youths,    have 

perished 
From  fruitless  love  too  fondly  cherished. 
Nay,     treacherous     image !     leave     my 

mind — 
For  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

Hush  !  my  heedless  feet  from  under 
Slip  the  crumbling  hanks  for  ever: 

Like  echoes  to  a  distant  thunder. 
They  plunge  into  the  gentle  river. 

The  river-swans  have  heard  my  tread, 

And  startle  from  their  reedy  bed. 

0 beauteous  birds!  methinksye  measure 
Your    movements   to   some   heavenly 
tune  ! 


COLERIDGE 


6g 


0  beauteous  birds  !  'tis  such  a  pleasure 
To  see  you  move  beneath  the  moon, 

1  would  it  were  your  true  delight 
To  sleep  by  day  and  wake  all  night. 

I  know  the  place  where  Lewti  lies 
When  silent  night  has  closed  her  eyes  : 

It  is  a  breezy  jasmine-bower, 
The  nightingale  sings  o'er  her  head  : 

Voice  of  the  Night !  had  I  the  power 
That  leafy  labyrinth  to  thread. 
And   creep,    like   thee,    with   soundless 

tread, 
I  then  might  view  her  bosom  white 
Heaving  lovely  to  my  sight. 
As  these  two  swans  together  heave 
On  the  gently-swelling  wave. 

Oh  !  that  she  saw  me  in  a  dream, 
And  dreamt  that  I  had  died  for  care  ; 

All  pale  and  wasted  I  would  seem 
Yet  fair  withal,  as  spirits  are  ! 

I'd  die  indeed,  if  I  might  see 

Her  bosom  heave,  and  heave  for  me! 

Soothe,  gentle  image  !  soothe  my  mind  ! 

To-morrow  Lewti  may  be  kind. 

1794.     April  13,  1798. 

LA  FAYETTE 

As  when  far  off  the  warbled  strains  are 
heard 
That  soar  on  Morning's  wing  the  vales 

among  ; 
Within  his  cage  the  imprisoned  matin 
bird 
Swells  the  full  chorus  with  a  generous 
song  : 

He  bathes  no  pinion  in  the  dewy  light, 
No  Father's   J03-,  no  Lover's  bliss  he 

shares, 
Yet  still   the   rising   radiance  cheers 

Ids  sight — 
His  fellows'   freedom   soothes   the   cap- 
tive's cares  ! 

Thou,   FAYETTE  !   who  didst  wake  witli 
startling  voice 
Life's  better  sun  from  that  long  win 

try  night. 
Thus  in  thy  Country's  triumphs  shalt 
rejoice 
And  mock  with  raptures  high  the  dun- 
geon's might  : 

For  lo  !  the  morning  struggles  into  day. 
A.nd  Slavery's  spectres  shriek  ami  van- 
ish from  the  ray  ! 

j:h/,.     December  15.  1794. 


REFLECTIONS     ON    HAYING    LEFT 

A  PLACE  OF  RETIREMENT 

Sennoui  propriora. — hob. 

Low  was  our  pretty  Cot :  our  tallest  rose 
Peeped    at    the  chain  ber-wiudow.     We 

could  In  ar 
At  silent  noon,  and  eve.  and  early  morn. 
The  sea's  faint    murmur.     In    the  open 

air 
Our  myrtles  blossom'd  :  and  across   the 

porch 
Thick   jasmines   twined  :    the    little    land- 
scape round 
Was   green   and   woody,  and   refreshed 

the  eye. 
It   was   a   spot  which  you  miccht  aptly 

call 
The  Valley  of  Seclusion  !     Once  I  saw 
;  Hallowing  his  Sabbath-day  by  quietness) 
A  wealthy  son  of  commerce  saunter  by. 
Bvistowa's  citizen  :  methought.  it  calmed 
His  thir>t  of  idle  gold,   and  made    him 

muse 
With  wiser  feelings:   for  he  paused,  and 

looked 
With  a  pleased    sadness,  and  gazed  all 

around. 
Then  eyed  our  Cottage,  and  gazed  round 

again, 
And  sighed,  and  said,  it  was  a  Blessed 

Place. 
And  we  were  blessed.     Oft  with  patient 

ear 
Long-listening  to  the  viewless  sky-lark's 

note 
(Viewless,  or  haply  for  a  moment  seen 
Gleaming  on  sunny  wings)  in  whispered 

tones 
I've  said  to  my  beloved.   "Such,  sweet 

girl  I 
The  inobtrusive  song  of  Happiness, 
l   nearthly  minstrelsy  !    then  only  heard 
When  the  sold  seeks  to  hear;    when    all 

is  hushed. 
And  the  heart  listens  !  " 

But  the  time,  when  first 
From  that  low  dell,  steep  up  the  stony 

mount 
I  climbed  with  perilous  toil  and  reached 

the  top, 
Oh  !   wh.it    a    goodly    scene!     Here   the 

bleak   mount, 
The  bare  bleak  mountain  speckled  thin 

with  sheep  ; 

Cray  clouds,  that    shadowing  spot    the 

sunny  fields  ; 
And   river,  now  with  bushy  rocks  o'er 

browed. 


7° 


BRITISH    POETS 


Now  winding  bright  and  full,  with  nuked 
banks  : 

And  seats,  and  lawns,  the  abbey  and  the 
wood. 

And  cots,  and  hamlets,  and  faint  city- 
spire  : 

The  Channel  (here,  the  Islands  and  white 
sails, 

Dim  coasts,  and  cloud-like  hills  and 
shoreless  Ocean — 

It  seeni'd  like  Omnipresence!  God,  me- 
thought, 

Had  built  him  there  a  Temple :  the 
whole  World 

Seemed  imaged  in  its  vast  circumfer- 
ence : 

No  wish  profaned  my  overwhelmed  heart. 

Blest  hour  !     It  was  a  luxury, — to  be  ! 

Ah  !  quiet  dell !  dear  cot,  and  mount 
sublime  ! 

I  was  constrained  to  quit  you.  Was  it 
right, 

While  my  unnumbered  brethren  toiled 
and  bled. 

That  I  should  dream  away  the  entrusted 
hours 

On  rose-leaf  beds,  pampering  the  coward 
heart 

With  feelings  all  too  delicate  for  use? 

Sweet  is  the  tear  that  from  some  How- 
ard's eye 

Drops  on  the  cheek  of  one  he  lifts  from 
earth : 

And  lie  that  works  me  good  with  un- 
moved face, 

Does  it  but  half:  he  chills  me  while  he 
aids. 

My  benefactor,  not  my  brother  man  ! 

Yet  even  this,  this  coid  beneficence 

Praise,  praise  it,  O  my  Soul  !  oft  as  thou 
scann'st 

The  sluggard  Pity's  vision-weaving  tribe ! 

Who  sigh  for  wretchedness,  yet  shun 
the  wretched. 

Nursing  in  some  delicious  solitude 

Their  slothful  loves  and  dainty  sym- 
pathies ! 

I  therefore  go,  and  join  head,  heart,  and 
hand, 

Active  and  firm,  to  fight  the  bloodless 
fight 

Of  science,  freedom,  and  the  truth  in 
Christ. 

Yet  oft  when  after  honorable  toil 
Rests  the  tired  mind,  and  waking    loves 

to  dream, 
My  spirit  shall  revisit  thee,  dear  Cot ! 


Thy  jasmine  and   thy   window-peeping 

rose. 
And  myrtles  fearless  of  the  mild  sea-air. 
And  I    shall    sigh    fond    wishes — sweet 

abode ! 
Ah  ! — had  none  greater  !     And  that  all 

had  such  ! 
It  might  be  so— but  the  time  is  not  yet. 
Speed  it,  O  Father  !     Let  thy  Kingdom 

come  I  1795.     October,  1790. 

TIME  REAL  AND  IMAGINARY 

AN  ALLEGORY 

On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head, 

(I  knew    not  where,    but    'twas    some 
faery  place) 

Their  pinions,  ostrich-like,  for  sails  out- 
spread, 

Two  lovely  children  run  an  endless  race, 
A  sister  and  a  brother  ! 
.This  far  outstript  the  other; 

Yet  ever  runs  she  with  reverted  face. 

And   looks  and  listens  for  the  boy    be- 
hind : 
For  he,  alas  !  is  blind  ! 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  with  even  step  he 
passed, 

And  knows  not  whether  he  be  first  cv 
last.  ?K  .  .  1817. 

THIS  LIME-TREE  BOWER  MY 
PRISON 

ADDRESSED  TO  CHARLES  LAMB,  OF  THE 
INDIA  HOUSE,  LONDON 

In  the  June  of  1797  some  long-expected  friends 
paid  a  visit  to  the  author's  cottage  ;  and  on  the 
morning  of  their  arrival,  lie  met  with  an  acci- 
dent, which  disabled  him  from  walking  during 
the  whole  time  of  their  stay.  One  evening, 
when  they  had  left  him  for  a  few  hours,  he 
composed  the  following  lines  in  the  garden- 
bower.     (Coleridge.) 

WELL,  they  are  gone,  and  here  must  I 

remain , 
This  lime-tree  bovver  my  prison  !  I  have 

lost 
Beauties  and    feelings,   such   as   would 

have  been 
Most  sweet   to   my   remembrance   even 

when  age 

•Included  by  Coleridge  among  his  "  Juvenile 
Poems."  There  is  no  other  evidence  to  indicate 
at  what  date  it  was  written.  See.  however,  a  man- 
uscript note  of  1811  on  the  same  subject,  given 
in  Ahima  Poetae  at  the  beginning  of  Chapter 
VIII. 


COLERIDGE 


71 


Had    dimmed    mine  eyes   to   blindness  ! 

They,  meanwhile, 
Friends,  whom  I  never  more  may  meet 

again, 
On   springy    heath,    along    the   hill-top 

edge, 
Wander   in  gladness,  and    wind    down, 

perchance. 
To  that  still  roaring  dell,  of  which  I  told  : 
The   roaring   dell,  o'erwooded,   narrow, 

deep. 
And  only  speckled  by  the  mid-day   sun  : 
Where  its  slim  trunk  the  ash  from  rock 

to  rock 
Flings    arching    like    a     bridge  ; — that 

branchless  ash. 
Unsunned   and   damp,  whose   few   poor 

yellow  leaves 
Ne'er   tremble  in  the  gale,  vet   tremble 

still, 
Fanned  by  the  water-fall !  and  there  my 

friends 
Behold  the  dark  green  file  of  lcr.g  Link 

weeds. 
That  all  at  once  (a  most  fantastic  si»T.t!) 
Still  nod  and  drip  beneath  the  dripping 

edge 
Of  the  blue  clay-stone. 

Now,  my  friends  emerge 
Beneath   the    wide    wide    Heaven — and 

view  again 
The  many  steepled  tract  magnificent 
Of   hilly    fields  and   meadows,  and  the 

sea, 
With  some   fair   bark,    perhaps,    whose 

sails  light  up 
The    slip  of  smooth  clear  blue  betwixt 

two  Isles 
Of  purple  shadow !     Yes  !  they  wander 

on 
In   gladness  all  ;  but    thou,    methinks, 

most  glad. 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles  !  for  thou  hast 

pined 
And   hungered    after   Nature,    many   a 

year. 
In  the  great  City  pent,  winning  thy  way 
With  sad  yet  patient  soul,  through  evil 

and  pain 
And  strange  calamity  !     Ah  !  slowly  sink 
Behind  the  western  ridge,  thou  glorious 

Sun! 
Shine  in  the  slant  beams  of  the   sinking 

orb. 
Ye  purple  heath-flowers  !  richlier  burn, 

ye  clouds  ! 
Live   in    the    yellow    light,    ye    distant 

groves  ' 


And  kindle,  thou  blue  Ocean  !     So  my 

friend 
Struck  with  deep  joy  may   stand,  as  I 

have  stood, 
Silent  with  swimming  sense  ;  yea,  gazing 

round 
On  the  wide  landscape,  gaze  till  all  doth 

seem 
Less   gross   than   bodily  ;    and   of   such 

hues 
As  veil  the  Almighty  Spirit,   when  yet 

he  makes 
Spirits  perceive  his  presence. 

A  delight 
Comes    sudden  on  my  heart,  and  I  am 

glad 
As  I  myself   were   there !     Nor   in   this 

bower, 
This  little  lime-tree  bower,  have  I   not 

marked 
Much  that  has  soothed  me.  Pale  beneath 

the  blaze 
Hung   the   transparent    foliage  ;   and   1 

watched 
Some  broad  and  sunny  leaf,  and  loved  to 

see 
The  shadow  of  the  leaf  and  stem  above. 
Dappling  its  sunshine  !     And  that  wal- 
nut-tree 
Was  richly  tinged,  and  a  deep   radiance 

lay 
Full   on   the   ancient  ivy,  which  usurps 
Those    fronting    elms,   and    now,    with 

blackest  mass 
Makes  their  dark  branches  gleam  a  lighter 

hue 
Through  the  late  twilight  :  and  though 

now  the  bat 
Wheels    silent    by,  and  not  a    swallow 

twitters, 
Yet  still  the  solitary  humble-bee 
Sings  in  the  bean-flower!     Henceforth  I 

shall  know 
That  Nature  ne'er  deserts  the  wise  and 

pure  ; 
No  plot  so  narrow,  be  but  Nature  there. 
No    waste    so    vacant,    but    may    well 

employ 
Each   faculty   of   sense,   and    keep   the 

heart 
Awake  to  Love  and  Beauty  !  and  some- 
times 
Tis  well  to  be  bereft  of  promised  good, 
That  we  may  lift  the  soul,  and  contem- 
plate 
With    lively    joy   the   joys   we    cannot 

share. 
My    gentle-hearted    Charles !  when   the 
last  rook 


72 


BRITISH    POETS 


Beat  its  straight  path  along  the  dusky 

ail- 
Homewards,    I    blest    it!  deeming,    its 

black  wing 
(Now  a   dim    speck,    now   vanishing  in 

light) 
I  lad   cross'd    the    mighty   orb's   dilated 

glory, 
While  thou  stood'st  gazing;  or  when  all 

was  still, 
Flew  creek.ing  o'er  thy  head,  and  had  a 

charm 
For  thee,  my  gentle-hearted  Charles,  to 

whom 
No  sound    is  dissonant   which   tells   of 

Life.  1707.     1800. 

KUBLA  KHAN 

In  the  summer  of  the  year  1797,  the  Author, 
then  in  ill  health,  had  retired  to  a  lonely  farm- 
house between  Porlock  and  Linton,  on  the  Ex- 
moor  confines  of  Somerset  and  Devonshire.  In 
consequence  of  a  slight  indisposition,  an  anodyne 
had  been  prescribed,  from  the  effects  of  winch 
he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair  at  the  moment  that  he 
was  reading  the  following  sentence,  or  words  of 
the  sa'ne substance,  in  Purchas's  "  Pilgrimage"  : 
"  Here  the  Khan  Kubla  commanded  a  palace  to 
be  built,  and  a  stately  garden  thereunto.  And 
thus  ten  miles  of  fertile  ground  were  inclosed 
with  a  wall.''  The  Author  continued  for  about 
three  hours  in  a  profound  sleep,  at  least  of  the 
external  senses,  during  which  time  he  has  the 
most  vivid  confidence,  that  he  could  cot  have 
composed  less  than  from  two  to  three  hundred 
lines;  if  that  indeed  can  be  called  composition 
in  which  all  the  images  rose  up  before  him  as 
things,  with  a  parallel  production  of  the  corre- 
spondent expressions,  without  any  sensation  or 
consciousness  of  effort.  On  awaking  he  ap- 
peared to  himself  to  have  a  distinct  recollection 
of  the  whole,  and  taking  his  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines  that 
are  here  preserved.  At  this  moment  he  was  un- 
fortunately called  out  by  a  person  on  business 
from  Porlock.  ami  detained  by  him  above  an 
hour,  and  on  his  return  to  his  room,  found,  to  his 
no  small  surprise  and  mortification,  that  though 
he  still  retained  some  vague  and  dim  recollec- 
tion of  the  general  purport  of  the  vision,  yet, 
with  the  exception  of  some  eight  or  ten  scattered 
lines  and  images,  all  the  rest  hail  passed  away, 
like  the  images  on  the  surface  of  a  stream  into 
which  a  stone  has  been  cast,  but,  alas  ]  without 
the  aft  iv  restoration  of  the  latter. 

Then  all  the  charm 
Is  broker1— all  that  phantom-world  so  fair 
Vanishes,  end  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
An  I  each  mis-shapes  the  other.    Stay  awhile, 
Poor  youth  1  who  scarcely  dar'st  lift  up  thine 

eyes  - 
The  stream  will  soon  renew  its  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return  !     And  lo,  he  stavs, 
An  1  so, in  the  fragments  dim  of  lovelv  forms 
Come    trembling    back,    unite,   and'  now   once 

more 
The  p,,..l  becomes  a  mirror. 

(From  The  Picture  ;  or,  the  Lover's  Resolu- 
tion) 

Yet  from  the  still  surviving  recollections  in  his 


mind,  (he  Author  has  frequently  purposed  to 
finish  for  himself  what  had  been  originally,  as  it 
were,  given  to  him.  Aupior  aStov  do-to,  but  the 
to-morrowis  yet  Income,    (Colern/ijr's  nute,l8W.) 

IN  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph.  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With    walls   and   towers   were    girdled 

round  : 
And    here   were    gardens    bright   with 

sinuous  rills. 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bear- 
ing tree  ; 
And  here  were   forests  ancient  as   the 

hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 
But   oh  !    that    deep    romantic    chasm 

which  slanted 
Down  the  green   pill  athwart  a  cedarn 

cover  ! 
A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e"'er   beneath   a   waning   moon    was 

haunted 
By  woman  w&iling  for  her  demon -lover  ! 
And    from   this    chasm,    witli  ceaseless 

turmoil  seething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were 

breathing, 
A     mighty     fountain     momently     was 

forced  : 
Amid  whoseswifthalf-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding 

hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's 

flail : 
And  'mid   these  dancing  rocks  at  once 

and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five    miles    meandering   with   a   mazy 

motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river 

ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to 

man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from 

far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasuie 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves  ; 

Where     was     heard     the     mingled 
measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
Tt  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  1 


COLERIDGE 


73 


A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw  : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win 
me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 
And    all    who   heard   should   see   them 

there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  Beware  ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  lijm  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

1797.   18 1G. 

SONG  FROM  OSORIO 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  haar  the  spell, 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel  ! 
So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
With  thy  deep  long-lingering  knell. 

And  at  evening  evermore, 
In  a  Chapel  on  the  shore, 
Shall  the  Chaunters  sad  and  saintly, 
Yellosv  tapers  burning  faintly, 
Doleful  Masses  chaunt  for  thee, 
M  ise  rere  Domine  ! 

Hark!  the  cadence  dies  away 
On  the  quiet  moonlight  sea: 

The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say. 
Miserere  Domine!  1707.     1813. 

THE  RIME  OF  THE   ANCIENT 
MARINER  i 

IN    SEVEN    PARTS 

Facile  credo,  plures  esse  Natures  invisibles 
quam  visi biles  in  rerum  universitate.  Sed  horum 
omnium  familiam  quis  nobis  enarrabit?et  gra- 
dus  et  eognationes  et  discrimina  et  singulorum 
munera '(  Quid  agunt  ?  quae  loea  habitant? 
Harum  rerum  not  itiara  semper  ambivit  ingenium 
liumanum,  aunquam  attigit.  Juva't,  interea, 
non  diffiteor,  quandoque  in  animo,  tanquam  in 
tabula,  majoris  et  melioris  mundi  imaginem 
contemplari:  ni  mens assuef acta  hodiernse  vita' 
minutiis  se  contrahat  nimis,  et  tota  subsidat  in 


1  The  poem  is  here  given  in  the  text  of  1829 
which  is  Coleridge's  final  version,  the  resull  of 
several  revisions,  most  of  which  are  improve- 
ments ovei  lli'-  first  text  of  17'.)S.     Instead  of  the 


pusillas  cogitationes.  Sed  veritati  interea  invi- 
gilandum  est,  modusque  servandus,  ut  certa  ab 
incertis,  diem  a  nocte,  distinguamus.  T.  Burnet 
Arcliceol.  Phil.  p.  68. 

ARGUMENT  » 

How  a  Ship  having  passed  the  Line  was  driven 
by  storms  to  the  cold  Country  towards  the  South 
Pole  ;  and  how  from  thence  she  made  her  course 
to  the  tropical  Latitude  of  the  Great  Pacific 
Ocean  ;  and  of  the  strange  things  that  befell  ; 
ami  in  >vhat  manner  the  Ancyent  Marinere  came 
back  to  his  own  Country. 

Part  i 

2  It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 
And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

'■  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering 

eye, 
Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

The    Bridegroom's    doors     are     opened 

wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 

'•  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 

'•Hold    off!      unhand    me,   gray-beard 

loon  !  " 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

3  He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still. 

And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child  : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 


third  stanza,  for  instance,  the  original  text  has 
the  two  following  : 

But  still  he  holds  the  wedding-guest— 

"  There  was  a  Ship,"  quoth  he — 
"  Nay,  if  thou'st  got  a  laughsome  tale, 

Marinere  1  come  with  me." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 

Quoth  \\f.  "  There  was  a  Ship — " 
"  Now  get  thee  hence,  thou  gray-beard  Loon  1 

Or  my  Staff  shall  mak&  thee  skip." 

For  a  full  study  of  the  different  texts,  see 
Prof.  F.  H.  Sykes'  Select  Poems  of  Coleridge 
and  Wordsworth,  edited  from  Authors'  Editions, 
Toronto,  1S99.  On  the  origin  of  the  poem,  see 
Biographia  Literaria,  ('hap  XIV,  and  Words 
worth's  account  of  it,  quoted  and  discussed  in 
H.  1).  Traill's  Life  of  Cpleridgt .  pp.  47-50. 

1  In  the  editions  of  1798  and  1800  only. 

2  An  ancient  Mariner  meeteth  three  Gallants 
bidden   ton  wedding-feast,  ami   detaineth  one, 

j  This  and  the  following  notes,  except  those  in 
brackets,  are  Coleridge,s  running  Summary  of 
the  story,  first  printed  in  Sybilline  Leaves',  1817.] 

3  The  Wedding-Guesi  is  spell-bound  by  the 
'eye  of  the  old  seafaring  man,  and  constrained 
to  hear  his  tale. 


74 


BRITISH    POETS 


l"n,'  Wedding  Gluest  sal  on  a  stone  : 
He  cannot  choose  bul  hear  : 

\  nd  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright  eyed  Mariner, 

"  The    ship    was    cheered,    the    harbor 

cleared, 
Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill., 
Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

i  The  sim  came  up  upon  the  left, 
( >u1  of  tin'  sea  came  he  ! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  ami  higher  every  clay, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — " 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

2  The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she  ; 

Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy, 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Y'-t  In'  cannot  choose  but  hear  : 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

3  "  And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and 

he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  ma,«ts  and  dipping  prow, 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 
And  forward  bends  his  head, 
The    ship    drove    last,    loud    roared    the 

blast, 
And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And   now  there    came   both  mist   and 

snow. 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  : 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

Mariner  tells  how   the  ship  sailed  south- 
ward  with  a  good  wind  and  fair  weather,  till  it 
led  tin'  line. 
5   The    Wed  ling    finest    heareth    the    bridal 
music  ;  but  the  Mariner  continueth  his  tale. 

3  The  ship  drawn  by  a  storm  toward  the  south 
pole. 

4  The  land  of  ic<>.  anil  of  fearful  sounds,  where' 
no  living  thing  was  to  be  seen. 


And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken  — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around: 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and 

how  led. 
Like  voices  in  a  swound ! 

1  At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came  ; 

As  if  it  bad  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  bailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  fiew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through! 

2  And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  be- 

hind ; 
The  Albatross  did  follow. 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 
<  lame  to  the  mariner's  hollo  ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine  ; 

While  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke 

white, 
( Jlimmered  the  white  moon-shine." 

s  "God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 
From     the     fiends,     that    plague     thee 

thus!— 
Why    look'st    thou  so?"— "With    my 

cross- bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 

Part  II 

"  The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Stilt  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  be 

hind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
( 'ami-  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ! 

1  Till  a  great  sea  bird,  called  the  Ajoatross, 
came  through  the  snow-fog,  and  was  received 
with  great  joy  and  hospitality. 

2  And  lo  !  the  Albatross  proveth  a  bird  of  good 
omen,  and  followeth  the  ship  as  it  returned 
northward  through  fog  and  floating  ice. 

3  The  ancient  Mariner  inhospitably  killeth  the 
pious  bird  of  good  omen. 


COLERIDGE 


75 


1  Ami  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing, 
And  it  would  work  'em  woe  : 

For  all  averred.  I  had  killed  the  bird, 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow; 
Ah  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

2  Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head. 
The  glorious  Sun  uprist  : 

Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas   right,   said   they,   such   birds  to 

slay, 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

3  The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam 

flew, 
The  furrow  followed  free  ; 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 

4  Down  drop.t  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt 

down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea  ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Hun.  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day. 
We  stuclc,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

5  Water,  water,  everywhere, 
And  all  the  hoards  did  shrink  ; 
Water,  water,  everywhere 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue  and  white. 


1  His  shipmates  cry  out  against  the  ancient 
Rfarin$r,  Cor  killing  the  bird  of  good  luck. 

2  But  when  the  fogeleared  off,  they,  justify  the 

same,  and  thus  make  themselves  accomplices  in 
the  crime. 

8  The  fair  breeze  continues;  the  ship  enters 
the  Pacific  Ocean,  and  sails  northward,  even 
till  it  reaches  the  Line. 

4  The  ship  hal  h  been  suddenly  becalmed. 

B  And  the  Albatross  begins  to  be  avenged. 


1  And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And     every     tongue,      through     uttet 

drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

2  Ah  !  well  a-day  !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

Part  hi 

"There    passed    a  weary    time.     Each 

throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 
A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye  !— 

3  When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist  ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared  : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered, 

4  With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips 

baked, 
We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail  ; 
Through   utter    drought    all   dumb   we 

stood  ! 
I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood, 
And  cried,  A  sail  !  a  sail  ! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips 

baked , 
Agape  they  heard  me  call  • 

1  A  Spirit  hail  followed  them  ;  one  of  the  in 
visible  inhabitants  of  this  planet,  neither  de- 
parted  souls  nor  angels;  concerning  whom  the 
learned  Jew,  Josephus,  and  the  Platonic  Con- 
stantinopolitan,  Michael  Psellus,  may  be  con- 
sulted. They  are  very  numerous,  and  there  is 
uo  climate  or  element  without  one  or  more. 

2  The  shipmates,  in  their  sure  distress,  would 
fain  throw  the  whole  eruilt  on  the  ancient  Mari- 
ner: in  sign  whereof  they  hang  the  dead  sea- 
bird  round  his  neck. 

3  The  ancient  Mariner  beholdeth  a  sign  in  the 
element  afar  off. 

■'  At  its  nearer  approach,  it  seemeth  him  to  be 
a  ship:  and  at  a  dear  ransom  he  freeth  his 
speech  from  the  bonds  of  thirst. 


76 


ENGLISH  POETS 


J  Gramercv  !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking-  all. 

*'See!    see!'  (I   cried)    'she  tacks  no 

more  ! 
1 1  il  her  to  work  us  weal, 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel  ! ' 

The  western  wave  was  all  aflame. 
The  day  was  well-nigh  done  ! 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun  ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

3  And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with 

liars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  !   (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat 

loud )  « 

How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  giance  in  the 

Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres  V 

*  Are  those  her  ribs  though  which  the  Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  Death  ?  and  are  there  two? 
6  Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  ? 

6  Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold  : 

Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 

The  Night-mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 

Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

7  The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  ; 

'  The  game  is  done  !  I've  won  !  I've  won  ! ' 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 


*  A  flash  of  joy. 

'And  horror  follows.    For  can  it  be  a  ship  that 
comes  onward  without  wind  or  tide  ? 
8  It  seemeth  him  but  the  skeleton  of  a  ship. 

*  And  its  ribs  are  seen  as  bars  on  the  face  of 
the  setting  Sun. 

6  The  Spectre-Woman   and    her    Death-mate, 
and  no  other  on  board  the  skeleton-ship. 
6  Like  vessel,  like  crew  1 

*  Death  and  Life-in-Death  have  diced  for  the 
ship's  crew,  and  she  (the  latter)  winneth  the 
ancient  Mariner 


*The  Sun's  rim  dips  ;  the  stars  rush  out. 
At  one  stride  conies  the  dark  : 
With    far-heard    whisper,    o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

-  We  listened   and  looked  sideways  up! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The     steersman's      face     by    his    lamp 

gleamed  white  ; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 

3  One  after  one,  by  the  star -dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh. 

Each  turned   his  face   with  a  ghastly 

pang. 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

4  Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

5  The  souls  did  from   their  bodies  fly, — 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 

And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by. 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  I" — 

Part  iv 

6  "  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 
I  fear  thy  skinny  hand 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 
As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand.7 

I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown."  — 
8,,Fear  not,  fear   not,  thou   Wedding- 
Guest  I 
This  body  dropt  not  down. 

1  No  twilight  within    the  courts  of   the  Sur 

2  At  the  rising  of  the  Moon, 
8  One  after  another 

*  His  shipmates  drop  down  dead. 

6  But  Life-in-Death  begins  her  work  on  the 
ancient  Mariner. 

6  The  Wedding-Guest  feareth  that  a  Spirit  is 
talking  to  him. 

'  [For  the  last  two  lines  of  this  stanza,  I  am  in- 
debted  to  Mr.  Wordsworth.  It  was  on  a  delight- 
ful walk  from  Nether  Stowey  to  Dulverton,  with 
him  and  his  sister,  in  the  autumn  of  1797,  that 
this  poem  was  planned,  and  in  part  composed. 
(Note  of  Coleridge,  first  printed  in  Sibylline 
Leaves,  1817)  ] 

8  But  the  ancient  Mariner  assureth  him  of  his 
bodily  life,  and  proceedeth  to  relate  his  horrible 
penance. 


COLERIDGE 


77 


Alone,  alone,  ali,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

1  The  many  men,  so  beautiful  ! 
And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 

And  a  thousand    thousand  slimy   things 
Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  I. 

2  I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away  : 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray  ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gnsht. 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and   kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and 

the  sky 
Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

3  The   cold    sweat    melted    from    their 

limbs. 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  : 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oli  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Seven   days,    seven   nights,    I  saw  that 

curse, 
And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

4  The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide  : 

Softly  she  was  going  up. 

And  a  star  or  two  beside — 


'  He  despiseth  the  creatures  of  the  calm. 
'And  envieth   that  they  should  live,   and  so 
in..ny  lie  dead. 

3  But  the  curse  liveth  fur  him  in  the  eye  of  the 
dead  men. 

4  In  his  loneliness  and  fixedness  heyearnetb  to- 
wards tin-  journeying  Moon,  and  the  stars  that 
si  ill  sojourn,  yet  si  ill  move  onward  ;  and  every- 
where the  blue  sky  belongs  to  them,  and  is  theu 
appointed  rest,  ami  their  native  country  and 
their  own  natural  homes,  which  they  enter  un- 
announced, as  lords  that  an rtainly  expected, 

and  vet  there  is  a  silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 


Her  beams  bemocked  the   sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 

But  where  the  slap's  huge  shadow  lay, 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

1  Be3rond  the  shadow  of  the  ship-, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  slruing  white. 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

1  watched  their  rich  attire  : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 
They  coiled  and  swain  ;  and  every  track 
Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

2  O  happy  livings  things  !  no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare: 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart 

3  And  1  blessed  them  unaware  : 
Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

4  The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray  ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 

The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

Part  v 

"  Oh  sleep!  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  .Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven. 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

5  The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 
That  had  so  long  remained. 

I  dreamt  that  they  w^'e  filled  with  dew  ; 
And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 

My  lips  were   wet.  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank  : 
Sure  1  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  5 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

J  By  the  light  of  the  Moon  he  beholdeth  God's 

creat  urt-s  i>{  t he  great  calm. 

2  Their  beauty  and  tla-ir  happiness, 

>  lie  iii.'s-«'t  h  i  In 'in  in  his  heart. 

4  The  spell  begins  to  break. 

8  By  grace  of   the    holy  Mother,   the  ancieni 
Mariner  is  refreshed  with  rain. 


7« 


BRITISH    I'OELS 


1  And  scion  1  beard  a  roaring  wind; 
It  did  not  oome  anear  : 

But   with    its   sound  it   shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  hurst  into  life  ! 
And  a  Imndred  fire-flags  sheen, 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about  1 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the   coming   wind   did   roar  more 

1>  md, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge; 
And    I  be   rain   poured   down    from  one 

black  cloud  ; 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side  : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

2  The    loud    wind     never   reached    the 

ship, 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

The}*  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  up- 
rose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved 

on  ; 
Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew  ; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do  ; 
They   raised    their    limbs    like    lifeless 

tools — ■ 
We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  ktiee  to  knee  : 
The  body  and  1  pulled  at  one  rope 
But  he  said  nought  to  me."— 

8  "  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  !  "— 
"  Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 

*  He  heareth  sounds  and  seeth  strange  sights 
and  commotions  in  the  sky  and  the  element. 

2  The   bodies  of  the   ship's  crew  are   inspired, 
and  the  ship  moves  im  ; 

I  not  by  the  souls  of  the  men,  nor  by 
demons  of  earth  or  middle  air,  but  by  a  blessed 
tr  i  ip  of  an?elic  spirits,  sent  down  by  the  invo- 
cation of  the  guardian  saint. 


'Twas  not  those  souls  that  tied   in  pain 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest  : 

For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their 

arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their 

mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun  : 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing  ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  ail 
With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singetha  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe^: 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

1  Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  spirit  slid  :  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  lixed  her  to  the  ocean  : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  lengt 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound  : 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

1  The  lonesome  Spirit  from  the  south-pole 
carries  on  the  ship  as  fir  as  the  Line,  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  angelic  troop,  but  still  requireth 
vengeance. 


COLERIDGE 


79 


1  How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare  ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

'  Is  it  he  ? '  quoth  one,  '  Is  this  the  man  ? 
By  him  who  died   on  cross. 
With  his  cruel  bow  lie  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  Albatross. 

The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew  : 

Quoth    he,    '  The    man    hath    penance 

done, 
And  penance  more  will  do.' 

Part  vi 

first  VOICE 

"  '  But  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? 

SECOND  VOICE 

'  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go  ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see !  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.' 

FIRST  VOICE 

a  '  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ?  ' 

SECOND  VOICE 

'  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

'  The  Polar  Spirit's  fellow-demons,  the  invis- 
ible inhabitants  of  the  element,  take  part  in  his 
wrong  ;  and  two  of  them  relate  one  to  the  other, 
that  penance  long  and  heavy  for  the  ancient 
Mariner  hath  been  accorded  to  the  Polar  Spirit, 
who  returneth  southward. 

2  The  Mariner  hath  been  cast  into  a  trance; 
(or  the  angelic  power  causeth  the  vessel  to 
drive  northward  faster  than  human  life  could 
endure. 


Fly,  brother,  fly  !  more  high,  more  high  ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated  : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 

1  I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was 

high, 
The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter  : 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they 

died, 
Had  never  passed  away  : 

1  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

2  And  now  this  spell  was  snapt :  once 

more 
I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 
And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And   having  once  turned  round   walks 

on, 
And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 
Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too  : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

3  Oh  !  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 
The  light-house  top  I  see  ? 

Is  this  the  hill  ?  is  this  the  kirk  ? 
Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 


•The  supernatural  motion  is  retarded;    the 
Mariner  awakes,  and  his  penance  begins  anew. 

2  The  curse  is  finally  expiated. 

3  And  the  ancient  Mariner  beholdeth  his  nativa 
country. 


8o 


BRITISH    POETS 


We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor-bar, 

And  1  with  subs  did  pray  — 
•  O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  ahvay.' 

The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
A  n.l  the  shadow  of  t he  Moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock  : 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  sdentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 

1  Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colors  came. 

2  A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were  : 

I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
Oh,  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  ! 

Each  corse  lay  fiat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand  : 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 
The}'  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice  ;  but  oh  !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  clash  of  oars, 
I  beard  the  Pilot's  cheer  ; 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  Heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice  : 

It  is  the  Hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 

1  The  angelic  spirits  leave  the  dead  bodies, 
1  And  appear  in  their  own  forms  of  light. 


Part  vu 

1  "  This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat    neared  :    I  heard  them 

talk, 
'  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where   are   those  lights  so  many  and 

fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now  ? ' 

2  '  Strange,  by  my  faith  !  '    the  Hermit 

said — 
'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer  ! 
The  planks  look  warped  !   and   see  those 

sails, 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere  ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along  ; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she- wolf's  young.' 

'  Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look  ' — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
'  I  am  a-feared.' — '  Push  on,  push  on  ! ' 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred  ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

8  Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread  : 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay  ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

4  Stunned  by   that   loud  and    dreadful 

sound, 
Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

1  The  Hermit  of  the  Wood, 

8  Approacheth  the  ship  with  wonder. 

3  The  ship  suddenly  sinketh. 

4  The  ancient  Mariner  is   saved  in  the  Pilot's 
boat. 


COLERIDGE 


81 


Like  one    that    hath    been  seven    days 

drowned 
Mv  body  lay  afloat ; 
But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 
Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round  ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit  ; 
The  Holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars  :  The  Pilot's  boy 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  wrent  to  and  fro. 

'  Ha  !  ha  ! '  quoth  he,  '  full  plain  I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 
The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

1  '  O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  !' 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 

'  Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  '  I  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou?  ' 

Forthwith    this     frame     of    mine    was 

wrenched 
With  a  woful  agony, 
Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale  ; 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 

2  Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns  : 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me  : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door  ! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there  : 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  : 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 
Which  biddetli  me  to  prayer  ! 

1  The  ancient  Mariner  earnestly  entreateth  the 
Hermit  to  shrieve  him  ;  and  the  penance  of  life 
falls  on  him. 

1  And  ever  and  anon  throughout  his  future  life 
an  agony  eonstraineth  him  to  travel  from  laud 
to  land, 


O  Wedding-Guest  !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  : 
So  lonely,  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 
With  a  goodly  company  !— 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray. 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

>  Farewell,  farewell  !  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest  ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small  ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone  ;  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He    went     like    one    that    hath    been 

stunned, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

1797-179S.     1798. 

CHRIST  ABEL 

The  first  part  of  the  following  poem  was  writ 
ten  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
ninety-seven,  at  Stowey,  in  the  county  of  Somer- 
set. The  second  part,  after  my  return  from 
Germany,  in  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hun- 
dred, at  Keswick,  Cumberland.  Since  the  latter 
date,  my  poetic  powers  have  been,  till  very 
lately,  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation.  But 
as,  in  my  very  first  conception  of  the  tale, 
I  had  the  whole  present  to  my  mind,  with  the 
wholeness,  no  less  than  with  the  liveliness  of  a  vis- 
ion ;  I  trust  that  I  shall  be  able  to  embody  in 
verse  the  three  parts  yet  to  come,  in  the  course 
of  the  present  year.  .  .  . 

I  have  onlv  to  add,  that  the  metre  of  the 
Christabel  is' not,  properly  speaking,  irregular, 
though  it  may  seem  so  from  its  being  founded 
on  a  new  principle :  namely,  that  of  counting 
in  each  line  the  accents,  not  the  syllables. 
Though  the  latter  may  vary  from  seven  to 
twelve,  yet  in  each  line  the  accents  will  be  found 


1  And  to  teach,  by  his  own  example,  love  and 
reverence  to  all  things  that  God  made  and 
loveth. 


82 


BRITISH    POETS 


tn  be  only  four.  Nevertheless  this  occasional 
variation  in  number  of  syllables  is  not  intro- 
duced wantonly,  or  for  the  mere  ends  of  con- 
venience, but  in  correspondence  with  some  tran- 
sition in  the  nature  of  the  imagery  or  passion. 
(.From  Coleridge's  Preface  to  the  first  edition.) 

PART  THE   FIRST 

Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle 
clock. 

And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crow- 
ing cock, 

Tu— whit ! Tu— whoo  ! 

And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock, 

How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich. 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff,  which 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

Maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters,   and   twelve   for 

the  hour ; 
Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 
Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud  ; 
Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray  ; 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May. 
And   the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this 
way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 

"What  makes  her  in  the  woods  so  late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  ? 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low, 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak 
But  moss  and  rarest  misletoe  : 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenby, 
The  lovely  lady,  ChrLstahel ! 
It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 
But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. — 
On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 
Of  the   huge,    broad-breasted,   old  oak 
tree. 


The  night  is  chill  ;  the  forest  bare  ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  linglet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at 
the  sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 
Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 
That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone  : 
The    neck   that   made    the   white   robe 

wan, 
Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare  ; 
Her  bine-veined  feet  unsandal'd  were, 
And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 
I  guess,  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 
A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 
Beautiful  exceedingly  ! 

Mary  mother,  save  me  now  ! 

(Said  Christabel,)  And  who  art  thou? 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet, 
And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet : — 
Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 
I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness  : 
Stretch   forth  thy  hand,   and  have  no 

fear  ! 
Said  Christabel,  How  earnest  thou  here  ? 
And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and 

sweet, 
Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet : 

My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line, 

And  my  name  is  Geraldine  : 

Five  warriors   seized  me  yestermorn, 

Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  : 

They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and 

fright, 
And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 
The  palfrejr  was  as  fleet  as  wind, 
And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 
They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds  were 

white  : 
And  once  we  crossed  the  shade  of  night. 
As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 
I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be  ; 
Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 


COLERIDGE 


83 


(For  I  have  lain  entranced  I  wis) 

Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five. 

Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 

A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 

Some    muttered    words    his    comrades 

spoke  : 
He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak  ; 
He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste  ; 
Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell — 
I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past, 
Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand  (thus  ended  she), 
And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee. 

Then    Christabel     stretched    forth   her 

hand, 
And  comforted  fair  Geraldine  : 
O  well,  bright  dame  !  may  you  command 
The  service  of  Sir  Leoline  ; 
And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 
Will  he   send  forth  and  friends  withal 
To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free 
Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall. 

She    rose :    and   forth  with  steps  they 

passed 
That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 
Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest, 
And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel : 
All  our  household  are  at  rest 
The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell ; 
Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health, 
And  may  not  well  awakened  be, 
But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth, 
And  I  beseech  your  courtesy, 
This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me. 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  wTell ; 

A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate  ; 

The  gate   that  was   ironed   within   and 

without, 
Where  an    army  in    battle  array  had 

marched  out. 
The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain. 
And  Christabel  with  might  and  main 
Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight. 
Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate  : 
Then  the  lady  rose  again, 
And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 
They  crossed  the  court ;  right  glad  they 

were. 
And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 
To  the  lady  by  her  side, 
Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 
Who   hath   rescued  thee  from  thy  dis- 
tress I 


Alas,  alas  !  said  Geraldine, 
I  cannot  speak  for  weariness. 
So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 
They  crossed  the  court :  right  glad  they 
were. 

Outside  her  kennel,  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake, 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make  ! 
And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 
Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell 
Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch: 
For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still, 

Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will  ! 

The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were 

dying, 
Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying; 
But  when  the  lady  passed,  there  came 
A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame  ; 
And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye, 
And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 
Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline 

tall, 
Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the 

wall. 
O  softly  tread,  said  Christabel, 
My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well. 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare, 
And  jealous  of  the  listening  air 
They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom, 
And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's  room, 
As  still  as  death,  with  stifled  breath  ! 
And    now   have   reached   her  chamber 

door ; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 
And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 
But  they  without  its  light  can  see 
The  chamber  carved  so  curiously. 
Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet, 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain, 
For  a  lady's  chamber  meet ; 
The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 
Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 

The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim; 
But  Christabel  the  lamp'will  trim. 
She  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  made  it 

bright, 
And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 
While  Geraldine.  in  wretched  plight, 
Sank  do%vn  upon  the  floor  below. 


84 


BRITISH    POETS 


0  weary  lady.  Geraldine, 

1  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine  ! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers  ; 

My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers. 

And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn  ? 
Christabel  answered — Woe  is  rue  ! 
She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  horn. 
1  have  heard  the  gray-haired  friar  tell 
How  on  her  death-bed  she  did  say. 
That  she  should  hear  the  castle-hell 
Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding-day. 

0  mother  dear !  that  thou  wert  here  ! 

1  would,  said  Geraldine,  she  were  ! 

But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she — 
"Off,    wandering    mother  I    Peak    and 

pine  ! 
I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee." 
Alas  !  what  ails  poor  Geraldine  ? 
Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye  ? 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy  ? 
And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she, 
"Off,  woman,  off!  this  hour  is  mine — 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be, 
Oil',  woman,  off  !  'tis  given  to  me.'' 

Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side, 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue— 
"  Alas  !  "  said  she,  "  this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear  lady  !  it  hath  wildered  you  !  " 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 
And  faintly  said,  "  'tis  over  now  !  " 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank: 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  bright, 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank, 
The  lofty  lady  stood  upright  : 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see, 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 

"  All  they  who  live  in  the  upper  sky, 

Do  love  3'ou,  holy  Christabel  1 

And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 

And  for  the  good  which  me  befel, 

Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try. 

Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 

But  now  unrobe  yourself;  for  I 

Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie." 

Quoth  Christabel,  So  let  it  be  ! 
And  as  ih'>  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro. 


That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close  ; 
So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose, 
And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed, 
And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud. 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breasi  : 
I  lor  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest, 
Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 
Behold !    her      bosom      and     half      hei 

side 

A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell  ! 

O  shield  her  I  shield  sweet  Christabel  ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs  ; 
Ah  !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers  ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay, 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay  ; 
Then  suddenly,  as  one  defied, 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  Maiden's  side  ! — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took, 

Ah  wel-a-day  ! 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 
These  words  did  say  : 
"  In    the   touch    of    this    bosom    there 

worketh  a  spell, 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christa- 
bel ! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know 

to-morrow. 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my 
sorrow ; 
But  vainly  thou  warrest, 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare, 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard'st  a  low  moaning, 
And  found'st  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly 

fair ; 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee  in 

love  and  in  charity. 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the 
damp  air." 

THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART  THE   FIRST 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 
Amid  the  jagged  shadows 
Of  mossy  leafless  boughs, 
Kneeling  in  the  moonlight, 
To  make  her  gentle  vows  ; 


COLERIDGE 


8  c 


Her  slender  palms  together  prest, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — ■ 
Her  face,  oh  call  it  fair  not  pale, 
And  both    blue  eyes  more  bright  than 

clear, 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

With  open  eyes  (ah  woe  is  me  !) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully, 
Fearfully  dreaming,  yet,  I  wis, 
Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is — 
O  sorrow  and  shame  !     Can  this  be  she. 
The    lady,    who   knelt  at  the    old  oak 

tree? 
And  lo  !  the  worker  of  these  harms, 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms, 
Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild, 
As  a  mother  with  her  child. 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 
O  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 
O  Geraldine  !  one  hour  was  thine — 
Thou'st    had    thy   will !     By  tairn  and 

rill, 
The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still, 
But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 
From  cliff  and   tower,   tu — whoo  !    tu — 

whoo  ! 
Tu — whoo  !  tu — whoo  !  from   wood  and 

fell! 

And  see  !  the  lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance  ; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;    the  smooth  thin 

lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes  !  and  tears  she  sheds — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light ! 

Yea,    she    doth    smile,    and    she    doth 

weep, 
Like  a  youthful  hermitess, 
Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 
Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 
And,  if  she  move  unquietly, 
Perchance,  'tis  but  the  blood  so  free 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubt,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 
What  if  her  guardian  spirit  'twere, 
What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near? 
But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 
That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call : 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all  1 

1797.     1816. 


PART  THE  SECOND 

Each  matin  bell,  the  Baron  saith, 
Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death. 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  first  said, 
When  he  rose  and  found  his  lady  dead ' 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  will  say 
Many  a  morn  to  his  dying  day  ! 

And  hence  the  custom  and  law  began 
That  still  at  dawn  the  sacristan, 
Who  duly  pulls  the  heavy  bell, 
Five  and  forty  beads  must  tell 
Between  each  stroke — a  warning  knell. 
Which  not  a  soul  can  choose  but  hear 
From  Bratha  Head  to  Wyndermere. 

Saith  Bracy  the  bard,  So  let  it  knell ! 
And  let  the  drowsy  sacristan 
Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can  ! 
There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween, 
As  well  fill  up  the  space  between. 
In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch's  Lair, 
And  Dungeon-ghyll  so  foully  rent, 
With  ropes  of  rock  and  bells  of  air 
Three  sinful  sextons'  ghosts  are  pent, 
Who  all  give  back,  one  after  t'other, 
The  death-note  to  their  living  brother  ; 
And  oft  too,  by  the  knell  offended, 
Just  as  their  one  !  two  !  three  !   is  ended 
The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 
With  a  merry  peal  from  Borrowdale. 

The  air  is  still  !  through  mist  and  cloud 
That  merry  peal  comes  ringing  loud  ; 
And  Geraldine  shakes  off  her  dread, 
And  rises  lightly  from  the  bed  ; 
Puts  on  her  silken  vestments  white, 
And  tricks  her  hair  in  lovely  plight, 
And  nothing  doubting  of  her  spell 
Awakens  the  lady  Christabel. 
"  Sleep  you,  sweet  lady  Christabel  ? 
I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well." 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied 
The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side— • 
O  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 
Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak  tree  ! 
Nay,  fairer  yet !   and  yet  more  fair  ! 
For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep 
Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep  ! 
And  while  she  spake,  her  looks,  her  air, 
Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare, 
That  (so  it  seemed)  her  girded  vests 
Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving  breasts. 
"Sure  I  have  sinn'd  ! "  said  Christabel, 
"  Now  heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well !  " 
And  in  long  faltering  tones,  yet  sweel 
Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet 


86 


BRITISH  POETS 


"With  such  perplexity  <>f  mind 
As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

S,.  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly  arrayed 
Her  maiden  limbs,  and  having  prayed 
That  He,  who  on  the  cross  did  groan, 
Might  wash  away  her  sins  unknown, 
She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire.  Sir  Leoline. 

The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady  tall 
Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall, 
An.l  pacing  on  through  page  and  groom, 
Enter  the  Baron's  presence-room. 

The  Baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 
His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast, 
With  cheerful  wonder  in  his  eyes 
The  lady  Geraldine  espies, 
And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same, 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame  ! 

But  when  he  heard  the  lady's  tale, 
And  when  she  told  her  father's  name, 
Why  waxed  Sir  Leoline  so  pale, 
Murmuring  o'er  the  name  again, 
Lord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  ? 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 
But    whispering    tongues    can     poison 

truth  ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 
And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 
Each  spa  Ice  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother  : 
They  parted — ne'er  to  meet  again  ! 
Butnever  either  found  another 
To  free   the   hollow   heart    from    pain- 
ing— 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 
Shall  wholly  do  away.  I  ween, 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Sir  Leoline,  a  moment's  space, 
Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel's  face  ; 
And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Tryermaine 
Came  back  upon  his  heart  again. 

O  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  age, 
His  noble  heart  swelled  high  with  rage  ; 
He  swore  by  tin-  wounds  in  Jesu's  side 
He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide, 


With  trump  and  solemn  heraldry, 
That  they,  who  thus  had   wronged  the 

dame 
Were  base  as  spi>  ted  infamy  ! 
"  And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same, 
My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week, 
And  let  the  recreant  traitors  seek 
My  tourney  court — that  there  and  then 
I  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 
From  the  bodies  and   forms  of  men  ! " 
He  spake  :  his  eye  in  lightning  rolls  ! 
For  the  lady  was  ruthlessly  seized  ;  and 

he  kenned 
In  the  beautiful   lady  the   child  of  his 

friend  ! 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  his  face, 

And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 

Fair  Geraldine,  who  met  the  embrace, 

Frolonging  it  with  joyous  look. 

Which  when  she  viewed,  a  vision  fell 

Upon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 

The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain  ! 

She    shrunk  and  shuddered,   and  saw 

again — 
(Ah,  woe  is  me  !    Was  it  for  thee, 
Thou  gentle  maid  1  such  sights   to  see?) 
Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old, 
Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 
And  drew  in  her  breath  with   a  hissing 

sound : 
Whereat    the     Knight    turned    wildly 

round, 
And  nothing  saw,   but  his  own   sweet 

maid 
With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  that  prayed. 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  passed   away, 
And  in  its  stead  that  vision  blest, 
Which  comforted  her  after-rest, 
While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay, 
Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast, 
And  on  her  lips  and  o'er  her  eyes 
Spread  smiles  like  light ! 

With  new  surprise, 
"  What  ails  then  my  beloved  child  ?  " 
The  Baron  said. — His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer,  ';  All  will  yet  be  well !  'f 
I  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else  :  so  mighty  was  the  spell. 

Yet  he,  who  saw  this  Geraldine, 
Had  deemed  her  sure  a  thing  divine. 
Such     sorrow     with    such    grace     she 

blended, 
As  if  she  feared  she  had  offended 
Sweet  Christabel,  that  gentle  maid  ! 
And  with  such  lowly  tones  she  prayed 
She  might  be  sent  without  delay 


COLERIDGE 


87 


Home  to  her  father's  mansion. 

"Nay! 
Nay,  by  my  soul !  "  said  Leoline. 
"  Ho  !  Bracy  the    bard,   the    charge  be 

thine ! 
Go  thou,  with  music  sweet  and  loud, 
And    take   two   steeds   with   trappings 

proud, 
And  take  the  youth  whom  thou  lov'st  best 
To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy  song, 
And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest, 
And  over  the  mountains  haste  along, 
Lest  wandering  folk,  that  are  abroad, 
Detain  you  on  the  valley  road. 

"  And  when  he  has  crossed  the  Irthing 

flood, 
My  merry  bard  !  he  hastes,  he  hastes 
Up  Knorren  Moor,  through    Halegarth 

Wood, 
And  reaches  soon  that  castle  good 
Which  stands  and  threatens  Scotland's 

wastes. 
Bard  Bracy  !    bard  Bracy  !  your  horses 

are  fleet, 
Ye  must  ride  up  the  hall,  your  music  so 

sweet, 
More  loud  than  your  horses'  echoing  feet ! 
And  loud  and  loud  to  Lord  Roland  call, 
Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale  hall ! 
Thy  beautiful  daughter  is  safe  and  free — 
Sir  Leoline  greets  thee  thus  through  me. 
He  bids  thee  come  without  delay 
With  all  thy  numerous  array  ; 
And  take  thy  lovely  daughter  home  : 
And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the  way 
With  all  his  numerous  array 
White  with  their  panting  palfreys'  foam  : 
And,  by  mine  honor  !  I  will  say, 
That  I  repent  me  of  the  day 
When  I  spake  words  of  fierce  disdain 
To  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  ! — 
— For  since  that  evil  hour  hath  flown, 
Many  a  summer's  sun  hath  shone  ; 
Yet  ne'er  found  I  a  friend  again 
Like  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine." 

The  lady  fell,  and  clasped  his  knees,    • 
Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o'erflowing  ; 
And  Bracy  replied,  with  faltering  voice, 
His  gracious  hail  on  all  bestowing  ; 
"Thy  words,  thou  sire  of  Christahel, 
Are  sweeter  than  my  harp  can  tell ; 
Yet  might  I  gain  a  boon  of  thee, 
This  day  my  journey  should  not  be, 
So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to  me  : 
Tliat  I  had  vowed  with  music  loud 
To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  unblest, 
Warn'd  by  a  vision  in  my  rest! 


For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  that  dove, 

That  gentle  bird,  whom  thou  dost  love, 

And    call'st     by    thy    own    daughter's 

name — 
Sir  Leoline  !  I  saw  the  same, 
Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful  moan, 
Among  the  green   herbs   in   the   forest 

alone. 
Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I  heard, 
I  wonder'd  what  might  ail  the  bird  ; 
For  nothing  near  it  could  I  see, 
Save  the  grass  and  green  herbs  under- 
neath the  old  tree. 

"  And  in  my  dream,  methought,  I  went 
To  search  out  what  might  there  be  found  ; 
And  what  the  sweet  bird's  trouble  meant, 
That  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the  ground. 
I  went  and  peered,  and  could  descry 
No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry  ; 
But  yet  for  her  dear  lady's  sake 
I  stooped,  methought,  the  dove  to  take, 
When  lo  !  I  saw  a  bright  green  snake 
Coiled  around  its  wings  and  neck. 
Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it  couched, 
Close  by  the  dove's  its  head  it  crouched : 
And  with  the  dove  it  heaves  and  stirs, 
Swelling  its  neck  as  she  swelled  hers  ! 
I  woke  ;  it  was  the  midnight  hour, 
The  clock  was  echoing  in  the  tower  ; 
But  though  my  slumber  was  gone  by, 
This  dream  it  would  not  pass  away — 
It  seems  to  live  upon  my  eye  ! 
And  thence  I  vowed   this  self-same  day 
With  music  strong  and  saintly  sung 
To  wander  through  the  forest  bare, 
Lest  aught  unholy  loiter  there." 

Thus  Bracy  said  :  the  Baron,  the  while, 
Half-listening  heard  him  with  a  smile  ; 
Then  turned  to  Lady  Geraldine, 
His  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and  love  ; 
And  said  in  courtly  accents  fine, 
"Sweet  maid,  Lord  Roland's  beauteous 

dove, 
With   arms  more   strong   than  harp  of 

song, 
Thy  sire  and  I  will  crush  the  snake  !  " 
He  kissed  her  forehead  as  he  spake, 
And  Geraldine  in  maiden  wise 
Casting  down  her  large  bi'ight  eyes, 
With  blushing  cheek  and  courtesy  fine 
She  turned  her  from  Sir  Leoline  ; 
Softly  gathering  up  her  train, 
That  o'er  her  right  arm  fell  again  ; 
And  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest, 
And  couched  her  head  upon  her  breast, 

And  looked  askance  at  Christabel 

Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well  I 


88 


BRITISH    POETS 


\  -    ike's  small  eye  Minks  dull  and  shy. 
And  the  lady's  eves  they  shrunk  in  her 

head, 
Each  shrunk  up  to  a  serpent's  ej  e, 
And  with  somewhat  of  malice,  and  more 

of  dread, 
At  Christabel  she  look'd  askance  ! — 
One  moment — and  the  sight  was  fled  ! 
But  Christabel  in  dizzy  trance 
Stumbling  on  the  unsteady  ground 
Shuddered  aloud,  with  a  hissing  sound  ; 
And  Geraldine  again  turned  round, 
And  like  a  thing,  that  sought  relief, 
Full  of  wonder  and  full  of  grief, 
She  rolled  her  large  bright  eyes  divine 
Wildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

The  maid,  alas  !  her  thoughts  are  gone, 

She  nothing  sees — no  sight  but  one  ! 

The  maid,  devoid  of  guile  and  sin, 

I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise, 

So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 

That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyes, 

That  all  her  features  were  resigned 

To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind  : 

And  passively  did  imitate 

That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate  ! 

And  thus  she  stood,  in  dizzy  trance, 

Still  picturing  that  look  askance 

With  forced  unconscious  sympathy 

Full  before  her  father's  view 

As  far  as  such  a  look  could  be 
In  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue  ! 

And  when  the  trance  was  o'er,  the  maid 
Paused  awhile,  and  inly  prayed  : 
Then  falling  at  the  Baron's  feet, 
••  By  my  mother's  soul  do  I  entreat 
That  thou  this  woman  send  away  !  " 
She  said  :  and  more  she  could  not  say  : 
For  what  she  knew  she  could  not  tell, 
O'er  mastered  by  the  mighty  spell. 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  wild. 
Sir  Leoline?     Thy  only  child 
Lies  at  thy  feet,  thy  joy.  thy  pride, 
So  fair,  so  innocent,  so  mild  ; 
The  same,  for  whom  thy  lady  died  ! 
O   by  the  pangs  of  her  dear  mother, 
Think  thou  no  evil  of  thy  child  ! 
For  her,  and  thee,  and  for  no  other, 
She  prayed  the  moment  ere  she  died  : 
Prayed  that  the  babe  for  whom  she  died 
Might   prove   her    dear   lord's  joy    and 
pride  ! 
That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs  beguiled, 

Sir  Leoline  ! 
And    wouldst    thou   wrong   thy    only 
child. 

Her  child  and  thine? 


Within  the  Baron's  heart  and  brain 
If  thoughts,  like  these,  had  any  share, 
They  only  swelled  his  rage  and  pain. 
And  did  but  work  confusion  there. 
His  heart  was  cleft  with  pain  and  rage. 
His  cheeks  they  quivered,  his  eyes  were 

wild, 
Dishonor'd  thus  in  his  old  age  ; 
Dishonor'd  by  his  only  child, 
And  all  his  hospitality 
To  the  insulted  daughter  of  his  friend 
By  more  than  woman's  jealousy 
Brought  thus  to  a  disgraceful  end — 
He  rolled  his  eye  with  stern  regard 
Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  bard. 
And  said  in  tones  abrupt,  austere — 
"  Why,  Bracy  !  dost  tnou  loiter  here? 
I  bade  thee  hence  !  "     The  bard  obeyed  ; 
And  turning  from  his  own  sweet  maid. 
The  aged  knight,  Sir  Leoline, 
Led  forth  the  lady  Geraldine  ! 

1800.     1816. 

THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART  THE  SECOND 

A  little  child,  a  limber  elf, 

Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 

A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeks, 

That  always  finds,  and  never  seeks, 

Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 

As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  light ; 

And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick  and  fast 

Upon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 

Must  needs  express  his  love's  excess 

With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 

Perhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  together 

Thoughts  so  all  unlike  each  other  ; 

To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm, 

To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm. 

Perhaps  'tis  tender  too  and  pretty 

At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 

A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pit}'. 

And  what,  if  in  a  world  of  sin 

(O  sorrow   and   shame  should   this    be 

true  !) 
Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain, 
So  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  do. 

tl801.     1816. 

FRANCE:   AX   ODE 

I 

Ye  Clouds  !  that  far  above  me  float  and 

pause, 
Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may 

control  ! 
Ye  Ocean  Waves  !    that,  wheresoe'er 

ye  roll, 


COLERIDGE 


89 


Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws  ! 
Ye    Woods!    that  listen   to    the    night- 
bird's  singing, 
Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope 
reclined, 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches 
swinging, 
Have   made   a  solemn   music   of   the 
wind  ! 
Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman 
trod, 
How  oft,  pursuing  faucies  holy, 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds 
I  wound, 
Inspired  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 
By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquer- 
able sound  ! 
O  ve   loud  Waves  !    and   O   ye  Forests 
high  ! 
And  O  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me 
soared ! 
Thou   rising   sun  !    thou  blue  rejoicing 
Sky! 
Yea,  every  thing  that  is  and  will  be 

free  ! 
Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye 

be, 
With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still 
adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 


When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs 
upreared, 
And  with  that  oath  which  smote  air, 

earth  and  sea, 
Stamped  her  strong  foot  and  said  she 
would  be  free, 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and 

feared  ! 
With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band  : 
And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted 
nation, 
Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's 
wand, 
The  Monarchs  marched  in  evil  day, 
And  Britain  join'd  the  dire  array  ; 
Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling 
ocean, 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youth- 
ful lo%'es 
Had  swoln  the  patriot  emotion 
And  flung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills 

and  groves ; 
Yet    still    my    voice,    unaltered,    sang 
defeat 


To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling 

lance, 
And  shame  too  long  delay' d  and  vain 

retreat ! 
For  ne'er,  O  Liberty  !  with  partial  aim 
I  dimmed  thy  light  or  damped  thy  holy 

flame  ; 
But  blessed    the  paeans  of  delivered 

France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wrept  at  Britain's 

name. 


''  And  what,"  I    said,    "  though    Blas- 
phemy's loud  scream 
With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance 

strove ! 
Though   all   the   fierce   and    drunken 
passions  wove 
A    dance    more     wild     than    e'er     was 
maniac's  dream ! 
Ye  storms,  that  round   the   dawning 
east  assembled, 
The  Sun  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his 
light  ! 
And   when  to  soothe  my  soul,   that 
hoped  and  trembled, 
The  dissonance  ceased,  and  all  seemed 
calm  and  bright ; 
When   France  her  front  deep-scarr'd 

and  gory 
Concealed  with  clustering  wreaths  of 
glory  ; 
When  insupportrbly  advancing, 
Her   arm  made  mockery  of  the  war- 
rior's ramj)  ; 
While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing. 
Domestic  treason,  crushed  beneath  her 
fatal  stamp, 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his 
gore  ; 
Then    I    reproached    my    fears    that 
would  not  flee  ; 
"And    soon,"    I    said,    "shall    Wisdom 

teach  her  lore 
In   the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and 

groan  ; 
And,     conquering     by     her     happiness 
alone. 
Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be 
free, 
Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call 
the  earth  their  own." 

IV 

Forgive  me,  Freedom  !  O  forgive  those 
dreams  ! 
I   hear  thy   voice,   I  hear    thy    loud 
lament. 


BRITISH    POETS 


From   bleak    Helvetia's    icy     caverns 
sent  — 

I  hear  thy  -roans  upon  her  blood-stained 
s<  reams  ! 
Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country 
perished, 
Ami  ye,  that  fleeing,  spot  your  moun- 
tain snows 
With  bleeding  wounds;    forgive  me, 
that  1  cherished 
One  thought  that  ever  blessed  your  cruel 
foes  ! 
To  scatter  rage  and  traitorous  guilt 
Where   Peace   her   jealous   home  had 
built  ; 
\  patriot-race  to  disinherit 
Of  all  that   made  their  stormy  wilds  so 
dear  ; 
And  with  inexpiable  spirit 
To   taint   the   bloodless   freedom  of  the 

mountaineer — 
< )  France,  that  mockest  Heaven,  adul- 
terous, blind. 
And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils  ! 
Are  these  thy  boasts,  Champion  of  human 
kind  ? 
To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of 
sway, 
Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  murder- 
ous prey  : 
To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with  spoils 
From  freemen  torn  ;  to  tempt  and  to 
betray? 


The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in 
vain. 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  !     In 

mad  game 
They  hurst    their  manacles  and  wear 
the  name 
Of  Freedom,   graven   on   a  heavier 

chain  ! 
O  Liberty  !  with  profitless  endeavor 
Have   I   pursued   thee,   many   a   weary 
hour  ; 
But  tin  in  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  strain 
nor  ever 
Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human 
power. 
Alike    from   all,   howe'er  they  praise 

t  hee, 
(Nor  prayer,  nor  boastful  name  delays 
thee) 
Alike     from     Priestcraft's     harpy 
minions, 
And    factious    Blasphemy's   obscener 
slaves, 


Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  play- 
mate of  the  waves  ! 
And  then  I  felt  thee  ! — on  that  sea-cliff's 
verge, 
Whose  pines,  scarce  travelled  by  the 
breeze  above, 
Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant 


surge 


Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples 

bare, 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea 
and  air, 
Possessing  all    things  with  intensest 
love, 
O  Liberty  !  my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 
February,  1798.     April  16,  1798. 

FROST   AT  MIDNIGHT 

The  Frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelped   by   any    wind.      The   owlet's 

cry 
Came  loud — and   hark,   again  !  loud  as 

before. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 
Have   left   me  to  that  solitude,   which 

suits 
Abstruser    musings  :  save    that  at  my 

side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
'Tis  calm  indeed  !  so  calm,  that  it  dis- 
turbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme  silentness.     Sea,  hill,  and 

wood, 
This  populous  village  !  Sea,  and  hill,  and 

wood, 
With   all  the   numberless   goings-on   of 

life, 
Inaudible    as    dreams !  the     thin    blue 

flame 
Lies  on  my  low-burnt  fire,  and  quivers 

not ; 
Only   that  film,  which   fluttered  on  the 

grate, 
Still    flutters  there,   the    sole    unquiet 

thing. 
Methinks,    its  motion   in   this   hush   of 

nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me   who 

live, 
Making  it  a  companionable  form, 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling 

Spirit 
By  its  own  moods  interprets,  everywhere 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 
And  makes  a  toy  of  Thought. 


ISULiLKlVUtL 


91 


But  O  !  how  oft, 
How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing 

mind. 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars, 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger !  and 

as  oft 
With    unclosed     lids,    already     had    I 

dreamt 
Of  my  sweet   birth-place,  and   the  old 

church-tower. 
Whose  bells  tlie  poor  man's  only  music 

rang 
From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair- 
day, 
So     sweetly,     that    they     stirred    and 

haunted  me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,    falling  on  mine 

ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to 

come  ! 
So  gazed  I,   till  the   soothing  things,  I 

dreamt. 
Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged 

my  dreams  ! 
And  so  I  boded  all  the  following  morn, 
Awed    by   the   stern    preceptor's    face, 

mine  eye 
Fixed  with  mock  study   on    my   swim- 
ming book  : 
Save  if  the  door  half    opened,   and   I 

snatched 
A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leaped 

up. 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger  s 

face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  be- 
loved, 
My    play-mate     when    we    both    were 

clothed  alike  ! 
Dear  Babe,  that  sleepest   cradled  bjr 

my  side, 
Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this 

deep  calm, 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My    babe   so    beautiful  !    it    thrills   my 

heart 
With    tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at 

thee, 
And   think   that   thou   shalt    learn   far 

other  lore, 
And    in   far  other   scenes  !     For    I  was 

reared 
In   the   great   city,  pent   'mid   cloisters 

dim, 
And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and 

stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe  !  shalt  wander  like  a 

breeze 


By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the 

crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the 

clouds, 
Which   image  in   their  bulk  both  lakes 

and  shores 
And  mountain  crags  :  so  shalt  thou  see 

and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligi- 
ble 
Of  that    eternal   language,    which   thy 

God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all.  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher  !  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 
Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to 

thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general 

earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and 

sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare 

branch 
Of   mossy   apple-tree,   while    the    nigh 

thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw  ;  whether  the 

eave-drops  fall 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon. 

February,  1798.     1798. 

LOVE 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve: 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man, 

The  statue  of  the  armed  knight  : 

She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 

Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own. 
My  hope  !  my  joy  !   my  Genevieve! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 


9- 


BRITISH    POETS 


I  played  ;>  soli  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

1  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And    that    he    crossed    the    mountain- 
woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright  ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And    saved    from   outrage    worse  than 
death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ! 

And   how  she    wept,   and    clasped   his 

knees  ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ; — 

A  ad  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
Winn  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; — 

Tlis  dying  words — hut  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  1 


All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve  ; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 

She    blushed    with     love,    and    virgin- 

shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 

I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepped — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace  : 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride, 
1798-1799.     December  21,  1799. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  DARK 
LADIE 

A   FRAGMENT 

Beneath  yon  birch  with  silver  bark, 
And  boughs  so  pendulous  and  fair, 
The  brook  falls  scatter'd  down  the  rock  : 
And  all  is  mossy  there  1 

And  there  upon  the  moss  she  sits, 
The  Dark  Ladie  in  silent  pain  ; 
The  heavy  tear  is  in  her  eye, 
And  drops  and  swells  again. 

Three  times  she  sends  her  little  page 
Up  the  castled  mountain's  breast, 
If  he  might  find  the   Knight  that  wears 
The  Griffin  for  his  crest. 

The  sun  was  sloping  down  the  sky, 
And  she  had  linger'd  there  all  day, 
Counting  moments,  dreaming  fears— 
Oh  wherefore  can  he  stay  ? 


COLERIDGb 


93 


She  hears  a  rustling  o'er  the  brook, 
She  sees  far  off  a  swinging  bough  ! 
"  Tis  He  !     "Tis  my  betrothed  Knight  I 
Lord  Falkland,  it  is  Thou !  " 

She  springs,  she   clasps   him  round  the 

neck, 
She  sobs  a  thousand  hopes  and  fears, 
Her  kisses  glowing  on  his  cheeks 
She  quenches  with  her  tears. 


"  My  friends  with   rude  ungentle  words 
They  scoff  and  bid  me  fly  to  thee  ! 

0  give  me  shelter  in  thy  breast ! 

0  shield  and  shelter  me  1 

"  My  Henry,  I  have  given  thee  much, 

1  gave  what  I  can  ne'er  recall. 

I  gave  my  heart,  I  gave  my  peace, 
O  Heaven  !  I  gave  thee  all." 

The  Knight  made  answer  to  the  Maid, 
While  to  his  heart  he  held  her  hand, 
"Nine  castles  hath  my  noble  sire, 
None  statelier  in  the  land. 

"  The  fairest  one  shall  be  my  love's, 
The  fairest  castle  of  the  nine  ! 
Wait  only  till  the  stars  peep  out, 
The  fairest  shall  be  thine : 

"  Wait  only  till  the  hand  of  eve 
Hath  wholly  closed  yon  western  bars, 
And  through  the  dark  we  two  will  steal 
Beneath  the  twinkling  stars  I  " — 

"  The  dark  ?    the   dark  ?      No  !  not  the 

dark  ! 
The    twinkling    stars?     How,    Henry? 

How? 
O  God  !  'twas  in  the  eye  of  noon 
He  pledged  his  sacred  vow  I 

'•  And  in  the  eye  of  noon  my  love 
Shall  lead  me  from  my  mother's  door, 
Sweet  boys  and  girls  all  clothed  in  white 
Strewing  flowers  before : 

"  But  first  the  nodding  minstrels  go 
With  music  meet  for  lordly  bowers, 
The  children  next  in  snow-white  vests, 
Strewing  buds  and  flowers  ! 

"  And  then  my  love  and  I  shall  pace, 
My  jet  blnck  hair  in  pearly  braids, 
Between  our  comely  bachelors 
And  blushing  bridal  maids." 
#  *  #  * 

1798.     1834. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  ALBUM  AT  ELBINGERODE, 
IN  THE   HARTZ    FOREST 

I  STOOD  on  Brocken's  sovran  height,  and 

saw 
Woods  crowding  upon  woods,  hills  over 

hills, 
A  surging  scene,  and  only  limited 
By  the  blue  distance.     Heavily  my  way 
Downward  I  dragged  through  fir  groves 

evermore, 
Where    bright    green    moss   heaves   in 

sepulchral  forms 
Speckled   with   sunshine  ;  and,   but  sel- 
dom heard, 
The  sweet  bird's  song  became  an  hollow 

sound : 
And  the  breeze,  murmuring  indi  visibly, 
Preserved  its  solemn  murmur  mo.st  dis- 
tinct 
From  many  a  note  of  many  a  waterfall, 
And   the   brook's   chatter  ;  'mid   whose 

islet-stones 
The  dingy  kidling  with  its  tinkling  bell 
Leaped  frolicsome,  or  old  romantic  goat 
Sat,  his    white  beard   slow   waving.     I 

moved  on 
In  low  and   languid  mood  :  for  I  had 

found 
That  outward   forms,   the  loftiest,   still 

receive 
Their  finer    influence    from    the    Life 

within  ; — ■ 
Fair  cyphers  else  :  fair,   but   of  import 

vague 
Or  unconcerning,  where   the   heart  not 

finds 
History  or  prophecy  of  friend,  or  child, 
Or  gentle  maid,  our  first  and  early  love, 
Or  father,  or  the  venerable  name 
Of  our  adored  country  !     O  thou  Queen, 
Thou  delegated  Deity  of  Earth, 
O  dear,  dear  England  !  how  my  longing 

eye 
Turned  westward,  shaping  in  the  steady 

clouds 
Thy  sands  and  high  white  cliffs  ! 

My  native  Land  ! 
Filled   with   the   thought    of   thee   this 

heart  was  proud, 
Yea,  mine  eye  swam    with   tears  :  that 

all  the  view 
From  sovran  Brocken,  woods  and  woodjf 

hills, 
Floated  away,  like  a  departing  dream, 


94 


BRITISH    POETS 


Feeble  and   dim  !    Stranger,  these  im- 
pulses 

Blame  thou  not  lightly  ;  nor  will  I  pro- 
fane. 

With     hasty     judgment    or     injurious 
doubt, 

That  man's sublimer spirit,  whocanfeel 

That  God  is  everywhere !  the  God  who 
framed 

Mankind  to  be  one  mighty  family. 

Himself  our  Father,  and  the  World  our 
1  tome. 
May  /;.  1799.     September  17,  1799. 

ODE  TO  TRANQUILLITY 

Tb  SlNQTJILLITY  !  thou  better  name 
Than  all  the  family  of  Fame  ! 
Thou  ne'er  wilt  leave  my  riper  age 
To  low  intrigue,  or  factious  rage  ; 
For  oh  !    dear   child   of  thoughtful 

Truth. 
To  thee  I  gave  my  early  youth. 
And  left  the  bark,  and  blest  the  stead- 
fast shore, 
Ere  yet  the  tempest  rose  and  scared  me 
with  its  roar. 

Who  late  and   lingering  seeks  thy 

shrine, 
On  him  but  seldom.  Power  divine, 
Thy  spirit  rests  !  Satiety 
And  Sloth,  poor  counterfeits  of  thee, 
Mock  the  tired  worldling.  Idle  Hope 
And  dire  Remembrance  interlope, 
To   vex  the    feverish   slumbers  of    the 

mind  : 
The  bubble   floats   before,   the    spectre 

stalks  behind. 

But  me  thy  gentle  hand  will  lead 
At  morning  through  the  accustomed 

mead  : 
And  in  the  sultry  summer's  heat 
Will  build  me  up  a  mossy  seat  ; 
And    when    the    gust    of    Autumn 

crowds, 
And    breaks   the     busy     moonlight 

clouds. 

Thou  best  the  thought  canst  raise,   the 

heart  atl  line, 
Light  as  the    busy    clouds,  calm   as   the 

gliding  moon. 

The     feeling     heart,   the   searching 

soul, 
To  thee  T  dedicate  the  whole  ! 
And  while  within  myself  I  trace 
The   greatness  of  some  future  race, 
Aloof  with  hermit-eye  I  scan 


The  present  works  of  present  man— 
A  wild  and  dream-like  trade  of  blood 

and  guile, 
Too  foolish  for  a  tear,  too  wicked  for  a 
smile  1       1801.    December  4,  1801. 

DEJECTION  :  AN  ODE  » 

Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  Moon, 
With  the  old  Moon  in  her  arms  ; 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  master  dear  I 
We  shall  have  a  deadly  storm. 

Ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence. 


Well  !  If  the  Bard  was  weather-wise, 
who  made 
The  grand  old   ballad   of   Sir  Patrick 

Spence, 
This  night,  so   tranquil   now,  will   not 
go  hence 
Unroused   by  winds,  that   ply   a   busier 

trade 
Than  those  which  mould   yon   cloud   in 

lazy  flakes, 
Or  the  dull  sobbing   draft,    that   moans 
and  rakes 
Upon  the   strings    of    this   .Mohan 

lute, 
Which  better  far  were  mute. 
For  lo  !  the  New-moon  winter-bright  1 
And  overspread  with  phantom  light, 
(With  swimming  phantom  light  o'er- 

spread 
But   rimmed   and   circled   by  a  silver 
thread) 
I  see  the  old  Moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 
The   coming-on  of    rain   and   squally 
blast, 
And  oh  !  that  even    now  the  gust  were 
swelling, 
And   the  slant   night-shower  driving 
loud  and  fast  ! 
Those  sounds  which  oft  have  raised  me, 
whilst  they  awed, 
And  sent  my  soul  abroad, 
Slight  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse 

give, 
Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it 
move  and  live  ! 


1  This  Ode  was  originally  written  to  William 
Wordsworth,  who  was  addressed  as  "Edmund" 
in  the  poem  when  first  printed,  on  the  day  of 
Wordsworth's  marriage,  October  4,  1H02.  In  that 
copy,  the  name  "Edmund"  occurs  at  every  point 
where  "Lady"  is  found  in  the  later  versions  and 
also  where  the  name  "Otway"  occurs,  in  the 
seventh  stanza  ;  there  is  a  corresponding  differ- 
ence of  the  personal  pronouns,  and  some  other 
slight  differences  of  text,  the  most  important  of 
which  is  in  the  conclusion,  as  noted  below. 


COLERIDGE 


95 


A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and 
drear, 
A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassioned  grief, 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  re- 
lief, 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 

0  Lady  !  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, 
To   other   thoughts   by   yonder  throstle 

woo'd, 
All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene, 

Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western  sky. 
And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green  ; 

And  still  I  gaze— and    with   how   blank 
an  eye  ! 

And  those  thin  clouds   above,  in  flakes 
and  bars, 

That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars  : 

Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or 
between, 

Now  sparkling,  now  bedimmed,  but   al- 
ways seen  ; 

Yon  crescent  Moon,  as  fixed  as  if  it  grew 

In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue  ; 

1  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 

I  see,  not  feel,  how  beautiful  they  are  ! 

in 
My  genial  spirits  fail  ; 
And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off 
my  breast  ? 
It  were  a  vain  endeavor, 
Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever 
On  that  green  light'that  lingers   in  the 

west  ; 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to 

win 
The  passion   and   the   life,  whose    foun- 
tains are  within. 

IV 

O  Lady  !  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  Nature  live  ; 
Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her 
shroud  ! 
And  would  we  aught  behold,  of  higher 
worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd. 
Ah  !  from  the   soul    itself   must    issue 
forth  • 

A  Light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  Earth  — 
And  from  the  soul  itself   must  there  be 
sent 
A  sweet  and  potent   voice,  of  its  own 
birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 


O  pure  of  heart !  thou  need'st  not  ask 

of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may 

be! 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 
This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous 

mist, 
This     beautiful      and     beauty-making 

power. 
Joy,  virtuous  Lad\' !     Joy  that   ne'er 

was  given, 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest 

hour. 
Life,  and  Life's  effluence,  cloud  at  once 

and  shower, 
Joy,  Lady  !  is  the  spmt  and  the  power, 
Which  wedding  Nature  to  us  gives  in 

dower, 
A  new  Earth  and  new  Heaven, 
Undreamt   of   by   the   sensual   and  the 

proud — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  Joy  the  luminous 

cloud — 
We  in  ourselves  rejoice  ! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear 

or  sight, 
All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice, 
All  colors  a  suffusion  from  that  light. 

VI 

There  was  a  time  when,  though  my  path 
was  rough, 
This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  dis- 
tress, 
And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 
Whence   Fancy  made  me   dreams  of 
happiness : 
For  hope  grew  round  me,  like  the  twin- 
ing vine, 
And   fruits,  and  foliage,  not   my  own, 

seemed  mine. 
But   now   afflictions   bow   me   down  to 

earth : 
Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me   of    my 
mirth  ; 
But  oh  !  each  visitation 
Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my 
birth, 
My  shaping  spirit  of  Imagination. 
For  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs  must 
feel, 
But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  can  ; 
And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 
From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural 

man  — 
This  was  my  sole  resource,  my  only 
plan ; 


9t 


BRITISH    POETS 


Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects  the 

whole, 
And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of 

my  soul. 

VII 

Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around 
my  mind, 
Reality's  dark  dream  ! 
I  turn  from  you,  and  listen  to  the  wind, 
Which    long    has    raved    unnoticed. 
What  a  scream 
Of  agonv  by  torture  lengthened  out 
That  lute  sent  forth  !     Thou  Wind,  that 
rav'st  without, 
Bare     crag,     or     mountain-tairn,     or 
blasted  tree, 
Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never 

clomb, 
Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches' 
home, 
Methinks  were  fitter  instruments  for 
thee, 
Mad   Lutanist!  who   in   this   month   of 

showers, 
Of  dark-brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping 

flowers, 
Mak'st  Devils'  yule,   with  worse  than 

wintry  song, 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves 
among. 
Thou    Actor,    perfect    in    all    tragic 
sounds ! 
Thou  mighty  Poet,  even  to  frenzy  bold  ! 
What  telPst  thou  now  about? 
Tis  of  the  rushing  of  an  host  in  rout, 
With   groans  of  trampled  men,  with 
smarting  wounds — 
At    once    they   groan    with    pain,   and 

shudder  with  the  cold  ! 
But  hush  !  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest 
silence ! 
And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a  rushing 
crowd. 
With  groans,  and  tremulous  shudderings 
— all  is  over- 
It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less 

deep  and  loud! 
A  tale  of  less  affright, 
And  tempered  with  delight, 
As  Otway's a  self  had  framed  the  tender 
lay. 

1  In  the  first  printed  copy,  "Edmund's,"  re- 
ferring t.j  Wordsworth.  The  following-  lines  are 
evidently  an  allusion  to  Wordsworth's  Lucy 
Gray.  The  conclusion  is  as  follows  in  the  first 
printed  copy  : 

With  li^'ht  heart  may  he  rise, 

Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 
And  sing  his  lofty  "song,  and  teach  me  to  rejoice  1 


'Tis  of  a  little  child 
Upon  a  lonesome  wild, 
Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her 

way  ; 
And  now' moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and 

fear. 
And    now  screams   loud,  and   hopes  to 
make  her  mother  hear. 

VIII 

Tis  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have 

I  of  sleep : 
Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils 

keep  ! 
Visit  her,  gentle  Sleep !  with  wings  of 
healing, 
And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  moun- 
tain-birth, 
May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  her 
dwelling, 
Silent  as  though  they  watched    the 
sleeping  Earth  I 
With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 
Joy   lift    her    spirit,   joy   attune   her 
voice  ; 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  pole  to 

pole, 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul ! 

O  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above, 
Dear   Lady  !    friend  devoutest    of    my 

choice, 
Thus   mayest  thou  ever,  evermore  re- 
joice. 
April  4,  1802:    October  4,  1 802. 

HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE,   IN  THE 
VALE   OF  CHAMOUNI 

Besides  the  Rivers  Arve  and  Arveiron,  which 
have  their  sources  in  the  foot  of  Mont  Blanc,  five 
conspicuous  torrents  rush  down  its  sides;  and 
within  a  few  paces  of  the  glaciers  the  Gentiana 
Major  grows  in  immense  numbers,  with  its 
"  flowers  of  loveliest  blue."    (Coleridge.) 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning- 
star 

In  his  steep  course  ?  So  long  he  seems 
to  pause 

O  Edmund,  friend  of  my  devoutest  choice, 

O  rais'd  from  anxio\is  dread  and  busy  care, 

By  the  immenseness  of  the  good  and  fair 

Which  thou  see'st  everywhere, 

Joy  lifts  thy  spirit,  joy  attunes  thy  voice. 

To  thee  do  all  things  live  from  pole  to  pole, 

Their  life  the  eddying  of  thy  living  soul  1 

O  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above, 

O  lofty  Poet,  full  of  life  and  love,  _ 

Brother  and  friend  of  my  devoutest  choice, 

Thus  may'st  Thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice 


COLERIDGE 


97 


On    thy    bald    awful    head,    O    sovran 

Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;   but  thou,  most  awful 

Forni ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the   air  and   dark,   substantial, 

black, 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou   piercest 

it, 
As  with  a   wedge  !    But   when  I  look 

again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal 

shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount  !   I  gazed  upon 

thee, 

Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily 
sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  en- 
tranced in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening 

to  it, 
Thou,    the   meanwhile,    wast  blending 

with  my  Thought, 
Yea,  with  my  Life  and  Life's  own  secret 

joy : 
Till  the  dilating  Soul,  enrapt,  transfused. 
Into   the  mighty   vision   passing — there 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to 

Heaven ! 

Awake,    my  soul  !     not  only   passive 

praise 
Thou  owest !     not  alone  these  swelling 

tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy  !  Awake* 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  heart, 

awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy   cliffs,   all  join  my 

Hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of 

the  Vale  ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the 

night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  when  they  climb  the    sky    or   when 

they  sink  : 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn. 
Thyself    Earth's  rosy  star,  and   of    the 

dawn 
Co-herald  :    wake,  O  wake,    and    utter 

praise ! 
Who  sank    thy  sunless  pillars  deep    in 

Earth  ? 


Who   fill'd   thy  countenance   with   rosy 

light  ? 
Who  made    thee    parent    of    perpetual 

streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely 

glad! 
Who  called   you  forth  from  night  and 

utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  vou 

forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged 

rocks, 
For  ever  shattered    and    the  same   for 

ever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,   your   fury, 

and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And   who  commanded  (and  the  silence 

came), 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have 

rest  ? 

Ye  Ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  moun- 
tain's brow 

Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain— 

Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty 
voice, 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest 
plunge  ! 

Motionless  torrents  !   silent  cataracts  ! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  Gates  of 
Heaven 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?  Who  bade 
the  sun 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows?  Who,  with 
living  flowers 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at 
your  feet  ? — 

God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of 
nations, 

Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo, 
God! 

God  !  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with 
gladsome  voice  ! 

Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul- 
like sounds ! 

And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of 
snow. 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder, 
God! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal 

frost ! 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's 
nest ! 

Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain- 
storm  ! 


98 


BRITISH    POETS 


Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the 

clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with 

praise  ! 

Thou  too,  hear  Mount !  with  thy  sky- 

poinl  ing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feel  the  avalanche,  un- 
heard. 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the 

pure  serene 
Into  the   depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy 

breast— 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain! 

thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed 

low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused 

with  tears. 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  O  ever  rise, 
Rise   like  a   cloud  of   incense   from  the 

Earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the 

hills," 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to 

Heaven. 
Great    Hierarch !  tell    thou   the    silent 

sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising 

sun 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises 

God. 

1802.     September  11,  1802. 

THE  GOOD,  GREAT  MAN 

"  How  seldom,  friend!  a  good  great  man 
inherits 
Honor   or  wealth   with  all   his  worth 
and  pains  ! 
It  sounds   like  stories  from  the  land  of 

spirits 
If    any    man    obtain    that     which     he 
merits 
Or  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains." 

REPLY   TO   THE   ABOVE 

Fob   shame,  dear  friend,  renounce  this 

canting  strain ! 
What  would'st  thou  have  a  good  great 

man  obtain  ? 
Place?  titles?  salary?  agilded  chain? 
Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword  had 

slain  ? 
Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  means, 

hut  ends  ! 


Hath  he  not  always  treasures,   alwajrs 

friends, 
The  good   great  man?    three   treasures, 

Love,  and  Light, 
And  Calm  Thoughts,  regular  as  infant's 

breath  : 
And  three  firm  friends,  more  sui-e  than 

day  and  night, 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  Angel 

Death  ! 

1802.     September  23,  1802. 

THE  PAINS  OF  SLEEP 

Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 

It  hath  not  been  my  use  to  pray 

With  moving  lips  or  bended  knees  ; 

But  silently,  by  slow  degrees, 

My  spirit  I  to  Love  compose, 

In  humble  trust  mine  eyelids  close, 

With  reverential  resignation, 

No  wish  conceived,  no  thought  exprest, 

Only  a  sense  of  supplication  ; 

A  sense  o'er  all  my  soul  imprest 

That  I  am  weak,  yet  not  unblest, 

Since  in  me,  round  me,  everywhere 

Eternal  Strength  and  Wisdom  are. 

But  yester-night  I  pray'd  aloud 
In  anguish  and  in  agony, 
Up-starting  from  the  fiendish  crowd 
Of  shapes  and   thoughts   that  tortured 

me  : 
A  lurid  light,  a  trampling  throng, 
Sense  of  intolerable  wrong, 
And  whom  I  scorned,  those  only  strong  ! 
Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will 
Still  baffled,  and  yet  burning  still  ! 
Desire  with  loathing  strangely  mixed 
On  wild  or  hateful  objects  fixed. 
Fantastic  passions  !  maddening  brawl  ! 
And  shame  and  terror  over  all  ! 
Deeds  to  be  hid  which  were  not  hid, 
Which  all  confused  I  could  not  know 
Whether  I  suffered,  or  I  did  : 
For  all  seem'd  guilt,  remorse  or  woe, 
My  own  or  others  still  the  same 
Life-stifling  fear,  soul-stifling  shame  ! 

So  two  nights  passed  :  the  night's  dis- 
may 

Saddened  and  stunned  the  coming  day. 

Sleep,  the  wide  blessing,  seemed  to  me 

Distemper's  worst  calmity. 

The  third  night,  when  my  own  loud 
scream 

Had  waked  me  from  the  fiendish  dream 

O'ercome  with  sufferings  strange  and 
wild, 


COLERIDGE 


99 


I  wept  as  I  had  been  a  child  : 
And  having  thus  by  tears  subdued 
My  anguish  to  a  milder  mood, 
Such  punishments,  I  said,  were  due 
To  natures   deepliest  stained  with  sin  : 
For  aye  entempesting  anew 
The  unfathomable  hell  within 
The  horror  of  their  deeds  to  view, 
To  know  and  loathe,  yet  wish  and  do ! 
Such  griefs  with  such  men  well  agree, 
But  wherefore,  wherefore  fall  on   me  ? 
To  be  beloved  is  all  I  need, 
And  whom  I  love,  I  love  indeed. 

1803.     1816. 

TO    WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

COMPOSED   ON   THE  NIGHT  AFTER  HIS    RE- 
CITATION OF  A  POEM  ON  THE  GROWTH 
OF    AN   INDIVIDUAL  MIND 

Friend  of  the  wise  !  and  Teacher  of  the 

Good ! 
Into  my  heart  have  I  received  that  Lay 
More  than  historic,  that  prophetic  Lay 
Wherein  (high  theme  by  thee  first  sung 

aright)" 
Of  the  foundations  and  the  building  up 
Of  a  Human  Spirit   thou   hast   dared  to 

tell 
What  may  be  told,  to  the  understanding 

mind 
Revealable  ;  and  what  within  the  mind 
By  vital  breathings  secret  as  the  soul 
Of  vernal  growth,   oft   quickens   in  the 

heart 
Thoughts  all  too  deep  for  words ! — 

Theme  hard  as  high  ! 
Of  smiles  spontaneous,  and  mysterious 

fears 
(The  first-born  they  of  Reason  and  twin- 
birth), 
Of  tides  obedient  to  external  force, 
And  currents  self-determined,  as  might 

seem, 
Or  by  some  inner   Power  ;   of   moments 

awful, 
Now  in  thy  inner  life,  and  now  abroad. 
When  power  streamed  from   thee,   and 

thy  soul  received 
The  light  reflected,  as  a  light  bestowed — 
Of   fancies  fair,    and   milder   hours   of 

youth, 
Hyblean  murmurs  of  poetic  thought 
Industrious  in  its  joy.  in  vales  and  glens 
Native  or  outland,    lakes  and  famous 

hills  i 
Or  on  the  lonely   high-road,    when    the 

stars 


Were  rising :  or  by  secret  mountain- 

streams, 
The  guides  and   the   companions  of  thy 

way  ! 

Of  more  than  Fancy,  of  the  Social  Sense 

Distending  wide,  and  man  beloved  as 
man, 

Where  France  in  all  her  towns  lay  vi- 
brating 

Like  some  becalmed  bark  beneath  the 
burst 

Of  Heaven's  immediate  thunder,  when 
no  cloud 

Is  visible,  or  shadow  on  the  main. 

For  thou  wert  there,  thine  own  brows 
garlanded, 

Amid  the  tremor  of  a  realm  aglow, 

Amid  a  mighty  nation  jubilant, 

When  from  the  general  heart  of  human- 
kind 

Hope  sprang  forth  like  a  full-born 
Deity  1 

Of  that    dear  Hope    afflicted  and 

struck  down, 

So  summoned  homeward,  thenceforth 
calm  and  sure 

From  the  dread  watch-tower  of  man's 
absolute  self 

With  light  unwaning  on  her  eyes,  to 
look 

Far  on — herself  a  glory  to  behold, 

The  angel  of  the  vision  !  Then  (last 
strain) 

Of  Duty,  chosen  Laws  controlling  choice, 

Action  and  joy  ! — An  orphic  song  in- 
deed, 

A  song  divine  of  high  and  passionate 
thoughts 

To  their  own  music  chanted  ! 

O  great  Bard ! 
Ere  yet  that  last  strain   dying  awed  the 

air, 
With  steadfast  eye  I  viewed  thee  in  the 

choir 
Of  ever-enduring  men.     The  truly  great 
Have  all  one  age,  and  from   one   visible 

space 
Shed  influence  !     They,  both   in  power 

and  act, 
Are  permanent,  and  Time  is  not   with 

them, 
Save  as  it  worketh  for  them,  they  in  it. 
Nor  less  a  sacred  Jv'oll  than  those  of  old, 
And  to  be  placed,  as  they,  with  gradual 

fame 
Among   the   archives  of  mankind,  thy 

work 


BRITISH    POETS 


Makes  audible  a  linked  lay  of  Truth, 

Of  Truth  profound  a  sweet   continuous 

lay, 
Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural 

notes ! 
1  Ah!  as  I  listen'd  with  a  heart  forlorn, 
The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew  : 
And    even    as    life    returns    upon    the 

drowned, 
Life's  joy  rekindling  roused  a  throng  of 

pains — 
Keen  pangs  of  Love,  awakening  as  a 

babe 
Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart  ; 
And  fears  self- willed,  that  shunned  the 

eye  of  hope  ; 
And  hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself 

from  fear  ; 
Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come 

in  vain. 
And  genius  given,  and  knowledge  won 

in  vain  ; 
And  all  which   I   had   culled   in  wood- 
walks  wide, 
And  all  which  patient  toil  had  reared, 

and  all 
Commune  with  thee  had  opened  out — 

but  flowers 
Strewed  on  my  corse,  and   borne  upon 

my  bier, 
In  the  same   coffin,   for  the  self-same 

grave  ! 

That  way  no  more !  and  ill  beseems 

it  me, 
Who  came  a  welcomer  in  herald's  guise, 
Singing  of  glory,  and  futurity, 
To   wander   back   on   such  unhealthful 

road, 
Plucking  the  poisons  of  self-harm  !     And 

ill 
Such    intertwine    beseems    triumphal 

wreaths 

1  In  place  of  this  line  and  the  next,  there  stood 
in  the  manuscript  copy  of  January  1307  the 
following  lines  : 

Dear  shall  it  be  to  every  human  heart, 
To  me  how  more  than  dearest  I  me,  on  whom 
Comfort  from  thee,  and  utterance  of  thy  love, 
Came  with  such  heights  and  depths  of  harmony. 
Such  sense  of  wings  unlifting,  that  its  might 
Scatter'd  and  quell'd  me,  till  my  thoughts  be- 
came 
A  bodily  tumult ;  and  thy  faithful  hopes, 
Thy  hopes  of  me,  dear  Friend,  by  me  unfelt  I 
Were  troublous  to  me,  almost  as  a  voice, 
Familiar  once,  and  more  than  musical  ; 
As  a  dear  woman's  voice  to  one  cast  forth, 
A  wanderer  with  a  worn-out  heart  forlorn, 
Mi  1  strangers  pining  with  untended  wounds. 
O  Friend,  too  well  thou  know'st,  of  what  sad 

years 
The  long  suppression  had  benumb'd  my  soul.  .  . . 


Strew'd  before  thy  advancing  ! 

Nor  do  thou, 
Sage  Bard  !  impair  the  memory  of  that 

hour 
Of    thy    communion    with    my  nobler 

mind 
By  pity  or  grief,  already  felt  too  long  ! 
Nor  let  my  words  import  more   blame 

than  needs. 
The  tumult  rose  and  ceased:  for  Peace 

is  nigh 
Where    wisdom's    voice    has    found    a 

listening  heart. 
Amid   the  howl  of  more   than   wintry 

storms, 
The  halcyon  hears  the  voice   of  vernal 

hours 
Already  on  the  wing. 

Eve  following  eve, 
Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense 

of  Home 
Is  swreetest !  moments  for  their  own  sake 

hailed 
And  more  desired,  more  precious,   for 

thy  song, 
In    silence    listening,     like    a    devout 

child, 

My  soul    lay  passive,   by  thy    various 

strain 
Driven  as  in  surges  now  beneath  the 

stars, 
With    momentary    stars    of     my    own 

birth, 
Fair  constellated  foam,  still  darting  off 
Into    the     darkness ;    now    a    tranquil 

sea, 
Outspread  and  bright,   yet  swelling   to 

the  moon. 

And   when — O   Friend  !    my  comforter 

and  guide  ! 
Strong  in  thyself,  and  powerful  to  give 

strength  ! — 
Thy  long  sustained  Song   finally  closed, 
And   thy   deep    voice   had    ceased — yet 

thou  thyself 
Wert  still  before  my  eyes,  and  round  us 

both 
That  happy  vision  of  beloved  faces — 
Scarce  conscious,  and  yet  conscious  of 

its  close 
I  sate,  my  being  blended  in  one  thought 
(Thought  was  it  ?  or  aspiration  ?  or  re- 
solve ?) 
Absorbed,   yet   hanging   still   upon  the 

sound — 
And  when  I  rose,  I  found  myself  in 

prayer. 

January,  1807.     1817. 


COLERIDGE 


SONG  FROM  ZAPOLYA 

A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold, 
From  sky  to  earth  it  slanted  : 

And  poised  therein  a  bird  so  bold — 
Sweet  bird,  thou  wert  enchanted  ! 

He  sunk,  he  rose,  he  twinkled,  he  trolled 
Within  that  shaft  of  sunny  mist  ; 

His  eyes  of  fire,  his  beak  of  gold, 
All  else  of  amethyst  ! 

And  thus  he  sang  :  Adieu  !  adieu  ! 
Love's  dreams  prove  seldom  true. 
The  blossoms  they  make  no  delay  ; 
The  sparkling  dew-drops  will  not  stay. 
Sweet  month  of  May, 
We  must  away  ; 
Far  far  away  ! 

To-day  !  to-day  !     1S15.     1817. 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 

Verse,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying, 
Whei'e  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine  !  Life  went  a-niaying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young  ! 
When  I  was  young  ? — Ah,  woeful  When  ! 
Ah  !    for  the   change   'twixt  Now  and 

Then ! 
This    breathing  house    not    built    with 

hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands, 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along  : — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 
Nought    cared   this    body   for   wind  or 

weather 
When  Youtli  and  I  lived  in't  together. 
Flowers  are  lovely  ;  Love  is  flower-like; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 

0  !  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 
Ere  I  was  old  ?     Ah  woeful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  here  ! 
O,  Youtli !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known,  that  Thou  and   I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 
It  cannot  be  that  Thou  art  gone ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd  : — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe,  that  thou  art  gone? 

1  see  these,  locks  in  silvery  slips, 


This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size  : 
But  Spring-tide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes! 
Life  is  but  thought :  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 
Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve  ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life  rs  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old  : 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking- leave 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest, 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist ; 
Yet  hath  out-stay'd  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

1823— April,  1832.    1828— June,  1832. 

WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave 

their  lair— 
The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the 

wing — 
And  Winter  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of 

Spring  ! 
And  I  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing, 
Nor  honey   make,    nor   pair,   nor  build, 

nor  sing. 
Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  ama- 
ranths blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams 

of  nectar  flow. 
Bloom,   O    ye    amaranths  !     bloom    for 

whom  ye  may, 
For    me    ye    bloom    not !    Glide,    rich 

streams,  away ! 
With     lips     unbrightened,     wreathless 

brow,  I  stroll  : 
And  would   you  learn  the  spells  that 

drowse  my  soul  ? 
Work  without  Hope  draws  nectar  in  a 

sieve, 
And  Hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 
February,  1827.     1828. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  BOCCACCIO 

Of  late,  in  one  of  those  most  weary 
hours, 

When  life  seems  emptied  of  all  genial 
powers, 

A  dreary  mood,  which  he  who  ne'er  has 
known 

May  bless  his  happy  lot,  I  sate  alone  ; 

And,  from  the  numbing  spell  to  win  re- 
lief, [grief. 

Call'd  on  the  Past  for  thought  of  glee  or 


BRITISH    POETS 


lu  vain  !  bereft  alike  of  grief  and  glee, 
1  sate  and  cow'r'd  o'er  my  own  vacancy  ! 
And  as  1  watched  the  dull  continuous 

ache. 

Which,  all  else  slumbering,  seem'd  alone 

to  wake  ; 

0  Friend  !  long  wont  to  notice  yet  con- 

ceal, 
And  soothe  by  silence  what  words  can- 
not lieal, 

1  but  half  saw  that  quiet  hand  of  thine 
Place  on  my  desk  this  exquisite  design, 
Boccaccio's  Garden  and  its  faery, 

The   love,  the   joyaunce,   and    the  gal- 
lantry ! 
An  Idyll,  with  Boccaccio's  spirit  warm, 
Framed  in  the  silent  poesy  of  form. 
Like  flocks  a-down  a  newly-bached  steep 
Emerging  from  a  mist :  or  like  a  stream 
Of  music  soft,  that  not  dispels  the  sleep, 
But    casts    in     happier    moulds    the 

slumberer's  dream. 
Gazed  by  an  idle  eye  with  silent  might 
The    picture    stole     upon     my    inward 

sight. 
A  tremulous  warmth  crept  gradual  o'er 

my  chest, 
As  though  an  infant's  finger  touch'd  my 

breast. 
And  one  by  one  (I  know  not  whence) 

were  brought 
All  spirits  of  power  that  most  had  stirr'd 

my  thought 
In  selfless  boyhood,  on  a  new  world  tost 
Of  wonder,  and  in  its  own   fancies  lost  ; 
Or  charm'd  my  youth,  that,  kindled  from 

above, 
Loved  ere  it  loved,  and  sought  a  form 

for  love ; 
Or  lent  a  lustre  to  the  earnest  scan 
Of  manhood,  musing  what  and  whence 

is  man  ! 
Wild  strain  of  Scalds,  that  in  the  sea- 
worn  caves 
Rehearsed  their  war-spell  to  the  winds 

and  waves ; 
Or    fateful    hymn    of    those    prophetic 

maids, 
That   call'd  on   Hertha    in    deep   forest 

glades  ; 
Or  minstrel  lay,  that  cheer' d  the  baron's 

feast ; 
Or   rhyme  of  city  pomp,  of  monk  and 

priest, 
Judge,  mayor,  and  many  a  guild  in  long 

array, 
To    high-church   pacing    on   the   great 

saint's  day. 
And  many  a  verse  which  to  myself  I  sang, 


That  woke  the  tear  yet  stole  away  the 

pang. 
Of  hopes  which  in  lamenting  I  renew'd. 
And  last,  a  matron  now,  of  sober   mien, 
Yet   radiant  still  and  with    no   earthly 

sheen. 
Whom    as  a  faery  child  my  childhood 

woo'd 
Even  in   my  dawn  of  thought — Philos- 
ophy ; 
Though   then    unconscious    of   herself, 

pardie, 
She  bore  no  other  name  than  Poesy  ; 
And,  like  a  gift  from   heaven,  in   fifeful 

glee, 
That  had  but  newly  left  a  mother's  knee, 
Prattled  and  play'd  with  bird  and  flower, 

and  stone, 
As  if  with  elfin  playfellows  well  known, 
And  life  reveal'd  to  innocence  alone. 

Thanks,  gentle  artist !  now  I  can  descry 
Thy  fair  creation  with  a  mastering  eye, 
And  all  awake  !     And  now  in  fix'd  gaze 

stand, 
Now  wander  through  the  Eden    of  thy 

hand ; 
Praise  the  green  arches,  on  the  fountain 

clear 
See  fragment  shadows  of  the  crossing 

deer  ; 
And  with  that  serviceable  nymph  I  stoop 
The   crystal   from   its    restless   pool    to 

scoop. 
I  see  no  longer  !     I  myself  am  there, 
Sit     on     the    ground-sward,     and    the 

banquet  share. 
'Tis  I,  that  sweep  that  lute's  love-echo- 
ing strings, 
And   gaze   upon  the   maid  who  gazing 

sings ; 
Or  pause  and  listen  to  the  tinkling  bells 
Frow  the   high  tower,-  and  think  that 

there  she  dwells. 
With  old  Boccaccio's  soul  I  stand  possest, 
And  breathe  an  air  like  life,  that  swells 

my  chest. 

The   brightness   of  the   world,   O   thou 

once  free, 
And  always  fair,  rare  land  of  courtesy  ! 
O  Florence  !   with  the  Tuscan  fields  and 

hills 
And  famous   Arno,    fed  with   all   their 

rills  ; 
Thou  brightest  star  of  star-bright  Italy  ! 
Rich,    ornate,    populous,    all    treasures 

thine, 
The  golden  corn,  the  olive,  and  the  vine, 


COLERIDGE 


103 


Fair  cities,  gallant  mansions,  castles  old, 
And  forests,  where  beside  his  leafy  hold 
The  sullen  boar  hath  heard  the  distant 

horn, 
And  whets  his  tusks  against  the  gnarled 

thorn  : 
Palladian  palace  with  its  storied  halls  ; 
Fountains,  where  Love  lies  listening  to 

their  fails  ; 
Gardens,  whei'e  flings  the  bridge  its  airy 

span, 
And   Nature    makes    her    happy    home 

with  man  : 
Where  many  a  gorgeous  flower  is  duly 

fed 
With  its  own  rill,  on  its  own  spangled 

bed, 
And  wreathes  the  marble  urn,  or  leans 

its  head, 
A  mimic  mourner,  that  with  veil  with- 
drawn 
Weeps  liquid  gems,  the  presents  of  the 

dawn  : — 
Thine   all   delights,   and   every  muse  is 

thine  ; 
And  more   than  all,   the  embrace  and 

intertwine 
Of  all  with    all  in  gay  and  twinkling- 
dance  ! 

Mid   gods   of  Greece    and    warriors    of 

romance, 
See !     Boccace    sits,   unfolding    on    his 

knees 
The  new  found  roll  of  old  Mseonides  : 
But  from  his  mantle's  fold,  and  near  the 

heart, 
Peers  Ovid's  Holy  Book  of  Love's  sweet 

smart  !  * 

O  all-enjoying  and  all-blending  sage, 
Long  be  it  mine  to  con  thy  mazy  page, 
Where  half  conceal'd,  the  eye  of  fancy 

views 
Fauns,  nymphs,  and  winged  saints,  all 

gracious  to  thy  muse  ! 

1  I  know  few  more  striking  or  more  interesting 
proofs  of  the  overwhelming  influence  which  the 
study  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  classics  exercised 
on  the  judgments,  feelings,  and  imaginations  of 
the  literati  of  Europe  at  the  commencement  of 
the  restoration  of  literature,  than  the  passage  in 
tin;  Filocopo  of  Boccaccio,  where  the  sage  in- 
structor, Racheo,  as  soon  as  the  young  prince 
and  tin'  beautiful  girl  Biancofiore  had  Learned 
their  letters,  sets  them  to  study  the  Holy  Book, 
Ovid's  Art  of  Love.  "  Incomincio  Racheo  a 
met  1  ere  il  suo  officio  in  esecuzione  con  intera 
sollecitudine.  E  loro,  in  breve  tempo,  insegnato 
a  conoscer  le  lettere,  fece  leggere  il  santo  libro 
d'Ovvidio,  nel  quale  il  sommo  poetamostra,  come 
i  santi  fuochi  di  Veuere  si  debbano  ne'  freddi 
cuori  accendere."     — (Coleridge.) 


Still  in  thy  garden  let  me  watch  their 

pranks, 
And  see  in    Dian's  vest    between    the 

ranks 
Of  the  trim  vines,  some  maid  that  half 

believes 
The    vestal    fires,   of    which    her  lover 

grieves, 
With  that  sly  satyr  peeping  through  the 

leaves !  1828.     1829. 

PHANTOM  OR  FACT 

A  DIALOGUE  IN  VERSE 
AUTHOR 

A  lovely  form  there  sate  beside   my 

bed, 
And  such   a   feeling  calm   its  presence 

shed, 
A    tender    love  so  pure  from    earthly 

leaven, 
That   I   unnethe   the  fancy  might  con- 
trol, 
'Twas  my  own  spirit  newly  come  from 

heaven, 
Wooing  its  gentle  way  into  my  soul ! 
But  ah  !  the  change — It  had  not  stirr'd, 

and  yet — 
Alas  !  that  change  how  fain   would  I 

forget  ! 
That  shrinking  back,  like  one  that  had 

mistook  ! 
That     weary,    wrandering,    disavowing 

look  ! 
'Twas  all   another,    feature,   look,   and 

frame, 
And  still,  methought,  I   knew,    it   was 

the  same  ! 


This  riddling  tale,  to  what  does  it  be- 
long ? 

Is't  history  ?  vision  ?  or  an  idle  song  ? 

Or  rather  say  at  once,  within  what 
space 

Of  time  this  wild  disastrous  change  took 
place  ? 

AUTHOR 

Call  it  a  moment's   work   (and  such   it 

seems) 
This  tale's  a  fragment  from  the  life  of 

dreams  ; 
But  say.  that  years  matur'd   the   silent 

strife, 
And  'tis  a  record  from  the  dream  of  life. 

1830.  1834. 


SCOTT 

LIST   OF  REFERENCES 
Editions 

Poetical  Works,  edited  by  William  Minto,  2  volumes,  Edinburgh, 
1887-88.  —  Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  edited,  with  revision  of  text,  by 
W.  J.  Rolfe,  Boston,  1888.  —  Poetical  Works,  edited  by  Andrew  Lang, 
6  volumes,  1902.  —  Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  F.  T.  Palgrave, 
The  Macmillan  Co.,  1866  (Globe  Edition;  not  complete).  —  *  Complete 
Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  H.  E.  Scudder,  The  Houghton,  Mif- 
flin Co.,  1900  (Cambridge  Edition).  —  Poems,  1  volume,  edited  by  J. 
Logie  Robertson,  Clarendon  Press,  1906  (Oxford  Edition).  —  Journal, 
1825-1832,  2  volumes,  edited  by  David  Douglas,  Edinburgh,  1890.  — 
Familiar  Letters,  2  volumes,  edited  by  David  Douglas,  Edinburgh,  1894. 

Biography 

**  Lockhart  (J.  G.),  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  1837.— *Hutton  (R.  H.), 
Scott,  1878  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series).  (Containing  two  chapters 
of  excellent  criticism  on  Scott  as  a  poet.)  —  Yonge  (C.  D.),  Scott,  1888 
(Great  Writers  Series).  —  Saintsbury  (George),  Sir  Walter  Scott,  1897 
(Famous  Scots  Series).  —  Hudson  (W.  H.),  Sir  Walter  Scott,  1901  (Scots 
Epoch  Makers).  —  Hughes  (Mary  A.  W.),  Letters  and  Recollections  of 
Scott,  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  1904.  —  Norgate  (G.  Le  G.),  Life  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  Methuen,  1906.  — Jenks  (T.),  In  the  Days  of  Scott,  A.  S.  Barnes, 
1906.  —  *Lang  (A.),  Sir  Walter  Scott,  1906  (Literary  Lives  Series). 

Criticism 

Ball  (Margaret),  Sir  Walter  Scott  as  a  Critic,  1907.  —  Beers  (H.  A.),  English 
Romanticism  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1901.  —  *Brooke  (Stopford  A.),  Studies  in 
Poetry,  1907.  —  *Carlyle  (T.),  Miscellanies,  Vol.  IV;  from  the  London  and  West- 
minster Review,  1838.  —  Crockett  (S.  R.),  The  Scott  Country,  1902.  —  Emerson 
(R.  W.),  Miscellanies.  —  Hay  (John),  Addresses:  Speech  at  the  Unveiling  of  the 
Bust  of  Scott  in  Westminster  Abbey,  1897.  — ■  Howells  (W.  D.),  My  Literary  Pas- 
sions, 1895. —  Hugo  (Victor),  Litterature  et  Philosophie,  1834.  —  Hutton  (R.  H.), 
Brief  Literary  Criticisms,  190G.  —  Jeffrey  (Francis),  Edinburgh  Review,  No.  23 
(April,  1808),  Art,  1,  Marmion;  No.  32,  Art.  1,  Lady  of  the  Lake;  No.  36,  Art.  6,  Vision 
of  Don  Roderick;  No.  48,  Art.  1,  Lord  of  the  Isles.  Also  in  his  Critical  Essays. 
—  Ker  (W.  P.),  Scott,  in  Chambers's  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  Ill,  new 
edition,  1904.  —  *Lang  (A.),  Letters  to  Dead  Authors,  1886.  —  Lang  (A.),  Essays 
in  Little,  1891.  —  Lang  (A.),  Poets'  Country,  1907.  —  Prescott  (W.  H.),  Biographical 
and  Critical  Miscellanies,  1845.  —  *Palgrave  (F.  T.),  Introduction  to  the  Globe  Edition, 
1866.  —  *Ruskin  (John),  Modern  Painters,  Part  IV,  Chap.  16  (especially  sections  22- 
45)  and  17.  —  *Ruskin  (John),  Fors  Clavigera,  Letters  31-34,  92.  —  Saintsbury  (G), 
Essays  on  English  Literature,  Second  Series,  1895.  —  *Shairp  (J.  C),  Aspects  of  Poetry: 
Homeric  Spirit  of  Scott,  1881.  —  Smith  (Goldwin),  Scott's  Poetry  again;  in  the  Atlantic, 
March,  1905.  —  Stephen  (Leslie),  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  I,  1874,  1892.  —  Swinburne 
(A.  C),  Studies  in  Prose  and  Poetry,  1894.  —  Symons  (Arthur),  Was  Sir  Walter  Scott 
a  Poet;  in  the  Atlantic,  Nov.,  1904.  —  Symons  (Arthur),  Romantic  Movement  in 
English  Poetry,  1909.  —  Woodberry  (G.  E.),  Great  Writers,  1907;  from  McClure's 
Magazine,  June,  1905. 

104 


SCOTT 


WILLIAM  AND  HELEN 

Imitated  from  Burger's  Lenore.      See    Lock- 
hart's  Life  of  Scott,  Volume  I,  Chap.  7. 

From  heavy  dreams  fair  Helen  rose, 
And  eyed  the  dawning  red  : 

"Alas,  my  love,  thou  tarriest  long  ! 
O  art  thou  false  or  dead  ?  " 

With  gallant  Frederick's  princely  power 

He  sought  the  bold  crusade, 
But  not  a  word  from  Judah's  wars 

Told  Helen  how  he  sped. 

With  Paynim  and  with  Saracen 
At  length  a  truce  was  made, 

And  every  knight  returned  to  dry 
The  tears  his  love  had  shed. 

Our  gallant  host  was  homeward  bound 

With  many  a  song  of  joy  ; 
Green  waved  the  laurel  in  each  plume, 

The  badge  of  victory. 

And  old  and  young,  and  sire  and  son, 
To  meet  them  crowd  the  way, 

With  shouts  and  mirth  and  melody, 
The  debt  of  love  to  pay. 

Full  many  a  maid  her  true-love  met, 
And  sobbed  in  his  embrace, 

And  fluttering  joy  in  tears  and  smiles 
Arrayed  full  many  a  face. 

Nor  joy  nor  smile  for  Helen  sad, 
She  sought  the  host  in  vain  ; 

For  none  could  tell  her  William's  fate, 
If  faithless  or  if  slain. 

The  martial  band  is  past  and  gone  ; 

She  rends  her  raven  hair, 
And  in  distraction's  bitter  mood 

She  weeps  with  wild  despair. 

"  O,  rise,  my  child,"  her  mother  said, 

"  Nor  sorrow  thus  in  vain  ; 
A  perjured  lover's  fleeting  heart 

No  tears  recall  again." 


I  "  O,  Mother,  what  is  gone  is  gone, 
What's  lost  forever  lorn  : 
Death,  death  alone  can  comfort  me  ; 
O  had  I  ne'er  been  born  ! 

"  O,  break,  my  heart,  O,  break  at  once 
Drink  my  life-blood,  Despair  ! 

No  joy  remains  on  earth  for  me, 
For  me  in  heaven  no  share." 

"  O,  enter  not  in  judgment,  Lord  !  " 

The  pious  mother  prays  ; 
"  Impute  not  guilt  to  thy  frail  child  ! 

She  knows  not  what  she  says. 

"O,  say  thy  pater-noster,  child  ! 

O,  turn  to  God  and  grace  ! 
His  will,  that  turned  thy  bliss  to  bale, 

Can  change  thy  bale  to  bliss." 

"  O  mother,  mother,  what  is  bliss? 

O  mother,  what  is  bale  ? 
My  William's  love  was  heaven  on  earth, 

Without  it  earth  is  hell. 

"  Why  should  I  pray  to  ruthless  Heaven, 
Since  my  loved  William's  slain  ? 

I  only  prayed  for  William's  sake, 
And  all  my  prayers  were  vain." 

"  O.  take  the  sacrament,  my  child. 

And  check  these  tears  that  flow  ; 
By  resignation's  humble  prayer, 

O,  hallowed  be  thy  woe  ! " 

"  No  sacrament  can  quench  this  fire, 
Or  slake  this  scorching  pain  ; 

No  sacrament  can  bid  the  dead 
Arise  and  live  again. 

"  O,  break,  my  heart,  O,  break  at  once  ! 

Be  thou  my  god,  Despair  ! 
Heaven's  heaviest  blow  has  fallen  on  me. 

And  vain  each  fruitless  prayer." 

"  O,  enter  not  in  judgment,  Lord, 
With  thy  frail  child  of  clay  ! 

She   knows   not   what   her  tongue   has 
spoke  ; 
Impute  it  not,  I  pray  ! 


*°5 


io6 


BRITISH    POETS 


'«  Forbear,  my  child,  this  desperate  woe, 
And  turn  to  God  and  grace  ; 

Well  can  devotion's  heavenly  glow 
Convert  thy  bale  to  bliss." 

"  O  mother,  mother,  what  is  bliss  ? 

0  mother,  what  is  bale  ? 

Without  my  William  what  were  heaven, 
Or  with  him  what  were  hell  ?  " 

Wild  she  arraigns  the  eternal  doom, 
Upbraids  each  sacred  power, 

Till,  spent,  she  sought  her  silent  room, 
All  in  t lie  lonely  tower. 

She   beat   her   breast,   she    wrung    her 
hands, 
Till  sun  and  day  were  o'er, 
And    through   the    glimmering   lattice 
shone 
The  twinkling  of  the  star. 

Then,  crash  !  the  heavy  drawbridge  fell 
That  o'er  the  moat  was  hung  ; 

And,  clatter  !  clatter  1  on  its  boards 
The  hoof  of  courser  rung. 

The  clank  of  echoing  steel  was  heard 

As  off  the  rider  bounded  ; 
And  slowly  on  the  winding  stair. 

A  heavy  footstep  sounded. 

And  hark  !   and  hark  !   a  knock  —  tap  ! 
tap  ! 

A  rustling  stifled  noise  ; — 
Door-latch  and  tinkling  staples  ring  ,   - 

At  length  a  whispering  voice. 

"  Awake,  awake,  arise,  my  love  I 
How.  Helen,  dost  thou  fare? 

Wak'st  thou,  or  sleep'st  !  laugh'st  thou, 
or  weep'st  ? 
Hast  thought  on  me,  my  fair?  " 

'•  My  love!  my  love  ! — so  late  by  night ! — 

1  waked,  I  wept  for  thee  : 

Much  have  I  borne  since  dawn  of  morn  ; 
Where,  William,  couldstthou  be?" 

"  We  saddle  late — from  Hungary 

I  rode  since  darkness  fell  ; 
And  to  its  bourne  we  both  return 

Before  the  matin-bell." 

"  O,  rest  this  night  within  my  arms, 
And  warm  thee  in  their  fold  1 

Chill  howls  through  hawthorn  bush  the 
wind  : — 
My  love  is  deadly  cold." 


"  Let  the  wind  howl  through  hawthorn 
bush  ! 

This  night  we  must  away  ; 
The  steed  is  wight,  the  spur  is  bright  ; 

I  cannot  stay  till  day." 

"  Busk,  busk,  and  boune  1  Thou  mount'st 
behind 

Upon  my  black  barb  steed  : 
O'er  stock  and  stile,  a  hundred  miles, 

We  haste  to  bridal  bed." 

"  To-night — to-night  a  hundred  miles  ! — 

O  dearest  William,  stay  ! 
The  bell   strikes   twelve — dark,    dismal 
hour  ! 

O,  wait,  my  love,  till  day  !  " 

"  Look  here,  look  here — the  moon  shines 
clear — 

Full  fast  I  ween  we  ride  : 
Mount  and  away  !  for  ere  the  day 

We  reach  our  bridal  bed. 

*'  The  black  barb  snorts,  the  bridle 
rings ; 

Haste,  busk,  and  boune,  and  seat  thee  : 
The  feast  is  made,  the  chamber  spread, 

The  bridal  guests  await  thee." 

Strong  love  prevailed  :  she  busks,  she 
bounes, 

She  mounts  the  barb  behind, 
And  round  her  darling   William's  waist 

Her  lily  arms  she  twined. 

And,  hurry  !  hurry  !  off  they  rode, 

As  fast  as  fast  might  be  ; 
Spurned  from  the  courser's   thundering 
heels 

The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

And  on  the  right  and  on  the  left, 
Ere  they  could  snatch  a  view, 

Fast,   fast    each   mountain,  mead,   and 
plain, 
And  cot  and  castle  flew. 

"  Sit  fast — dost  fear  ? — The  moon  shines 
clear — 
Fleet  goes  my  barb — keep  hold  1 
Fear'st   thou  ?  " — "  O  no  !  "   she   faintly 
said  ; 
"  But  why  so  stern  and  cold  ? 

"What    yonder    rings?   what    yonder 
sings  ? 
Why  shrieks  the  owlet  gray  ?  " 
"  'T  is   death-bell's   clang,    't  is   funeral 
song, 
The  body  to  the  clay. 


SCOTT 


107 


'•  With   song    and   clang    at    morrow's 
dawn 

Ye  may  inter  the  dead  : 
To-night  I  ride  with  my  young  bride 

To  deck  our  bridal  bed. 

"  Come  with   thy   choir,    thou  coffined 
guest, 
To  swell  our  nuptial  song  ! 
Come,   priest,    to    bless    our    marriage 
feast  ! 
Come  all,  come  all  along  !  " 

Ceased  clang  and  song  ;  down  sunk  the 
bier  ; 

The  shrouded  corpse  arose  : 
And  hurry  !  hurry  !  all  the  train 

The  thundering  steed  pursues. 

And  forward  !  forward  !  on  they  go  ; 

High  snorts  the  straining  steed  ; 
Thick  pants  the  rider's  laboring  breath, 

As  headlong  on  they  speed. 

"  O  William,  why  this  savage  haste  ! 

And  where  thy  bridal  bed  ?  " 
"  'Tis  distant  far,  low,  damp,  and  chill. 

And  narrow,  trustless  maid." 

"No   room    for   me?"—"  Enough    for 
both  ;— 
Speed,  speed,  my  barb,  thy  course!  " 
O'er  thundering  bridge,  through  boiling 
surge, 
He  drove  the  furious  horse. 

Tramp !    tramp  !    along  the   land   they 
rode, 

Splash  !  splash  !  along  the  sea  ; 
The  scourge  is  wight,  the  spur  is  bright, 

The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

Fled  past  on  right  and  left  how  fast 
Each  forest,  grove,  and  bower  ! 

On  right  and  left  fled  past  how  fast 
Each  city,  town,  and  tower  ! 

' -  Dost  fear  ?  dost  fear  ?   The  moon  shines 
clear, 

Dost  fear  to  ride  with  me  ? — 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  dead  can  ride!" — 

"  O  William,  let  them  be  !— 

"See  there,   see   there!     What   yonder 
swings 

And  creaks,  mid  whistling  rain?" — 
"Gibbet  and  steel,  the  accursed  wheel  ; 

A  murderer  in  his  chain. — ■ 


'•  Hollo  !  thou  felon,  follow  here  : 

To  bridal  bed  we  ride  ; 
And  thou  shalt  prance  a  fetter  dance 

Before  me  and  my  bride." 

And,  hurry!  hurry!  clash,  clash,  clash  i 

The  wasted  form  descends  ; 
And  fleet  as  wind  through  hazel  bush 

The  wild  career  attends. 

Tramp !    tramp !    along    the   land   they 
rode, 

Splash  !  splash  !  along  the  sea  ; 
The  scourge  is  red,  the  spur  drops  blood, 

The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

How     fled     what     moonshine     faintly 
showed ! 

How  fled  what  darkness  hid  ! 
How  fled  the  earth  beneath  their  feet, 

The  Heaven  above  their  head  ! 

' '  Dost  fear  ?  dost  fear  ?    The  moon  shines 
clear, 

And  well  the  dead  can  ride  ; 
Dost,  faithful  Helen,  fear  for  them?" — 

"  O  leave  in  peace  the  dead  !  " — 

' '  Barb  !  Barb  !  methinks  I  hear  the  cock, 

The  sand  will  soon  be  run  : 
Barb  !  Barb  !  T  smell  the  morning  air  ; 

The  race  is  well-nigh  done." 

Tramp !    tramp !    along  the   land   they 
rode, 

Splash  !  splash  !  along  the  sea  ; 
The  scourge  is  red.  the  spur  drops  blood, 

The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

"Hurrah!  hurrah!  well  ride  the  dead ; 

The  bride,  the  bride  is  come  ; 
And  soon  we  reach  the  bridal  bed, 

For,  Helen,  here's  my  home." 

Reluctant  on  its  rusty  hinge 

Revolved  an  iron  door, 
And  by  the  pale  moon's  setting  beam 

Were  seen  a  church  and  tower. 

With  many  a  shriek  and  cry  whiz  round 
The  birds  of  midnight  scared  : 

And  rustling  like  autumnal  leaves 
Unhallowed  ghosts  were  heard. 

O'er  many  a  tomb  and  tombstone  pale 

He  spurred  the  fiery  horse, 
Till  suddenly  at  an  open  grave 

He  checked  the  wondrous  course. 


ioS 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  falling  gauntlet  quits  therein, 
Down  drops  the  casque  of  steel. 

The  cuirass  Leaves  his  shrinking  side, 
The  spur  his  gory  heel. 

The  eyes  desert  the  naked  skull, 
The  mouldering  ilesh  the  bone, 

Till  Helen's  lily  arms  entwine 
A  ghastly  skeleton. 

The  furious  barb  snorts  fire  and  foam, 

And  with  a  fearful  bound 
Dissolves  at  once  in  empty  air, 

And  leaves  her  on  the  ground. 

Half  seen  by  fits,  by  fits  half  heard, 

Pale  spectres  flit  along, 
Wheel  round  the  maid  in  dismal  dance, 

And  howl  the  funeral  song  ; 

"E'en   when  the  heart's  with  anguish 
cleft 
Revere  the  doom  of  Heaven, 
Her  soul  is  from  her  body  reft ; 
Her  spirit  be  forgiven  I " 

1795.     1796. 

THE  VIOLET 

See  Lockhart's  life  of  Scott,  Vol  I,  Chapter 
8,  and  the  Century  Magazine,  July,  1899. 

The  violet  in  her  green- wood  bower, 
Where   birchen   boughs   with    hazels 
mingle, 

May  boast  itself  the  fairest  flower 
In  glen  or  copse  or  forest  dingle. 

Though  fair  her  gems  of  azure  hue, 
Beneath  the  dewdrop's  weight  reclin- 
ing; 
I've  seen  an  eye  of  lovelier  blue, 

More    sweet    through    watery    lustre 
shining. 

The  summer  sun  that  dew  shall  dry 
Ere  yet  the  day  be  past  its  morrow, 

ITor  longer  in  my  false  love's  eye 

Remained  the  tear  of  parting  sorrow. 
1797.     1810. 

TO   A  LADY 

WITH     FLOWERS    FROM    A    ROMAN    WALL 

Take  these  flowers  which,  purple  wav- 
ing, 

On  the  ruined  rampart  grew, 
Where,  the  sons  of  freedom  braving, 

Rome's  imperial  standards  flew. 


Warriors  from  the  breach  of  danger 
Pluck  no  longer  laurels  there  ; 

They  but  yield  the  passing  stranger 
Wild-flower     wreaths     for    Beauty's 
hair.  1797. 

THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  JOHN 

The    Baron    of  Smaylho'me  rose  with 
day, 
He  spurred  his  courser  on, 
Without  stop  or  stay,  down  the  rocky 
way, 
That  leads  to  Brotherstone. 

He  went  not  with  the  bold  Buccleuch 

His  banner  broad  to  rear  ; 
He  went  not  'gainst  the  English  yew 

To  lift  the  Scottish  spear. 

Yet  his  plate-jack  was  braced  and  his 
helmet  was  laced, 
And  his  vaunt-brace  of  proof  he  wore  ; 
At  his  saddle-gerthe   was  a  good  steel 
sperthe, 
Full  ten  pound  weight  and  more. 

The  baron  returned  in  three  days'  space 
And  his  looks  were  sad  and  sour; 

And  weary  was  his  courser's  pace 
As  he  reached  his  rocky  tower. 

He  came  not  from  where  Ancrarn  Moor 
Ran  red  with  English  blood  ; 

Where  the  Douglas  true  and  the  bold 
Buccleuch 
'Gainst  keen  Lord  Evers  stood. 

Yet  was  his  helmet  hacked  and  hewed, 

His  acton  pierced  and  tore, 
His  axe  and  his  dagger  with  blood  im- 
brued,— 

But  it  was  not  English  gore. 

He  lighted  at  the  Chapellage, 

He  held  him  close  and  still  ; 
And    he   whistled   thrice   for   Ins   little 
foot-page, 

His  name  was  English  Will. 

"  Come  thou  hither,  my  little  foot-page, 

Come  hither  to  my  knee  ; 
Though  thou  art  young  and  tender  of 
age, 

I  think  thou  art  true  to  me. 

"  Come,  tell  me  all  that  thou  hast  seen, 

And  look  thou  tell  me  true  ! 
Since  I  from  Smaylho'me  tower  have 
been, 

What  did  thy  lady  do  ?  " 


SCOTT 


109 


"  My  ladv,  each  night,  sought  the  lonely 
light 
That  burns  on  the  wild  Watchfold  ; 
For  from  height  to  height  the  beacons 
bright 
Of  the  English  foemen  told. 

"  The  bittern  clamored  from  the  moss, 
The  wind  blew  loud  and  shrill ; 

Yet  the  craggy  pathway  she  did  cross 
To  the  eiry  Beacon  Hill. 

"  I  watched  her  steps,  and  silent  came 
Where  she  sat  her  on  a  stone  ; — 

No     watchman     stood    by    the    dreary 
flame, 
It  burned  all  alone. 

"  The  second  night  I  kept  her  in  sight 

Till  to  the  fire  she  came, 
And,     by     Mary's    might!     an     armed 
knight 

Stood  by  the  lonely  flame. 

"  And  many  a  word  that  warlike  lord 

Did  speak  to  my  lady  there  ; 
But  the  rain  fell  fast  and  loud  blew  the 
blast, 

And  I  heard  not  what  they  were. 

"  The  third  night  there  the  sky  was  fair, 
And  the  mountain-blast  was  still, 

As  again  I  watched  the  secret  pair 
On  the  lonesome  Beacon  Hill. 

"  And  I  heard  her  name  the  midnight 
hour, 
And  name  this  holy  eve  ; 
And    say,     '  Come    this    night    to    thy 
lady's  bower  ; 
Ask  no  bold  baron's  leave. 

'•'  '  He  lifts  his  spear  with  the  bold  Buc- 
cleuch  ; 
His  lady  is  all  alone  ; 
The  door  she  '11  undo  to  her  knight  so 
true 
On  the  eve  of  good  Saint  John.' 

' '  I  cannot  come  ;  7  must  not  come  ; 

I  dare  not  come  to  thee  : 
On  the  eve  of  Saint  John  I  must  wan- 
der alone  : 

In  thy  bower  I  may  not  be.' 

" '  Now,     out    on    thee,     faint-hearted 
knight ! 
Thou  shouldst  not  say  me  nay  ; 
For  the  eve  is  sweet,  and  when  lovers 
meet 
Is  worth  the  whole  summer's  day. 


"  '  And  I'll  chain  the  blood-hound,  and 
the  warder  shall  not  sound, 
And  rushes  shall  be  strewed  on  the 

stair ; 
So,  by  the   black   rood-stone  and  by 
holy  Saint  John, 
I  conjure  thee,  my  love,  to  be  there  !  ' 

"  '  Though  the  blood-hound  be  mute  and 
the  rush  beneath  my  foot, 
And  the  warder  his  bugle  should  not 
blow, 
Yet    there    sleepeth    a    priest    in    the 
chamber  to  the  east, 
And  my  footstep  he  would  know.' 

"  '  O,  fear  not  the  priest  who  sleepeth  to 
the  east, 
For  to  Dryburgh  the  way  he  has  ta'en  ; 
And  there  to  say  mass,  till  three  days  do 
pass, 
For    the    soul    of    a    knight    that    is 
slayne. ' 

"  He  turned  him  around  and  grimly  he 
frowned 
Then  he  laughed  right  scornfully — 
'  He  who  says  the  mass-rite  for  the  soul 
of  that  knight 
May  as  well  say  mass  for  me  : 

"  '  At  the  lone  midnight  hour  when  bad 
spirits  have  power 
In  thy  chamber  will  I  be. — ' 
With  that  he  was  gone  and  my  lady  left 
alone, 
And  no  more  did  I  see." 

Then   changed,    I   trow,  was  that  bold 
baron's  brow 
From  the  dark  to  the  blood-red  high  ; 
"  Now,  tell  me  the  mien  of  the  knight 
thou  hast  seen, 
For,  by  Mary,  he  shall  die  !  " 

"  His    arms    shone   full   bright   in    the 
beacon's  red  light ; 
His  plume  it  was  scarlet  and  blue  ; 
On   his   shield  was  a  hound  in  a  silver 
leash  bound, 
And   his  crest   was  a  branch  of  the 
yew." 

"  Thou  liest,  thou  liest,  thou  little  foot- 
page, 
Loud  dost  thou  lie  to  me  ! 
For  that  knight  is  cold  and  low  laid  ic 
mould, 
All  under  the  Eildon-tree." 


BRITISH    POETS 


•■  Ytt  hear  but  my  word,  my  noble  lord  ! 

For  I  heard  her  name  his  name  ; 
And   that    lady   bright,  she    called  the 
knight 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame." 

The  bold  baron's  brow  then  changed,  I 
trow. 
From  high  blood-red  to  pale— 
"The  grave  is  deep  and  dark — and  the 
corpse  is  stiff  and  stark — 
So  I  may  not  trust  thy  tale. 

"  Where   fair  Tweed  flows   round   holy 
Melrose, 

And  Eildon  slopes  to  the  plain, 
Full  three  nights  ago  by  some  secret  foe 

That  gay  gallant  was  slain. 

"  The  varying  light  deceived  thy  sight, 
And     the    wild    winds    di-owned   the 
name ; 
For   the   Dryburgh  bells   ring  and   the 
white  monks  do  sing 
For  Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  !  " 

He  passed  the  court-gate  and  he  oped  the 
tower-gate, 
And  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair 
To  the  bartizan-seat  where,  with  maids 
that  on  her  wait, 
He  found  his  lady  fair. 

That  lady  sat  in  mournful  mood  ; 

Looked  over  hill  and  vale  ; 
Over   Tweed's  fair  flood   and  Mertoun's 
wood, 

And  all  down  Teviotdale. 

"  Now  hail,  now  hail,  thou  lady  bright !  " 
"  Now  hail,  thou  baron  true  ! 

What    news,  what   news,  from  Ancram 
fight  ? 
What  news  from  the  bold  Buccleuch  !  " 

"  The  Ancram  moor  is  red  with  gore, 

For  many  a  Southern  fell ; 
And  Buccleuch  has  charged  us  evermore 

To  watch  our  beacons  well." 

The   lady   blushed  red,  but  nothing  she 
said  : 
Nor  added  the  baron  a  word  : 
Then  she  stepped  down   the  stair  to  her 
chamber  fair, 
And  so  did  her  moody  lord. 

In  sleep  the  lady  mourned,  and  the  baron 
tossed  and  turned, 
And  oft  to  himself  he  said, — 


"The  worms  around  him  creep,  and  his 
bloody  grave  is  deep — 
It  cannot  give  up  the  dead  1  " 

It  was  near  the  ringing  of  matin-bell, 
The  night  was  well-nigh  done, 

When  a  heavy  sleep  on  that  baron  fell, 
On  the  eve  of  good  Saint  John. 

The  lady  looked  through    the  chambei 
fair, 
By  the  light  of  a  dying  flame  ; 
And  she    was    aware   of  a  knight  stood 
there — 
Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  ! 

"  Alas  !  away,  away  !"  she  cried, 
"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake  !  " 

"  Lady,  I  knpw  who  sleeps  by  thy  side  ; 
But,  lady,  he  will  not  awake. 

"  By  Eildon-tree  for  long  nights  three 

In  bloody  grave  have  I  lain  ; 
The  mass  and  the  death-prayer  are  said 
for  me, 

But,  lady,  they  are  said  in  vain. 

"By  the  baron's  brand,  near  Tweed's  fair 
strand, 
Most  foully  slain  I  fell  ; 
And   my   restless  sprite  on  the  beacon's 
height 
For  a  space  is  doomed  to  dwell. 

"At    our   trysting-place,   for    a  certain 
space, 
I  must  wander  to  and  fro  ; 
But  I  had  not  had  power  to  come  to  thy 
bower 
Hadst  thou  not  conjured  me  so." 

Love     mastered    fear — her    brow     she 

crossed  ; 
"  How,  Richard,  hast  thou  sped  ? 
And  art  thou  saved  or  art  thou  lost  ?" 
The  vision  shook  his  head  ! 

"  Who  spilleth  life  shall  forfeit  life  : 

So  bid  thy  lord  believe  : 
That  lawless  love  is  guilt  above, 

This  awful  sign  receive." 

He  laid  his  left  palm  on  an  oaken  beam 

His  right  upon  her  hand  ; 
The  lady  shrunk  and  fainting  sunk, 

For  it  scorched  like  a  fiery  brand. 

The  sable  score  of  fingers  four 

Remains  on  that  board  impressed  ; 

And  forevermore  that  lady  wore 
A  covering  on  her  wrist. 


SCOTT 


in 


There  is  a  nun  in  Dryburgh  bower 

Ne'er  looks  upon  the  sun  ; 
There  is  a  monk  in  Melrose  tower 

He  speaketh  word  to  none. 

That  nun  who  ne'er  beholds  the  day, 
That  monk  who  speaks  to  none — 

That  nun  was  Srnayllio'me's  lady  gay, 
That  monk  the  bold  baron. 

1799.     1801. 

CADYOW  CASTLE 

When  princely  Hamilton's  abode 
Ennobled  Cadyow's  Gothic  towers, 

The  song  went  round,  the  goblet  flowed, 
And  revel  sped  the  laughing  hours. 

Then,  thrilling  to  the  harp's  gay  sound, 
So  sweetly  rung  each  vaulted  wall, 

And  echoed  light  the  dancer's  bound, 
As  mirth  and  music  cheered  the  hall. 

But  Cadyow's  towers  in  ruins  laid, 
And  vaults  by  ivy  mantled  o'er, 

Thrill  to  the  music  of  the  shade, 
Or  echo  Evan's  hoarser  roar. 

Yet  still  of  Cadyow's  faded  fame 
You  bid  me  tell  a  minstrel  tale, 

And  tune  my  harp  of  Border  frame 
On  the  wild  banks  of  Evandale. 

For  thou,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pride, 
From  pleasure's  lighter  scenes,  canst 
turn. 

To  draw  oblivion's  pall  aside 

A.nd  mark  the  long-forgotten  urn. 

Then,  noble  maid  !  at  thy  command 
Again  the  crumbled  halls  shall  rise  ; 

Lo  !  as  on  Evan's  banks  we  stand, 
The  past  returns — the  present  flies. 

Where  with  the  rock's  wood-covered  side 
Were  blended  late  the  ruins  green, 

Rise  turrets  in  fantastic  pride 
And  feudal  banners  flaunt  between  : 

Where  the  rude  torrent's  brawling  course 
Was  shagged  with  thorn  and  tangling 
sloe, 

The  ashler  buttress  braves  its  force 
And  ramparts  frown  in  battled  row. 

'Tis  night — the  shade  of  keep  and   spire 
Obscurely  dance  on  Evan's  stream  ; 

And  on  the  wave  the  warders  fire 
Is  checkering  the  moonlight  beam. 


Fades  slow  their  light  ;  the  east  is  gray  ; 

The  weary  warder  leaves  his  tower  ; 
Steeds  snort,  uncoupled  stag-hounds  bay, 

And  merry  hunters  quit  the  bower. 

The  drawbridge  falls — they  hurry  out- 
Clatters    each    plank    and     swinging 
chain, 

As,  dashing  o'er,  the  jovial  rout 
Urge  the  shy  steed  and  slack  the  rein. 

First  of  his  troop,  the  chief  rode  on  ; 

His   shouting   merry-men   throng  be- 
hind ; 
The  steed  of  princely  Hamilton 

Was  fleeter  than  the  mountain  wind. 

From    the    thick    copse    the    roebucks 
bound, 
The  startled  red-deer  scuds  the   plain, 
For  the  hoarse  bugle's  warrior-sound 
Has    roused    their    mountain    haunts 
again. 

Through  the  huge  oaks  of  Evandale, 
Whose  limbs  a   thousand  years   have 
worn, 
What  sullen  roar  comes  down  the  gale 
And    drowns     the    hunter's    pealing 
horn  ? 

Mightiest  of  all  the  beasts  of  chase 
That  roam  in  woody  Caledon, 

Crashing  the  forest  in  his  race, 
The  Mountain  Bull  comes   thundering 
on. 

Fierce  on  the.  hunter's  quivered  band 
He  rolls  his  eyes  of  swarthy  glow, 

Spurns  with   black  hoof  and    horn  the 
sand, 
And  tosses  high  his  mane  of  snow. 

Aimed  well  the    chieftain's    lance    has 
flown  ; 
Struggling  in  blood  the  savage  lies  ; 
His  roar  is  sunk  iu  hollow  groan — 
Sound,  merry  huntsmen  !    sound  the 
pryse 1 

'Tis  noon — against  the  knotted  oak 

The  hunters  rest  the  idle  spear  ; 
Curls    through    the    trees    the   slender 
smoke, 
Where  yeomen    dight    the  woodland 
cheer. 

Proudly  the  chieftain  marked  his  clan, 
On  greenwood  lap  all  careless  thrown. 


BRITISH   POETS 


Yi'i  missed  his  eye  the  boldest  man 
That  bore  the  name  of  Hamilton. 

••  Why  fills  not  Bothwellhaugh  his  place, 
Still  wont  our  weal  and  woe  to  share? 

Why  comes  he  not  our  sport  to  grace? 
Why  shares  he  not  our  hunter's  fare  ?  " 

Stern  Claud  replied  with  darkening 
face — 

( :  ray  Paisley's  haughty  lord  was  he — 
"  At  merry  feast  or  buxom  chase 

No  more  the  warrior  wilt  thou  see. 

"  Few  suns  have  set  since  Woodhouselee 
Saw  Bothwellhaugh's    bright    goblets 
foam, 
When  to  his  hearths  in  social  glee 
The    war-worn     soldier     turned    him 
home. 

"There,  wan  from  her  maternal  throes, 
His  Margaret,  beautiful  and  mild, 

Sate  in  her  bower,  a  pallid  rose, 
And    peaceful    nursed    her   new-born 
child. 

;'  O  change  accursed  !  past  are  those  days  ; 

False  Murray's  ruthless  spoilers  came, 
And,  for  the  hearth's  domestic  blaze, 

Ascends  destruction's  volumed  flame. 

"What  sheeted  phantom  -wanders  wild 
Where  mountain  Eske  through  wood- 
land flows. 

Her  arms  enfold  a  shadowy  child — 
O  !  is  it  she,  the  pallid  rose  ? 

"  The  wildered  traveller  sees  her  glide, 
And  hears  her  feeble  voice  with  awe — 
'  Revenge,'     she     cries,    '  on     Murray's 
pride  ! 
And     woe     for     injured     Bothwell- 
haugh ! ' " 

He  ceased — and  cries  of  rage  and  grief 
Burst  mingling  from  the  kindred  band, 

And  half  arose  the  kindling  chief, 
And  half  unsheathed  his  Arran  brand. 

But  who  o'er  bush,  o'er  stream  and  rock, 
Rides  headlong  with   resistless   speed, 

Whose  bloody  poniard's  frantic  stroke 
Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed  ; 

Whose   cheek   is  pale,    whose    eyeballs 
glare, 
As  one  some  visioned  sight  that  saw. 


Whose  hands  are  bloody ,  loose  his  hair  ?-* 
'Tis  he  1  'tis  he  1  'tis  Bothwellhaugh. 

From  gory  selle  and  reeling  steed 
Sprung  the  fierce  horseman    with    a 
bound, 

And,  reeking  from  the  l-ecent  deed, 
He  dashed  his  carbine  on  the  ground. 

Sternly  he  spoke — "  'Tis  sweet  to  hear 
In  good  greenwood  the  bugle  blown, 

But  sweeter  to  Revenge's  ear 
To  drink  a  tyrant's  dying  groan. 

"  Your  slaughtered  quarry  proudly  trode 
At  dawning  morn  o'er  dale  and  down, 

But  prouder  base-born  Murray  rode 
Through    old    Linlithgow's    crowded 
town. 

"  From  the  wild  Border's  humbled  side, 
In  haughty  triumph  marched  he, 

While  Knox  relaxed  his  bigot  pride 
And  smiled  the  traitorous  pomp  to  see 

"  But  can  stern  Power,  with  all  his  vaunt, 
Or  Pomp,  with  all  her  courtly  glare, 

The  settled  heart,  of  Vengeance  daunt, 
Or  change  the  purpose  of  Despair  ? 

"  With  hackbut  bent,  my  secret  stand, 
Dark  as  the  purposed  deed,  I  chose, 

And  marked  where  mingling  in  his  band 
Trooped  Scottish    pipes  and   English 
bows. 

"  Dark  Morton,  girt  with  man}'  a  spear, 
Murder's  foul  minion,  led  the  van  ; 

And   clashed   their  broadswords  in  the 
rear 
The  wild  Macfarlanes'  plaided  clan. 

"  Glencairn  and    stout    Parkhead  were 
nigh, 

Obsequious  at  their  Regent's  rein, 
And  haggard  Lindesay's  iron  eye, 

That  saw  fair  Mary  weep  in  vain. 

"  Mid  pennoned  spears,  a  steely  grove, 
Proud     Murray's      plumage     floated 
high  ; 

Scarce  could  his  trampling  charger  move, 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh. 

"  From  the  raised  vizor's  shade  his  eye, 
Dark-rolling,  glanced  the  ranks  along, 

And  his  steel  truncheon,  waved  on  high, 
Seemed  marshalling  the  iron  throng. 


SCOTT 


"3 


■'  But  yet  his  saddened  brow  confessed 
A  passing  shade  of  doubt  and  awe  ; 

Some  fiend  was  whispering  in  his  breast, 
"  Beware  of  injured  Bothwellhaugh  !  " 

/ 
"The   death-shot  parts!     the    charger 
springs  ; 
Wild  rises  tumult's  startling  roar  ! 
And  Murray's  plumy  helmet  rings — 
Rings  on  the  ground  to  rise  no  more. 

"  What  joy  the  raptured  youth  can  feel, 
To  hear  her  love  the  loved  one  tell- 

Or  he  who  broaches  on  his  steel 
The  wolf  by  whom  his  infant  fell. 

"  But  dearer  to  my  injured  eye 
To  see  in  dust  proud  Murray  roll  ; 

And  mine  was  ten  times  trebled  joy 
To  hear  him  groan  his  felon  soul. 

"  My  Margaret's  spectre  glided  near. 

With  pride  her  bleeding  victim  saw, 
And  shrieked  in  his  death-deafened  ear, 

'  Remember  injured  Bothwellhaugh  ! ' 

"  Then  speed  thee,  noble  Chatlerault  ! 

Spread  to  the  wind  thy  bannered  tree  ! 
Each  warrior  bend  his  Clydesdale  bow  — 

Murray  is  fallen  and  Scotland  free  !  " 

Vaults  every  warrior  to  his  steed  ; 

Loud  bugles  join  their  wild  acclaim — 
"  Murray  is  fallen  and  Scotland  freed  ! 

Couch,  Arran,  couch  thy  spear  of 
flame ! " 

But  see  !  the  minsti'el  vision  fails — 
The  glimmering  spears   are    seen    no 
more  ; 

The  shouts  of  war  die  on  the  gales, 
Or  sink  in  Evan's  lonely  roar. 

For  the  loud  bugle  pealing  high, 
The  blackbird  whistles  down  the  vale, 

And  sunk  in  ivied  ruins  lie 

The  bannered  towers  of  Evandale. 

For  chiefs  intent  on  bloody  deed. 

And  Vengeance  shouting  o'er  the  slain, 

Lo  !  high-born  Beauty  rules  the  steed, 
Or  graceful  guides  the  silken  rein. 

And  Ions  may  Peace  and  Pleasure  own 
The  maids  "who  list  the  minstrel's  tale  ; 

Nor  e'er  a  ruder  guest  be  known 
On  the  fair  banks  of  Evandale ! 

1801.     1803. 


THE  MAID  OF  NEIDPATH 

O,  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see, 

And  lovers'  ears  in  hearing  ; 
And  love  in  life's  extremity 

Can  lend  an  hour  of  cheering. 
Disease  had  been  in  Mary's  bower, 

And  slow  decay  from  mourning, 
Though   now    she    sits    on    Neidpath's 
tower 

To  watch  her  love's  returning. 

All  sunk  and  dim  her  eyes  so  bright, 

Her  form  decayed  by  pining, 
Till  through  her  wasted  hand  at  night 

You  saw  the  taper  shining  ; 
By  fits,  a  sultry  hectic  hue 

Across  her  cheek  was  flying  ; 
By  fits,  so  ashy  pale  she  grew, 

Her  maidens  thought  her  dying. 

Yet  keenest  powers  to  see  and  hear 

Seemed  in  her  frame  residing  ; 
Before  the  watch-dog  pricked  his  ear, 

She  heard  her  lover's  riding  ; 
Ere  scarce  a  distant  form  was  kenned, 

She  knew,  and  waved  to  greet  him  ; 
And  o'er  the  battlement  did  bend, 

As  on  the  wing  to  meet  him. 

He  came — he  passed — an  heedless  gaze, 

As  o'er  some  stranger  glancing  ; 
Her  welcome,  spoke  in  faltering  phrase, 

Lost  in  his  courser's  prancing — 
The  castle  arch,  whose  hollow  tone 

Returns  each  whisper  spoken, 
Could  scarcely  catch  the  feeble  moan 

Which  told  her  heart  was  broken. 

1806. 

HUNTING  SONG 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day, 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 

With    hawk    and    horse  and   hunting 

spear  ! 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling 
Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  ai-e  steaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming  ; 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green  • 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay," 


U4 


BRITISH    POETS 


Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  green-wood  haste  away  ; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made, 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed  ; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
••  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 


Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we  ; 

Time,  stern  huntsman,  who  can  balk, 

Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk  ? 

Think  of  this  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay.  1806 


MARMION 


A  TALE  OF  FLODDEN  FIELD 


See  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott,  Vol.  Ill,  Chap.  16. 


.   CANTO  FIRST 


THE   CASTLE 


Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone  ; 
The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep, 
The    loophole    grates    where    captives 

weep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height ; 
Their  armor,  as  it  caught  the  rays, 
Flashed  back  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 

Saint  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay, 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung  ; 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 
The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search, 

The  castle  gates  were  barred  ; 
Above  the  gloom y  portal  arch, 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march, 

The  warder  kept  his  guard, 
Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along, 
Some  ancient  Border  gathering  song. 

A  distant  trampling  sound  he  hears  ; 
He  looks  abroad,  and  soon  appears, 
O'er  Horncliff-hill,  a  plump  of  spears 

Beneath  a  pennon  gay  : 
A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud, 
Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud, 

Before  the  dark  array. 


Beneath  the  sable  palisade 

That  closed  the  castle  barricade, 

His  bugle-horn  he  blew  ; 

The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall, 

And  warned  the  captain  in  the  hall, 

For  well  the  blast  he  knew  ; 
And  joyfully  that  knight  did  call 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seneschal. 

"  Now  broach  ye  a  pipe  of  Malvoisie, 

Bring  pasties  of  the  doe, 
And  quickly  make  the  entrance  free, 
And  bid  my  heralds  ready  be. 
And  every  minstrel  sound  his  glee, 

And  all  our  trumpets  blow  ; 
And,  from  the  platform,  spare  ye  not 
To  fire  a  noble  salvo-shot ; 

Lord  Marmion  waits  below  ! " 
Then  to  the  castle's  lower  ward 

Sped  forty  yeomen  tall, 
The  iron-studded  gates  unbarred, 
Raised  the  portcullis'  ponderous  guard 
The  lofty  palisade  unsparred, 

And  let  the  drawbridge  fall. 

Along  the  bridge  Lord  Marmion  rode, 
Proudly  his  red-roan  charger  trode, 
His  helm  hung  at  the  saddle  bow  ; 
Well  by  his  visage  you  might  know 
He  was  a  stalworth  knight  and  keen, 
And  had  in  many  a  battle  been  ; 
The  scar  on  his  brown  cheek  revealed 
A  token  true  of  Bos  worth  field  ; 
His  eyebrow  dark  and  eye  of  fire 
Showed  spirit  proud  and  prompt  to  ire, 
Yet  lines  of  thought  upon  his  cheek 
Did  deep  design  and  counsel  speak. 
His  forehead,  by  his  casque  worn  bare, 
His  thick  moustache  and  curly  hair, 
Coal-black,  and  grizzled  here  and  there, 
But  more  through  toil  than  age, 


SCOTT 


"5 


His  square-turned  joints  and  strength  of 

limb, 
Showed  him  no  carpet  knight  so  trim, 
But  in  close  fight  a  champion  grim, 
In  camps  a  leader  sage. 

Well  was  he  armed  from  head  to  heel, 

In  mail  and  plate  of  Milan  steel ; 

But  his  strong  helm,  of  mighty  cost, 

Was  all  with  burnished  gold  embossed. 

Amid  the  plumage  of  the  crest 

A  falcon  hovered  on  her  nest. 

With    wings    outspread    and     forward 

breast ; 
E'en  such  a  falcon,  on  his  shield, 
Soared  sable  in  an  azure  field : 
The  golden  legend  bore  aright, 
"  Who  checks  at  me.  to  death  is  dight." 
Blue  was  the  charger's  broidered  rein  ; 
Blue  ribbons  decked  his  arching  mane  ; 
The  knightly  housing's  ample  fold 
Was  velvet  blue  and  trapped  with  gold. 

Behind  him  rode  two  gallant  squires, 
Of  noble  name  and  knightly  sires : 
They  burned  the  gilded  spurs  to  claim, 
For  well  could  each  a  war-horse  tame. 
Could  draw  the  bow,  the  sword  could 

sway, 
And  lightly  bear  the  ring  away  ; 
Nor  less  with  courteous  precepts  stored, 
Could  dance  in  hall,  and  carve  at  board, 
And  frame  love-ditties  passing  rare, 
And  sing  them  to  a  lady  fair. 

Four  men-at-arms  came  at  their  backs, 
With  halbert,  bill,  and  battle-axe  ; 
They   bore    Lord    Marmion's    lance    so 

strong 
And  led  his  sumpter-mules  along, 
And  ambling  palfrey,  when  at  need 
Him  listed  ease  his  battle-steed. 
The  last  and  trustiest  of  the  four 
On  high  his  i'orky  pennon  bore  ; 
Like  swallow's  tail  in  shape  and  hue, 
Fluttered  the  streamer  glossy  blue, 
Where,  blazoned  sable,  as  befoi'e, 
The  towering  falcon  seemed  to  soar. 
Last,  twenty  yeomen,  two  and  two 
In  hosen  black  and  jerkins  blue, 
With  falcons  broidered  on  each  breast, 
Attended  on  their  lord's  behest. 
Each,  chosen  for  an  archer  good, 
Knew  hunting-craft  by  lake  or  wood  ; 
Each  one  a  six-foot  bow  could  bend, 
And  far  a  cloth-yard  shaft  could  send  ; 
Each  held  a  boar-spear  tough  and  strong, 
And  at  their  belts  their  quivers  rung. 
Their  dusty  palfreys  and  array 
Showed  they  had  marched  a  weary  way. 


'Tis  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  now, 
How  fairly  armed,  and  ordered  how, 

The  soldiers  of  the  guard, 
With  musket,  pike,  and  morion, 
To  welcome  noble  Marmion, 

Stood  in  the  castle -yard  ; 
Minstrels  and  trumpeters  were  there, 
The  gunner  held  his  linstock  yare, 

For  welcome-shot  prepared  : 
Entered  the  train,  and  such  a  clang 
As  then  through  all  his  turrets  rang 

Old  'Norham  never  heard. 

The  guards  their  morrice-pikes  advanced, 

The  trumpets  flourished  brave, 
The  cannon  from  the  ramparts  glanced, 

And  thundering  welcome  gave. 
A  blithe  salute,  in  martial  sort, 

The  minstrels  well  might  sound, 
For,  as  Lord  Marmion  crossed  the  court, 

He  scattered  angels  round. 
"Welcome  to  Norham,  Marmion  ! 

Stout  heart  and  open  hand  ! 
Well  dost  thou  brook  thy  gallant  roan, 

Thou  flower  of  English  land  !  " 

Two  pursuivants,  whom  tabards  deck, 
With  silver  scutcheon  round  their  neck, 

Stood  on  the  steps  of  stone 
By  which  you  reach  the  donjon  gate, 
And  there,  with  herald  pomp  and  state, 

They  hailed  Lord  Marmion  : 
They  hailed  him  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbaye, 

Of  Tamworth  tower  and  town  ; 
And  he,  their  courtesy  to  requite, 
Gave  them    a  chain  of  twelve  marks 
weight, 

All  as  he  lighted  down. 
"  Now,  largesse,  largesse,  Lord  Marmion, 

Knight  of  the  crest  of  gold  ! 
A  blazoned  shield,  in  battle  won, 

Ne'er  guarded  heart  so  bold." 

They  marshalled  him  to  the  castle-hall, 

Where  the  guests  stood  all  aside. 
And  loudly  flourished  the  trumpet-call, 

And  the  heralds  loudly  cried, — 
"  Room,  lordlings,  room   for  Lord   Mar- 
mion, 

Witli  the  crest  and  helm  of  gold  ! 
Full  well  we  know  the  trophies  won 

In  the  lists  at  Cottiswold  : 
There,  vainly  Ralph  de  Wilton  strove 

'Gainst  Marmion's  force  to  stand  ; 
To  him  he  lost  his  lady-love, 

And  to  the  king  his  land. 
Ourselves  beheld  the  listed  field, 

A  sight  both  sad  and  fair ; 


xi6 


BRITISH  POETS 


We  saw  Lord  Marmion  pierce  his  shield, 

And  saw  his  saddle  bare  ; 
We  saw  tlic  victor  win  the  crest 

He  wears  with  worthy  pride, 
And  on  the  gibbet-tree,  reversed, 

His  foenian's  scutcheon  tied. 
Place,  nobles,  for  the  Falcon-Knight ! 

Room,  room,  ye  gentles  gay. 
For  him  who  conquered  in  the  right, 

Marmion  of  Fontenaye  !  " 

Then  stepped,  to  meet  that  noble  lord, 

Sir  Hugh  the  Heron  bold, 
Baron  of  Twisell  and  of  Ford, 

And  Captain  of  the  Hold  ; 
He  led  Lord  Marmion  to  the  deas, 

Raised  o'er  the  pavement  high, 
And  placed  him  in  the  upper  place — 

They  feasted  full  and  high  : 
The  whiles  a  Northern  harper  rude 
Chanted  a  rhyme  of  deadly  feud, 

"How  the   fierce  Thirwalls,  and   Rid- 
leys  all, 
Stout  Willimondswick, 
And  Hardriding  Dick, 
And  Hughie  of  Hawdon,  and  Will  o' 
the  Wall, 
Have   set   on   Sir  Albany   Featherston- 

haugh, 
And  taken  his   life   at  the   Dead-man's- 
shaw." 
Scantly    Lord     Marmion's  ear  could 
brook 
The  harper's  barbarous  lay, 
Yet  much  he  praised  the  pains  he  took, 
And  well  those  pains  did  pay  ; 
For  lady's  suit  and  minstrel's  strain 
By  knight  should  ne'er  be  heard  in  vain. 

"  Now  good  Lord  Marmion,"  Heron  says, 

"  Of  your  fair  courtesy, 
I  pray  you  bide  some  little  space 

In  this  poor  tower  with  me. 
Here  may  you  keep  your  arms  from  rust, 

May  breathe  your  war-horse  well  ; 
Seldom  hath  passed  a  week  but  joust 

Or  feat  of  arms  befell. 
The  Scots  can  rein  a  mettled  steed, 

Bnd  love  to  couch  a  spear  ; — 
Saint  George  !  a  stirring  life  they  lead 

That  have  such  neighbors  near  ! 
Then  stay  with  us  a  little  space, 

Our  Northern  wars  to  learn  ; 
I  pray  you  for  your  lady's  grace  !  " 

Lord  Marmion's  brow  grew  stern. 

The  Captain  marked  his  altered  look, 

And  gave  the  squire  the  sign  ; 
A  mighty  wassail-bowl  he  took, 


And  crowned  it  high  with  wine. 
"  Now  pledge  me  here,  Lord  Marmion  ; 

But  first  I  pray  thee  fair, 
Where  hast  thou  left  that  page  of  thine 
That  used  to  serve  thy  cup  of  wine, 

Whose  beauty  was  so  rare  ? 
When  last  in  Raby-towers  we  met, 

The  boy  I  closely  eyed, 
And  often  marked  his  cheeks  were  wet 

With  tears  he  fain  would  hide. 
His  was  no  rugged  horse-boy's  hand, 
To  burnish  shield  or  sharpen  brand, 

Or  saddle  battle-steed, 
But  meeter  seemed  for  lady  fair, 
To  fan  her  cheek,  or  curl  her  hair, 
Or  through  embroidery,  rich  and  rare, 

The  slender  silk  to  lead  ; 
His  skin  was  fair,  his  ringlets  gold, 

His  bosom — when  he  sighed, 
The  russet  doublet's  rugged  fold 

Could  scarce  repel  its  pride  ! 
Say,  hast  thou  given  that  lovely  youth 

To  serve  in  lady's  bower  ? 
Or  was  the  gentle  page,  in  sooth, 

A.  gentle  paramour  ?  " 

Lord  Marmion  ill  could  brook  such  jest ; 

He  rolled  his  kindling  eye, 
With  pain  his  rising  wrath  suppressed, 

Yet  made  a  calm  reply  ; 
"  That  boy  thou  thought  so  goodly  fair, 
He  might  not  brook  the  Northern  air. 
More  of  his  fate  if  thou  wouldst  learn, 
I  left  him  sick  in  Lindisfarne. 
Enough  of  him. — But,  Heron,  say, 
Why  does  thy  lovely  lady  gay 
Disdain  to  grace  the  hall  to-day  ? 
Or  has  that  dame,  so  fair  and  sage, 
Gone  on  some  pious  pilgrimage  ?  " — 
He  spoke  in  covert  scorn,  for  fame 
Whispered  light  tales  of  Heron's  dame. 

Unmarked,  at  least  um-ecked.  the  taunt 

Careless  the  knight  replied  : 
"No  bird  whose  feathers  gaily  flaunt 

Delights  in  cage  to  bide  ; 
Norham  is  grim  and  grated  close, 
Hemmed  in  by  battlement  and  fosse, 

And  many  a  darksome  tower, 
And  better  loves  my  lady  bright 
To  sit  in  liberty  and  light 

In  fair  Queen  Margaret's  bower. 
We  hold  our  greyhound  in  our  hand. 

Our  falcon  on  our  glove, 
But  where  shall  we  find  leash  or  band 

For  dame  that  loves  to  rove  ? 
Let  the  wild  falcon  soar  her  swing, 
She  '11    stoop  when   she  has  tried   her 
wing." — 


SCOTT 


117 


"  Nay,  if  with  Royal  James's  bride 

The  lovely  Lady  Heron  bide, 

Behold  me  here  a  messenger, 

Your  tender  greetings  prompt  to  bear  ; 

For,  to  the  Scottish  court  addressed, 

I  journey  at  our  king's  behest, 

And  pray  you.  of  your  grace,  provide 

For  me  and  mine  a  trusty  guide. 

I  have  not  ridden  in  Scotland  since 

James  backed  the  cause  of  that  mock 

prince, 
Warbeck.  that  Flemish  counterfeit, 
Who  on  the  gibbet  paid  the  cheat. 
Then  did  I  march  with   Surrey's  power, 
What  time  we  razed  old  Ay  ton  tower." — 

"  For  such-like  need,  my  lord,  I  trow, 
Norham  can  find  you  guides  enow  ; 
For  here  be  some  have  pricked  as  far 
On  Scottish  grounds  as  to  Dunbar, 
Have     drunk     the     monks     of     Saint 

Bethan's  ale, 
And  driven  the  beeves  of  Lauderdale, 
Harried  the  wives  of  Greenlaw's  goods, 
And   given    them    light    to    set    their 

hoods. " 

"  Now,   in  good  sooth."  Lord  Marmion 

cried, 
"  Were  I  in  warlike-wise  to  ride, 
A  better  guard  I  would  not  lack 
Than  your  stout  forayers  at  my  back  ; 
But  as  in  form  of  peace  I  go, 
A  friendly  messenger,  to  know, 
Why,  through  all   Scotland,   near  and 

far, 
Their  king  is  mustering  troops  for  war. 
The  sight  of  plundering  Border  spears 
Might  justify  suspicious  fears, 
And  deadly  feud  or  thirst  of  spoil 
Break  out  in  some  unseemly  broil. 
A  herald  were  my  fitting  guide  ; 
Or  friar,  sworn  in  peace  to  bide  ; 
Or  pardoner,  or  travelling  priest. 
Or  strolling  pilgrim,  at  the  least." 

The  Captain  mused  a  little  space, 
And  passed  Ins  hand  across  his  face. — 
"  Fain  would  I  find  the  guide  you  want, 
But  ill  may  spare  a  pursuivant, 
The  only  men  that  safe  can  ride 
Mine  errands  on  the  Scottish  side  : 
And  though  a  bishop  built  this  fort, 
Few  holy  brethren  here  resort ; 
Even  our  good  chaplain,  as  I  ween, 
Since  our  last  siege  we  have  not  seen, 
The  mass  he  might  not  sing  or  say 
Upon  one  stinted  meal  a  day  ; 
So,  safe  he  sat  in  Durham  aisle, 


And  prayed  for  our  success  the  while. 
Our  Norham  vicar,  woe  betide, 
Is  all  too  well  in  case  to  ride  ; 
The  priest  of  Shoreswood — he  could  rein 
The  wildest  wardiorse  in  your  train, 
But  then  no  spearman  in  the  hall 
Will  sooner  swear,  or  stab,  or  brawl. 
Friar  John  of  Tillmouth  were  the  man  ; 
A  blithesome  brother  at  the  can, 
A  welcome  guest  in  hall  and  bower, 
He  knows  each  castle,  town,  and  tower, 
In  which  the  wine  and  ale  is  good, 
'Twixt  Newcastle  and  Holy-Rood. 
But  that  good  man,  as  ill  befalls, 
Hath  seldom  left  our  castle  walls, 
Since,  on  the  vigil  of  Saint  Bede, 
In  evil  hour  he  crossed  the  Tweed, 
To  teach  Dame  Alison  her  creed. 
Old  Bughtrig  found  him  with  his  wife, 
And  John,  an  enemy  to  strife, 
Sans  frock  and  hood,  fled  for  his  life. 
The  jealous  churl  hath  deeply  sworn 
That,  if  again  he  venture  o'er 
He  shall  shrieve  penitent  no  more. 
Little  he  loves  such  risks,  I  know, 
Yet  in  your  guard  perchance  will  go." 

Young  Selby,  at  the  fair  hall-board. 
Carved  to  his  uncle  and  that  lord, 
And  reverently  took  up  the  word  : 
"  Kind  uncle,  woe  were  we  eacli  one, 
If  harm  should  hap  to  brother  John. 
He  is  a  man  of  mirthful  speech. 
Can  many  a  game  and  gamhol  teach ; 
Full  well  at  tables  can  he  play, 
And  sweep  at  bowls  the  stake  away. 
None  can  a  lustier  carol  bawl, 
The  needfullest  among  us  all, 
When  time  hangs  heavy  in  the  hall, 
And   snow   comes    thick   at   Christmas 

tide, 
And  we  can  neither  hunt  nor  ride 
A  foray  on  the  Scottish  side. 
The  vowed  revenge  of  Bughtrig  rude 
May  end  in  worse  than  loss  of  hood, 
Let  friar  John  in  safety  still 
In  chimney-corner  snore  his  fill, 
Roast  hissing  crabs,  or  flagons  swill ; 
Last  night,  to  Norham  there  came  one 
Will  better  guide  Lord  Marmion." — 
"  Nephew,"  quoth  Heron,  "  by  my  fay, 
Well   hast   thou   spoke  ;  say   forth  thv 

say."— 

"  Here  is  a  holy  Palmer  come, 

From  Salem  first,  and  last  from  Rome  ; 

One  that  hath  kissed  the  blessed  tomb, 

And  visited  each  holy  shrine 

In  Araby  and  Palestine  ; 


iS 


BRITISH    POETS 


On  hills  of  Armenia  bath  been, 
Where  Noah's  ark  may  yet  be  seen  ; 
By  fchat  Red  Sea,  too,  hath  he  trod, 
Which  parted  at  the  Prophet's  rod; 
In  Smai's  wilderness  he  saw 
The  Mount  where  Israel  heard  the  law, 
Mid  thunder-dint,  and  flashing  levin, 
And    shadows,     mists,     and    darkness, 

given. 
He  shows  Saint  James's  cockle-shell, 
Of  fair  Montserrat,  too,  can  tell  ; 

And  of  that  Grot  where  Olives  nod, 
Where,  darling  of  each  heart  and  eye, 
From  all  the  youth  of  Sicily, 

Saint  Rosalie  retired  to  God. 

"  To    stout    Saint    George    of  Norwich 

merry, 
Saint  Thomas,  too,  of  Canterbury, 
Cuthbert  of  Durham  and  Saint  Bede, 
For  his  sins'  pardon  hath  he  prayed. 
He  knows  the  passes  of  the  North, 
And  seeks  far  shrines  beyond  the  Forth  ; 
Little  he  eats,  and  long  will  wake, 
And  drinks  but  of  the  stream  or  lake. 
This  were  a  guide  o'er  moor  and  dale  ; 
But  when  our  John  hath  quaffed  his  ale, 
As  little  as  the  wind  that  blows, 
And  warms  itself  against  his  nose, 
Kens  he,  or  cares,  which  way  he  goes." — 

"  Gramercy  !  "  quoth  Lord  Marmion, 
"  Full  loath  were  I  that  Friar  John, 
That  venerable  man,  for  me 
Were  placed  in  fear  or  jeopardy  : 
If  this  same  Palmer  will  me  lead 

From  hence  to  Holy- Rood, 
Like  his  good  saint,  I'll  pay  his  meed, 
Instead  of  cockle-  shell  or  bead, 

With  angels  fair  and  good. 
I  love  such  holy  ramblers  ;  still 
They  know  to  charm  a  weary  hill 

With  song,  romance,  or  lay  : 
Some  jovial  tale,  or  glee,  or  jest, 
Some  lying  legend,  at  the  least, 

They  bring  to  cheer  the  way." — 

"  Ah  !  noble  sir,"  young  Selby  said, 

And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid, 

"  This  man  knows  much,  perchance  e'en 

more 
Than  he  could  learn  by  holy  lore. 
Still  to  himself  he's  muttering, 
And  shrinks  as  at  some  unseen  thing. 
Last  night  we  listened  at  his  cell  ; 
Strange  sounds  we  heard,  and,  sooth  to 

tell, 
He  murmured  on  till  morn,  howe'er 
No  living  mortal  could  be  near. 


Sometimes  I  thought  I  heard  it  plain, 
As  other  voices  spoke  again. 
I  cannot  tell — I  like  it  not — 
Friar  John  hath  told  us  it  is  wrote, 
No  conscience  clear  and  void  of  wrong 
Can  rest  awake  and  pray  so  long. 
Himself  still  sleeps  before  his  beads 
Have     marked      ten      aves     and    two 
creeds." — 

"Let  pass,"  quoth  Marmion;    "by  my 

fay, 
This  man  shall  guide  me  on  my  way, 
Although  the  great  arch-fiend  and  he 
Had  sworn  themselves  of  company. 
So  please  you,  gentle  youth,  to  call 
This  Palmer  to  the  castle-hall." 
The  summoned  Palmer  came  in  place  : 
His  sable  cowl  o'erhung  his  face  ; 
In  his  black  mantle  was  he  clad, 
With  Peter's  keys,  in  cloth  of  red, 

On  his  broad  shoulders  wrought ; 
The  scallop  shell  his  cap  did  deck  ; 
The  crucifix  around  his  neck 

Was  from  Loretto  brought ; 
His  sandals  were  with  travel  tore. 
Staff,  budget,  bottle,  scrip,  he  wore  ; 
The  faded  palm-branch  in  his  hand 
Showed  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Land. 

When  as  the  Palmer  came  in  hall, 

Nor  lord  nor  knight  was  there  more  tall, 

Or  had  a  statelier  step  withal, 

Or  looked  more  high  and  keen  ; 
For  no  saluting  did  he  wait, 
But  strode  across  the  hall  of  state, 
And  fronted  Marmion  where  he  sate, 

As  he  his  peer  had  been. 
But    his   gaunt   frame   was  worn   with 

toil; 
His  cheek  was  sunk,  alas  the  while  ! 
And  when  he  struggled  at  a  smile 

His  eye  looked  haggard  wild  : 
Poor  wretch,  the  mother  that  him  bare, 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there, 
In  his  wan  face  and  sunburnt  hair 

She  had  not  known  her  child. 
Danger,  long  travel,  want,  or  woe, 
Soon    change  the   form  that   best    we 

know — 
For  deadly  fear  can  time  outgo, 

And  blanch  at  once  the  hair  ; 
Hard  toil  can  roughen  form  and  face, 
And  want  can  quench  the  eye's  bright 

grace, 
Nor  does  old  age  a  wrinkle  trace 

More  deeply  than  despair. 
Happy  whom  none  of  these  befall, 
But  this  poor  Palmer  knew  them  all, 


SCOTT 


119 


Lord  Marmion  then  his  boon  did  ask  ; 
The  Palmer  took  on  him  the  task, 
So  he  would  march  with  morning  tide, 
To  Scottish  court  to  be  his  guide. 
"  But  I  have  solemn  vows  to  pay, 
And  may  not  linger  by  the  way, 

To  fair  Saint  Andrew's  bound, 
Within  the  ocean-cave  to  pray, 
Where  good  Saint  Rule  his  holy  lay, 
From  midnight  to  the  dawn  of  day, 

Sung  to  the  billows'  sound  ; 
Thence  to  Saint  Fillan's  blessed  well, 
Whose  spring  can  frenzied  dreams  dispel 

And  the  crazed  brain  restore. 
Saint  Mary  grant  that  cave  or  spring 
Could  back  to  peace  my  bosom  bring, 

Or  bid  it  throb  no  more  I  " 

And  now  the  midnight  draught  of  sleep, 
Where  wine  and  spices  richly  steep, 
In  massive  bowl  of  silver  deep, 

The  page  presents  on  knee. 
Lord  Marmion  drank  a  fair  good  rest, 
The  Captain  pledged  his  noble  guest, 
The  cup  went  through  among  the  rest, 

Who  drained  it  merrily  ; 
Alone  the  Palmer  passed  it  by, 
Though  Selby  pressed  him  courteously. 
This  was  a  sign  the  feast  was  o'er ; 
It  hushed  the  merry  wassail  roar, 

The  minstrels  ceased  to  sound. 
Soon  in  the  castle  nought  was  heard 
But  the  slow  footstep  of  the  guard 

Pacing  his  sober  round. 

With  early  dawn  Lord  Marmion  rose  : 
And  first  the  chapel  doors  unclose  ; 
Then,  after  morning"  rites  were  done — 
A  hasty  mass  from  Friar  John — 
And  knight  and  squire  had  broke  their 

fast 
On  rich  substantial  repast, 
Lord  Marmion's  bugle  blew  to  horse. 
Then  came  the  stirrup-cup  in  course  : 
Between  the  baron  and  his  host, 
No  point  of  courtesy  was  lost ; 
High  thanks  were  by  Lord  Marmion  paid, 
Solemn  excuse  the  Captain  made, 
Till,  filing  from  the  gate,  had  passed 
That  noble  train,  their  lord  the  last. 
Then  loudly  rung  the  trumpet  call ; 
Thundered  the  cannon  from  the  wall, 

And  shook  the  Scottish  shore  ; 
Around  the  castle  eddied  slow 
Volumes  of  smoke  as  white  as  snow 

And  hid  its  turrets  hoar, 
Till  they  rolled  forth  upon  the  air, 
And  met  the  river  breezes  there, 
Which  gave  again  the  prospect  fair. 


CANTO  SECOND 

THE    CONVENT 

The  breeze  which  swept  away  the  smoke 

Round  Norham  Castle  rolled, 
When  all  the  loud  artillery  spoke 
With  lightning-flash  and  thunder-stroke, 

As  Marmion  left  the  Hold. — 
It  curled  not  Tweed  alone,  that  breeze. 
For,  far  upon  Northumbrian  seas, 

It  freshly  blew  and  strong. 
Where,  from   high  Whitby's  cloistered 

pile, 
Bound  to  Saint  Cuthbert's  Holy  Isle, 

It  bore  a  bark  along. 
Upon  the  gale  she  stooped  her  side, 
And  bounded  o'er  the  swelling  tide, 

As  she  were  dancing  home  ; 
The  merry  seamen  laughed  to  see 
Their  gallant  ship  so  lustily 

Furrow  the  green  sea-foam. 
Much     joyed    they     in    their     honored 

freight ; 
For,  on  the  deck,  in  chair  of  state, 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda  placed, 
With  five  fair  nuns,  the  galley  graced. 

"T  was  sweet  to  see  these  holy  maids, 
Like  birds  escaped  to  greenwood  shades, 

Their  first  flight  from  the  cage, 
How  timid,  and  how  curious  too, 
For  all  to  them  was  strange  and  new, 
And  all  the  common  sights  they  view 

Their  wonderment  engage. 
One  eyed  the  shrouds  and  swelling  sail, 

With  many  a  benedicite  ; 
One  at  the  rippling  surge  grew  pale, 

And  would  for  terror  pray, 
Then  shrieked  because  the  sea-dog  nigh 
His  round  black  head  and  sparkling  eye 

Reared  o'er  the  foaming  spray  ; 
And  one  would  still  adjust  her  veil 
Disordered  by  the  summer  gale. 
Perchance  lest  some  more  worldly  eye 
Her  dedicated  charms  might  spy, 
Perchance  because  such  action  graced 
Her  fair-turned  arm  and  slender  waist. 
Light  was  each  simple  bosom  there, 
Save  two,  who  ill  might  pleasure  share, — 
The  Abbess  and  the  Novice  Clare. 

The  Abbess  was  of  noble  blood, 

But  early  took  the  veil  and  hood, 

Ere  upon  life  she  cast  a  look. 

Or  knew  the  world  that  she  forsook. 

Fair  too  she  was,  and  kind  had  been 

As  she  was  fair,  but  ne'er  had  seen 

For  her  a  timid  lover  sigh, 

Nor  knew  the  influence  of  her  eye. 


BRITISH   POETS 


Love  to  her  ear  was  but  a  name, 
Combined  with  vanity  and  shame  ; 
Her  hopes,  her  fears,  her  joys,  were  all 
Bounded  within  the  cloister  wall; 
The  deadliest  sin  her  mind  could  reach 
Was  of  monastic  rule  the  breach, 
And  her  ambition's  highest  aim 
To  emulate  Saint  Hilda's  fame. 
For  this  she  gave  her  ample  dower 
To  raise  the  convent's  eastern  tower  ; 
For  this,  with   carving  rare  and  quaint, 
She  decked  the  chapel  of  the  saint, 
And  gave  the  relic-shrine  of  cost, 
With  ivory  and  gems  embossed. 
The  poor  her  convent's  bounty  blest, 
The  pilgrim  in  its  halls  found  rest. 

Black  was  her  garb,  her  rigid  rule 
Reformed  on  Benedictine  school  ; 
Her  cheek  was  pale,  her  form  was  spare  ; 
Vigils  and  penitence  austere 
Had  early  quenched  the  light  of  youth  : 
But  gentle  was  the  dame,  in  sooth  ; 
Though,  vain  of  her  religious  sway, 
She  loved  to  see  her  maids  obey, 
Yet  nothing  stern  was  she  in  cell, 
And  the  nuns  loved  their  Abbess  well. 
Sad  was  this  voyage  to  the  dame  ; 
Summoned  to  Lindisfarne,  she  came, 
There,  with  Saint   Cuthbert's  Abbot  old 
And  Tynemouth's  Prioress,  to  hold 
A  chapter  of  Saint  Benedict, 
For  inquisition  stern  and  strict 
On  two  apostates  from  the  faith, 
And,  if  need  were,  to  doom  to  death. 

Nought  say  I  here  of  Sister  Clare, 
Save  this,  that  she  was  young  and  fair  ; 
As  yet  a  novice  unprofessed, 
Lovely  and  gentle,  but  distressed, 
She  was  betrothed  to  one  now  dead, 
Or  worse,  who  had  dishonored  fled. 
Her  kinsmen  bade  her  give  her  hand 
To  one  who  loved  her  for  her  land  ; 
Herself,  almost  heart-broken  now, 
Was  bent  to  take  the  vestal  vow, 
And  shroud  within  Saint   Hilda's  gloom 
Her  blasted  hopes  and  withered  bloom. 

She  sate  upon  the  galley's  prow, 
And  seemed  to  mark  the  waves  below  ; 
Nay,  seemed,  so  fixed  her  look  and  eye, 
To  count  them  as  they  glided  by  : 
She  saw  them  not — 't  was  seeming  all — 
Far  other  scene  her  thoughts  recall — , 
A  sun-scorched  desert,  waste  and   bare  ; 
Nor  waves  nor  breezes  murmured  there  ; 
There  saw  she  where  some  careless  hand 
O'er  a  dead  corpse  had  heaped  the  sand, 


To  hide  it  till  the  jackals  come 
To  tear  it  from  the  scanty  tomb. — 
See  what  a  woful  look  was  given, 
As  she  raised  up  her  eyes  to  heaven  ! 

Lovely,  and  gentle,  and  distressed — 
These  charms   might  tame   the   fiercest 

breast .: 
Harpers  have  sung  and  poets  told 
That  he,  in  fury  uncontrolled. 
The  shaggy  monarch  of  the  wood, 
Before  a  virgin,  fair  and  good, 
Hath  pacified  his  savage  mood. 
But  passions  in  the  human  frame 
Oft  put  the  lion's  rage  to  shame  ; 
And  jealousy,  by  dark  intrigue, 
With  sordid  avarice  in  league, 
Had  practised  with  their  bowl  and  knife 
Against  the  mourner's  harmless  life. 
This   crime   was   charged   gainst   those 

who  lay 
Prisoned  in  Cuthbert's  islet  gray. 

And  now  the  vessel  skirts  the  strand 
Of  mountainous  Northumberland  ; 
Towns,  towers,  and  halls  successive  rise, 
And  catch  the  nuns'  delighted  eyes. 
Monk-Wearmouth  soon  behind  them  lay, 
And  Tynemouth's  priory  and  bay  ; 
They   marked   amid   her   trees  the  hall 
Of  lofty  Seaton-Delaval ; 
They  saw  the  Blythe  and     Wansbeck 

floods 
Rush    to     the   sea    through     sounding 

woods  ; 
They  passed  the  tower  of  Widderington, 
■Mother  of  many  a  valiant  son  ; 
At  Coquet-isle  their  beads  they  tell 
To  the  good  saint  who  owned  the  cell  ; 
Then  did  the  Alne  attention  claim, 
And    Warkworth,     proud    of     Percy's 

name  ; 
And   next   they   crossed   themselves   to 

hear 
The  whitening  breakers  sound  so  near, 
Where,  boiling  through  the  rocks,  they 

roar 
On  Dunstanborough's   caverned   shore  ; 
Thy  tower,  proud  Bamborough,  marked 

they  there, 
King  Ida's  castle,  huge  and  square, 
From  its  tall  rock  look  grimly  down, 
And  on  the  swelling  ocean  frown  ; 
Then  from  the  coast  they  bore  away 
And  reached  the  Holy  Island's  bay. 

The  tide   did   now  its   flood-mark   gain. 
And  girdled  in  the  Saint's  domain  ; 
For,  with  the  flow  and  ebb,  its  style 


SCOTT 


121 


Varies  from  continent  to  isle : 

Dry  shod,  o*er   sands,  twice   every   day 

The   pilgrims   to  the  shrine   find   way  ; 

Twice  every  day  the  waves  efface 

Of  staves  and  sandalled  feet  the  trace. 

As  to  the  port  the  galley  flew, 

Higher  and  higher  rose  to  view. 

The  castle  with  its  battled  walls, 

The  ancient  monastery's  halls, 

A  solemn,  huge,  and  dark-red  pile, 

Placed  on  the  margin  of  the  isle. 

In  Saxon  strength  that  abbey  frowned, 
With  massive  arches  broad  and  round. 
That  rose  alternate,  row  and  row, 
On  ponderous  columns,  short  and  low, 

Built  ere  the  art  was  known, 
By  pointed  aisle  and  shafted  stalk 
The  arcades  of  an  alleyed  walk 
To  emulate  in  stone. 
On  the  deep  walls  the  heathen  Dane 
Had  poured  his  impious  rage  in  vain  ; 
And  needful  was  such  strength  to  these, 
Exposed  to  the  tempestuous  seas, 
Scourged  by  the  winds'  eternal  sway, 
Open  to  rovers  fierce  as  they, 
Which  could  twelve  hundred  years  with- 
stand 
Winds,    waves,    and    northern    pirates' 

hand. 
Not  but  that  portions  of  the  pile, 
Rebuilded  in  a  later  style. 
Showed  where  the   spoiler's    hand   had 

been  ; 
Not  but  the  wasting  sea-breeze  keen 
Had  worn  the  pillar's  carving  quaint, 
And  mouldered  in  his  niche  the  saint, 
And  rounded  with  consuming  power 
The  pointed  angles  of  each  tower  ; 
Yet  still  entire  the  abbey  stood, 
Like  veteran,  worn,  but  unsubdued. 

Soon  as  they  neared  his  turrets  strong, 
The  maidens  raised  Saint  Hilda's  song, 
And  with  the  sea-wave  and  the  wind 
Their  voices,  sweetly  shrill,  combined 

And  made  harmonious  close  ; 
Then,  answering  from  the  sandy  shore, 
Half-drowned  amid  the  breakers'  roar, 

According  chorus  rose  : 
Down  to  the  haven  of  the  Isle 
Th<j  monks  and  nuns  in  order  file 

From  Cuthbert's  cloisters  grim  ; 
Banner,  and  cross,  and  relics  there. 
To  meet  Saint  Hilda's  maids,  they  bare  ; 
And,  as  they  caught  the  sounds  on  air, 

They  echoed  back  the  hymn. 
The  islanders  in  joyous  mood 
Rushed  emulously  through  the  flood 


To  hale  the  bark  to  land  : 
Conspicuous  by  her  veil  and  hood, 
Signing  the  cross,  the  Abbess  stood, 

And  blessed  them  with  her  hand. 

Suppose  we  now  the  welcome  said, 
Suppose  the  convent  banquet  made  : 

All  through  the  holy  dome, 
Through  cloister,  aisle,  and  gallery, 
Wherever  vestal  maid  might  pry, 
Nor  risk  to  meet  unhallowed  eye, 

The  stranger  sisters  roam  ; 
Till  fell  the  evening  damp  with  dew, 
And  the  sharp  sea-breeze  coldly  blew, 
For  there  even  summer  night  is  chill. 
Then,  having  strayed  and  gazed  their  fill, 

They  closed  around  the  lire  : 
And  all,  in  turn,  essayed  to  paint 
The  rival  merits  of  their  saint, 

A  theme  that  ne'er  can  tire 
A  holy  maid,  for  be  it  known 
That  their  saint's  honor  is  their  own. 

Then  Whitby's  nuns  exulting  told 
How  to  their  house  three  barons  bold 

Must  menial  service  do, 
While  horns  blow  out  a  note  of  shame, 
And  monks  cry,  "  Fie  upon  your  name  I 
In  wrath,  for  loss  of  sylvan  game, 

Saint  Hilda's  priest  ye  slew." — 
"This,  on  Ascension-day,  each  year 
While  laboring  on  our  harbor-pier, 
Must  Herbert,  Bruce,  and  Percy  hear." 
They  told  how  in  their  convent-cell 
A  Saxon  princess  once  did  dwell, 

The  lovely  Edelfled  ; 
And  how,  of  thousand  snakes,  each  one 
Was  changed  into  a  coil  of  stone 

When  holy  Hilda  prayed  ; 
Themselves,  within  their  holy  bound, 
Their  stony  folds  had  often  found. 
They  told  how  sea-fowls'  pinions  fail 
As  over  Whitby's  towers  they  sail, 
And,    sinking    down,    with    fluttering? 

faint, 
They  do  their  homage  to  the  saint. 

Nor  did  Saint  Cuthbert's  daughters  fail 

To  vie  with  these  in  holy  tale  ; 

His  body's  resting-place,  of  old, 

How  of  t  their  patron  changed,  they  told  ; 

How,  when  the  rude  Dane  burned  their 

pile, 
The  monks  fled  forth  from  Holy  Isle  ; 
O'er    northern    mountain,    marsh,    an<i 

moor, 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Seven  years  Saint  Cuthbert's  corpse  they 

bore. 


i :: 


BRITISH   POETS 


They  rested  them  in  fair  Melrose; 
Bui  though,  alive,  lie  loved  it  well, 

Not  there  his  relics  might  repose  ; 
For,  wondrous  tale  to  tell ! 

In  his  stone  coffin  forth  he  rides, 

A  ponderous  bark  for  river  tides, 

Yet  light  as  gossamer  it  glides 

Downward  to  Tilmouth  cell. 
Nor  long  was  his  abiding  there, 
For  southward  did  the  saint  repair  ; 
Cliester-le-Street  and  Ripon  saw 
His  holy  corpse  ere  Wardilaw 

Hailed  him  with  joy  and  fear  ; 
And,  after  many  wanderings  past, 
He  chose  his  lordly  seat  at  last 
Where  his  cathedral,  huge  and  vast, 

Looks  down  upon  the  Wear. 
There,  deep  in  Durham's  Gothic  shade, 
His  relics  are  in  secret  laid  ; 

But  none  may  know  the  place, 
Save  of  his  holiest  servants  three, 
Deep  sworn  to  solemn  secrecy, 

Who  share  that  wondrous  grace. 

Who  may  his  miracles  declare? 
Even    Scotland's    dauntless    king    and 
heir — 

Although  with  them  they  led 
Galwegians,  wild  as  ocean's  gale, 
And   Loden's   knights,  all   sheathed   in 

mail, 
And  the  bold  men  of  Teviotdale— 

Before  his  standard  fled. 
Twas  he,  to  vindicate  his  reign, 
Edged  Alfred's  falchion  on  the  Dane, 
And  turned  the  Conqueror  back  again, 
When,  with  his  Norman  bowyer  band, 
He  came  to  waste  Northumberland. 

But  fain  Saint  Hilda's  nuns  would  learn 
If  on  a  rock,  by  Lindisfarne, 
Saint  Cuthbert  sits,  and  toils  to  frame 
The  sea-born  beads  that  bear  his  name  : 
Such  tales  had  Whitby's  fishers  told, 
And  said  they  might  his  shape  behold, 

And  hear  his  anvil  sound  ; 
A  deadened  clang, — a  huge  dim  form, 
Seen  but,  and  heard,  when   gathering 
storm 

And  night  were  closing  round. 
But  this,  as  tale  of  idle  fame. 
The  nuns  of  Lindisfarne  disclaim. 

While  round  the  fire  such  legends  go, 
Far  different  was  the  scene  of  woe 
Where,  in  a  secret  aisle  beneath, 
Council  was  held  of  life  and  death. 
It  was  more  dark  and  long,  that  vault, 
Than  the  worst  dungeon  cell  ; 


Old  Colwulf  built  it,  for  his  fault 

In  penitence  to  dwell, 
When  he  for  cowl  and  beads   laid 
down 
The  Saxon  battle-axe  and  crown. 
This  den,  which,  chilling  every  sense 

Of  feeling,  hearing,  sight, 
Was  called  the  Vault  of  Penitence, 

Excluding  air  and  light, 
Was  by  the  prelate  Sexhelm  made 
A  place  of  burial  for  such  dead 
As,  having  died  in  mortal  sin, 
Might  not  be  laid  the  church  within. 
'Twas  now  a  place  of  punishment ; 
Whence  if  so  loud  a  shriek  were  sent 

As  reached  the  upper  air, 
The  hearers  blessed  themselves,  and  said 
The  spirits  of  the  sinful  dead 
Bemoaned  their  torments  there. 

But  though,  in  the  monastic  pile, 
Did  of  this  penitential  pile, 

Some  vague  tradition  go, 
Few  only,  save  the  Abbot,  knew 
Where  the  place  lay,  and  still  more  few 
Were  those  who  had  from  him  the  clew 

To  that  dread  vault  to  go. 
Victim  and  executioner 
Were  blindfold  when  transported  there. 
In  low  dark  rounds  the  arches  hung, 
From  the  rude  rock  the  side-walls  sprung 
The  gravestones,  rudely  sculptured  o'er, 
Half  sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half  wore, 
Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor  ; 
The  mildew  drops  fell  one  by  one, 
With  tinkling  plash,  upon  the  stone. 
A  cresset,  in  an  iron  chain, 
Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain, 
With  damp    and    darkness  seemed  to 

strive, 
As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive  ; 
And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 
The  awful  conclave  met  below. 

There,  met  to  doom  in  secrecy, 
Were  placed  the  heads  of  convents.three, 
All  servants  of  Saint  Benedict, 
The  statutes  of  whose  order  strict 

On  iron  table  lay  ; 
In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone, 
Behind  were  these  three  judges  shown 

By  the  pale  crescent's  ray. 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda's  there 
Sat  for  a  space  with  visage  bare, 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  tear-drops  that  for  pity  fell, 

She  closely  drew  her  veil ; 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  guess, 
By  her  proud  mien  and  flowing  dress, 


SCOTT 


123 


Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  Prioress, 

And  she  with  awe  looks  pale  ; 
And  he,  that  ancient  man,  whose  sight 
Has  long  been  quenched  by  age's  night, 
Upon  whose  wrinkled  brosv  alone 
Nor  ruth  nor  mercy's  trace  is  shown, 

Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern, — 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  is  his  style, 
For  sanctity  called  through  the  isle 
The  Saint  of  Lindisfarne. 

Before  them  stood  a  guilty  pair  ; 
But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share, 
Yet  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 
Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied  ; 
The  cloak  and  doublet,  loosely  tied, 
Obscured    her   charms,    but   could   not 
hide. 

Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew  ; 
And,  on  her  doublet  breast, 

She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 
Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But,  at  the  prioress'  command, 
A  monk  undid  the  silken  band 

That  tied  her  tresses  fair, 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head, 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread 

In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 
Constance  de  Beverley  they  know, 
Sister  professed  of  Fontevraud, 
Whom  the  Church  numbered  with  the 

dead, 
For  broken  vows  and  convent  fled. 

When    thus    her    face    was    given    to 

view, — 
Although  so  pallid  was  her  hue, 
It  did  a  ghastly  contrast  bear 
To    those    bright     ringlets     glistering 

fair, — 
Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 
Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy  ; 
And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale 
That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 
And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 
And  of  her  bosom,  warranted 
That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks, 
You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax, 
Wrought  to  the  very  life,  was  there  ; 
So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair. 

Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul, 

Such  as  does  murder  for  a  meed  ; 
Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  control, 
Because  his  conscience,  seared  and  foul, 

Feels  not  the  import  of  his  deed  ; 
One  whose  brute -feeling  ne'er  aspires 
Beyond  his  own  more  brute  desires. 
Such  tools  the  Tempter  ever  needs 


To  do  the  savages  t  of  deeds  ; 

For  them  no  visioned  terrors  daunt, 

Their  nights  no  fancied  spectres  haunt ; 

One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base, 

The  fear  of  death,  alone  finds  place. 

This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl. 

And  shamed  not  loud  to  moan  and  how?, 

His  body  on  the  floor  to  dash, 

And    crouch,  like    hound  beneath  the 

lash  ; 
While  his  mute  partner,  standing  near 
Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. 

Yet  well    the    luckless    wretch    might 

shriek, 
Well  might  her  paleness  terror  speak ! 
For  there  were  seen  in  that  dark  wall 
Two  niches,  narrow,  deep,  and  tall  ;— 
Who  enters  at  such  grisly  door 
Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,  find  exit  more. 
In  each  a  slender  meal  was  laid, 
Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread  ; 
By  each,  in  Benedictine  dress, 
Two  haggard  monks  stood  motionless, 
Who,  holding  high  a  blazing  torch, 
Showed  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch  ; 
Reflecting  back  the  smoky  beam, 
The  dark-red  walls  and  arches  gleam. 
Hewn    stones    and    cement    were    dis- 
played, 
And  building  tools  in  order  laid. 

These  executioners  were  chose, 
As  men  who  were  with  mankind  foes, 
And,  with  despite  and  envy  fired, 
Into  the  cloister  had  retired, 

Or  who,  in  desperate  doubt  of  grace. 
Strove  by  deep  penance  to  efface 

Of  some  foul  crime  the  stain  ; 
For,  as  the  vassals  of  her  will, 
Such  men  the  Church  selected  still 
As  either  joyed  in  doing  ill, 
Or  thought  more  grace  to  gain 
If  in  her  cause  they  wrestled  down 
Feelings  their  nature  strove  to  own. 
By  strange  device   were  they   brought 

there, 
They   knew  not    how,   and    knew    not 
where. 

And  now  that  blind  old  abbot  rose. 

To  speak  the  Chapter's  doom 
On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose 

Alive  within  the  tomb, 
But  stopped  because  that  woful  maid, 
Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essayed; 
Twice  she  essayed,  and  twice  in  vain, 
Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain  5 
Nought  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 


'  1 1 


BRITISH    POETS 


From  her  convulsed  and  quivering  lip  ; 
'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still, 
You  seemed  to  hear  a  distant  rill— 
'T  was  ocean's  swells  and  falls  ; 
For  though  tli is  vault  of  sin  and  fear 
Was  to  the  sounding  surge  so  near, 
A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear, 
So  massive  were  the  walls. 

At  length,  an  effort  sent  apart 
The  blood  that  curdled  to  her  heart, 

And  light  came  to  her  eye, 
And  color  dawned  upon  her  cheek, 
A  hectic  and  a  fluttered  streak, 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak 

By  Autumn's  stormy  sky  ; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length, 
Still  as  she  spoke  she  gathered  strength, 

And  armed  herself  to  bear. 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy 

In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 

"  I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace, 
Well  know  I  for  one  minute's  space 

Successless  might  I  sue  : 
Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain  ; 
For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain 
To  cleanse  my  sins  be  penance  vain, 

Vain  are  your  masses  too. — 
I  listened  to  a  traitor's  tale, 
I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil ; 
For  three  long  years  I  bowed  my  pride, 
A  horse-boy  in  his  train  to  ride  ; 
And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave, 
Who  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave, 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  grave. 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair, 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir, 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore, 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more. 

'T  is  an  old  tale,  and  often  told  ; 
But  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree, 

Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old, 

Of  maiden  true  betrayed  for  gold. 
That  loved,  or  was  avenged,  like  me  ! 

"The  king  approved  his  favorite's  aim  ; 
In  vain  a  rival  barred  his  claim, 

W1k.sc  fate  with  Clare's  was  plight, 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge — and  on  they  came 
In  mortal  lists  to  fight. 
Their  oaths  are  said, 
Their  prayers  are  prayed, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  are  laid, 
They  meet  in  mortal  shock  ; 
And  hark  !  the  throng,  with  thundering 
cry, 


Shout  '  Marmion,  Marmion  !  to  the  sky 

De  Wilton  to  the  block  ! ' 
Say,  ye  who  preach  Heaven  shall  decide 
When  in  the  lists  two  champions  ride, 

Say,  was  Heaven's  justice  here? 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith, 
Wilton  found  overthrow  or  death 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear  ? 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  fell, 
This  guilty-  packet  best  can  tell.'' 
Then  drew  a  packet  firom  her  breast, 
Paused,  gathered  voice,  and  spoke  the 
rest. 

"  Still  was  false  Marmion's  bridal  stayed  ; 
To  Whitby's  convent  fled  the  maid, 

The  hated  match  to  shun. 
'  Ho  !     shifts   she    thus  ? '   King   Henry- 
cried, 
'  Sir  Marmion,  she  shall  be  thy  bride, 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun.' 
One  way  remained — the  king's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land  ; 
I  lingered  here,  and  rescue  planned 

For  Clara  and  for  me  : 
This  caitiff  monk  for  gold  did  swear 
He  would  to  Whitby's  shrine  repair, 
And  by  his  drugs  my  rival  fair 

A  saint  in  heaven  should  be  ; 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept  his  oath, 
Whose  cowardice  hath  undone  us  both. 

"  And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells, 
Not  that  remorse  my  bosom  sw-ells, 
But  to  assure  my  soul  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betrayed. 
This  packet,  to  the  king  conveyed, 
Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stvoke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke. — 
Now,  men  of  death,  work  forth  your 

will, 
For  I  can  suffer,  and  be  still ; 
And  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast, 
It  is  but  Death  who  comes  at  last. 

"  Yet  dread  me  from  my  living  tomb, 

Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Rome  ! 

If  Marmion's  late  remorse  should  wake, 

Full  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take 

That  yrou  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 

Had  rather  been  your  guest  again. 

Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 

The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends, 

The  ire  of  a  despotic  king 

Rides  forth  upon  destruction's  wTing  ; 

Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong   and 

deep, 
Burst  open  to  the  sea-wind's  sweep  ; 


SCOTT 


I25 


Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones 
Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones, 
And,  ignorant  of  priests'  cruelty, 
Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be." 

Fixed  was  her  look  and  stern  her  air  : 

Back  from  her  shoulders  streamed  her 
hair ; 

The  locks  that  wont  her  brow  to  shade 

Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head  ; 

Her  figure  seemed  to  rise  more  high  ; 

Her  voice  despair's  wild  energy 

Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 

Appalled  the  astonished  conclave  sate  ; 

With  stupid  eyes,  the  men  of  fate 

Gazed  on  the  light  inspired  form, 

And  listened  for  the  avenging  storm  ; 

The  judges  felt  the  victim's  dread  ; 

No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said, 
Till  thus  the  abbot's  doom  was  given, 

Raising  his  sightless  balls  to  heaven : 

"  Sister,  let  thy  sorrows  cease  ; 

Sinful  brother,  part  in  peace  !  " 

From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom, 
Of  execution  too,  and  tomb, 

Paced  forth  the  judges  three  ; 
Sorrow  it  were  and  shame  to  tell 
The  butcher-work  that  there  befell, 
When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 
Of  sin  and  misery. 

An  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
That  conclave  to  the  upper  day ; 
But  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air 
They  heard  the  shriekings  of  despair, 

And  many  a  stifled  groan. 
With    speed    their    upward   way    they 

take, — 
Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make, — 
And  crossed  themselves  for  terror's  sake, 

As  hurrying,  tottering  on, 
Even  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone 
They,  seemed  to  hear  a  dying  groan, 
And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 
For  welfare  of  a  parting  soul. 
Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung  ; 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  rolled, 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told  ; 
The   Bamborough    peasant    raised    his 

head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said  ; 
So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 
The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 
Spread  Ins  broad  nostrils  to  the  wind, 
Listed  before,  aside,  behind, 
Then  couched  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 


CANTO  THIRD 

THE   HOSTEL,   OR  INN 

The  livelong  day  Lord  Marmion  rode  ; 
The  mountain  path  the  Palmer  showed 
By  glen  and  streamlet  winded  still, 
Where  stunted  birches  hid  the  rill. 
They  might  not  choose  the  lowland  road. 
For  the  Merse  forayers  were  abroad, 
Who,  fired  with  hate  and  thirst  of  prey, 
Had  scarcely  failed  to  bar  their  way  ; 
Oft  on  the  trampling  band  from  crown 
Of  some  tall  cliff  the  deer  looked  down ; 
On  wing  of  jet  from  his  repose 
In  the  deep  heath  the  blackcock  rose ; 
Sprung  from  the  gorse  the  timid  roe, 
Nor  waited  for  the  bending  bow  ; 
And  when  the  stony  path  began 
By  which  the  naked  peak  they  wan, 
Up  flew  the  snowy  ptarmigan. 
The  noon  had  long  been  passed  before 
They    gained    the   height  of    Lammer- 

moor  ; 
Thence    winding    down   the    northern 

way, 
Before  them  at  the  close  of  day 
Old  Gifford's  towers  and  hamlet  lay. 

No  summons  calls  them  to  the  tower, 
To  spend  the  hospitable  hour. 
To  Scotland's  camp  the  lord  was  gone  ; 
His  cautious  dame,  in  bower  alone, 
Dreaded  her  castle  to  unclose, 
So  late,  to  unknown  friends  or  foes. 
On  through  the  hamlet  as  they  paced, 
Before  a  porch  whose  front  was  graced, 
With  bush  and  flagon  trimly  placed, 

Lord  Marmion  drew  his  rein  : 
The  village  inn  seemed  large,  though 

rude  ; 
Its  cheerful  fire  and  hearty  food 
Might  well  relieve  his  train. 
Down   from   their   seats   the   horsemen 

sprung, 
With  jingling  spurs  the  court-yard  rung  • 
They  bind  their  horses  to  the  stall, 
For  forage,  food,  and  firing  call, 
And  various  clamor  fills  the  hall : 
Weighing  the  labor  with  the  cost, 
Toils  everywhere  the  bustling  host. 

Soon,  by  the  chimney's  merry  blaze. 
Througn  the  rude  hostel  might  you  gaze. 
Might  see  where  in  dark  nook  aloof 
The  rafters  of  the  sooty  roof 

Bore  wealth  of  winter  cheer  ; 
Of  sea-fowl  dried,  and  solands  store, 
And  gammons  of  the  tusky  boar, 

And  savory  haunch  of  deer. 


i*6 


BRITISH    POETS 


Die  chimney  arch  projected  wide; 
Above,  around  it.  and  beside, 
Were  tools  for  housewives'  hand'; 

Nor  wanted,  in  that  martial  day, 
The  implements  of  Scottish  fray, 
The  buckler,  lance,  and  brand. 
Beneath  its  shade,  the  place  of  state. 
On  oaken  settle  Marmion  sate, 
And  viewed  around  the  blazing  hearth 
His  followers  mix  in  noisy  mirth  ; 
Whom  with  brown  ale,  in  jolly  tide, 
From  ancient  vessels  ranged  aside 
Full  actively  their  host  supplied. 

Theirs  was  the  glee  of  martial  breast, 
Atnl  laughter  theirs  at  little  jest ; 
And  oft  Lord  Marmion  deigned  to  aid, 
And  mingle  in  the  mirth  they  made ; 
For  though,  with  men  of  high  degree, 
The  proudest  of  the  proud  was  he, 
Yet,   ti'ained    in    camps,  he  knew  the 

art 
To  win  the  soldier's  hardy  heart. 
They  love  a  captain  to  obey, 
Boisterous  as  March,  yet  fresh  as  May  ; 
With  open  hand  and  brow  as  free, 
Lover   of  wine  and  minstrelsy  ; 
Ever  the  first  to  scale  a  tower, 
As  venturous  in  a  lady's  bower :  — 
Such  buxom  chief  shall  lead  his  host 
From  India's  fires  to  Zembla's  frost. 

Resting  upon  his  pilgrim  staff, 

Right  opposite  the  Palmer  stood, 
His  thin  dark  visage  seen  but  half, 

Half  hidden  by  his  hood. 
Still  fixed  on  Marmion  was  his  look, 
Which    he,    who    ill   such   gaze    could 
brook, 

Strove  by  a  frown  to  quell  ; 
But  not  for  that,  though  more  than  once 
Full  met  their  stern  encountering  glance, 

The  Palmer's  visage  fell. 

By  fits  less  frequent  from  the  crowd 
Was  heard  the  burst  of  laughter  loud  ; 
For  still,  as  squire  and  archer  stared 
On  that  dark  face  and  matted  beard, 

Their  glee  and  game  declined. 
All  gazed  at  length  in  silence  drear, 
Unbroke  save  when  in  comrade's  ear 
Some  yeoman,  wondering  in  his  fear, 

Thus  whispered  forth  his  mind  : 
"Saint    Mary!    saw'st    thou    e'er  such 

sight? 
How  pale  his  cheek,  his  eye  how  bright 
Whene'er  the  firebrand's  fickle  light, 

Glances  beneath  his  cowl ! 
Full  on  our  lord  he  sets  his  eye  ; 


For  his  best  palfrey  would  not  I 
Endure  that  sullen  scowl.  " 

But  Marmion,  as  to  chase  the  awe 
Which  thus  had   quelled   their    hearts 

who  saw 
The  ever-varying  firelight  show 
That  figure  stern  and  face  of  woe, 

Now  called  upon  a  squire ; 
"  Fitz-Eustace,   know'st  thou  not  some 

lay, 
To  speed  the  lingering  night  away? 

We  slumber  by  the  fire.'' 

"  So  please  you,"  thus  the  youth  rejoinec1 
"  Our  choicest-minstrel's  left  behind. 
Ill  may  we  hope  to  please  your  ear, 
Accustomed  Constant's  strains  to  hear. 
The  harp  full  deftly  can  he  strike, 
And  wake  the  lover's  lute  alike  ; 
To  dear  Saint  Valentine  no  thrush 
Sings  livelier  from  a  springtide  bush. 
No  nightingale  her  lovelorn  tune 
More  sweetly  warbles  to  the  moon. 
Woe  to  the  cause,  whate'er  it  be, 
Detains  from  us  his  melody, 
Lavished  on  rocks  and  billows  stern, 
Or  duller  monks  of  Lindisfarne. 
Now  must  I  venture  as  I  may, 
To  sing  his  favorite  roundelay.  " 

A  mellow  voice  Fitz-Eustace  had, 
The  air  he  chose  was  wild  and  sad  ; 
Such  have  I  heard  in  Scottish  land 
Rise  from  the  busy,  harvest  band, 
When  falls  before  the  mountaineer 
On  Lowland  plains  the  ripened  ear. 
Now  one  shrill  voice  the  notes   prolong, 
Now  a  wild  chorus  swells  the  song  ; 
Oft  have  I  listened  and  stood  still 
As  it  came  softened  up  the  hill, 
And  deemed  it  the  lament  of  men 
Who  languished  for  their  native  glen, 
And  thought  how  sad  would  be  such 

sound 
On  Susquehanna's  swampy  ground, 
Kentucky's  wood-encumbered  brake, 
Or  wild  Ontario's  boundless  lake, 
Where  heart-sick  exiles  in  the  strain 
Recalled  fair  Scotland's  hills  again  ! 

SONG 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest, 
Whom  the  fates  sever 

From  his  true  maiden's  breast, 
Parted  forever  ? 

Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high- 
Sounds  the  far  billow, 

Where  early  violets  die, 
Under  the  willow. 


SCOTT 


127 


CHORUS 

Eleu  loro,  etc.     Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There,  through  the  summer  day, 

Cool  streams  are  laving  ; 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving; 
There  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  forever, 
Never  again  to  wake, 

Never,  O  never ! 

CHORUS 
Eleu  loro,  etc.     Never,  O  never ! 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He  the  deceiver, 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Ruin  and  leave  her? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  clown  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying. 

CHORUS 

Eleu  loro,  etc.     There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  false-hearted  ; 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap, 

Ere  life  be  parted. 
Shame  and  dishonor  sit 

By  his  grave  ever  ; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it, — 

Never,  O  never  ! 

CHORUS 

Eleu  loro,  etc.     Never,  O  never  ! 

It  ceased,  the  melancholy  sound, 
And  silence  sunk  on  all  around. 
The  air  was  sad  ;  but  sadder  still 

It  fell  on  Marmion's  ear, 
And  plained  as  if  disgrace  and  ill, 

And  shameful  death,  were  near. 
He  drew  his  mantle  past  his  face, 

Between  it  and  the  band, 
And  rested  with  his  head  a  space 

Reclining  on  his  hand. 
His  thoughts  1  scan  nut  ;  but  I  ween 
That,    could    their    import    have    been 

seen, 
The  meanest  groom  in  all  the  hall, 
That  e'er  tied  courser  to  a  stall, 
Would  scarce  have  wished  to  be  their 

prey, 
For  Lutterward  and  Fontenaye. 


High  minds,  of  native  pride  and  force, 
Most  deeply  feel  thy  pangs,  Remorse  ! 
Fear,  for  their  scourge,  mean    villains 

have, 
Thou  art  the  torturer  of  the  brave  ! 
Yet  fatal  strength  they  boast  to  steel 
Their  minds  to  bear  the  wounds  they 

feel, 
Even   while  they   writhe    beneath   the 

smart 
Of  civil  conflict  in  the  heart. 
For  soon  Lord  Marmion  raised  his  head. 
And  smiling  to  Fitz-Eustace  said  : 
"  Is  it  not  strange  that,  as  ye  sung, 
Seemed  in  mine  ear  a  death-peal  rung, 
Such  as  in  nunneries  they  toll 
For  some  departing  sister's  soul  \ 
Say,  what  may  this  portend?' 
Then  first  the  Palmer  silence  broke, — 
The  livelong  day  he  had  not  spoke, — 
"  The  death  of  a  dear  friend." 

Marmion,  whose  steady  heart  and  eye 
Ne'er  changed  in  worst  extremity  ; 
Marmion,    whose    soul    could    scantly 

brook 
Even  from  his  king  a  haughty  look  ; 
Whose  accent  of  command  controlled 
In  camps  the  boldest  of  the  bold — 
Thought,  look,  and  utterance  failed  him 

now, 
Fallen  was  his  glance  and  flushed  his 
brow  : 

For  either  in  the  tone, 
Or  something  in  the  Palmer's  look, 
So  full  upon  his  conscience  strook, 

That  answer  he  found  none. 
Thus  oft  it  haps  that  when  within 
They  shrink  at  sense  of  secret  sin, 

A  feather  daunts  the  brave  ; 
A  fool's  wild  speech  confounds  the  wise. 
And  proudest  princes  veil  their  eyes 

Before  their  meanest  slave. 

Well  might  he  falter ! — By'his  aid 
Was  Constance  Beverley  betrayed. 
Not  that  he  augured  of  the  doom 
Which  on  the  living  closed  the  tomb  : 
But,  tired  to  hear  the  desperate  maid 
Threaten  by  turns,  beseech,  upbraid, 
And  wroth  because  in  wild  despair 
She  practised  on  the  life  of  Clare, 
Its  fugitive  the  Church  he  gave, 
Though  not  a  victim,  but  a  slave, 
And     deemed      restraint     in     convent 

strange 
Would  hide  her  wrongs  and  her  revenge. 
1 1  imself,  proud  Henry's  favorite  peer, 
Held  Romish  thunders  idle  fear  ; 


128 


BRTTISH    POETS 


Secuve  his  pardon  he  might  hold 
For  sonic  slight  mulct  of  penance-gold. 
Thus  judging,  he  gave  secret  way 
When  the   stern  priests  surprised  their 

prey. 
His  train  but  deemed  the  favorite  page 
Was  left  behind  to  spare  his  age  ; 
Or  other  if  they  deemed,  none  dared 
To  mutter  what  he  thought  and  heard  : 
Woe  to  the  vassal  who  durst  pry 
Into  Lord  Marmion's  privacy  ! 

His  conscience    slept — he  deemed   her 

well. 
And  safe  secured  in  distant  cell ; 
But  wakened  by  her  favorite  lay, 
And  that  strange  Palmer's  boding  say, 
That  fell  so  ominous  and  drear 
Full  on  the  object  of  his  fear, 
To  aid  remorse's  venomed  throes, 
Dark  tales  of  convent-vengeance  rose  ; 
And     Constance,     late     betrayed    and 

scorned, 
All  lovely  on  his  soul  returned  ; 
Lovely  as  when  at  treacherous  call 
She  left  her  convent's  peaceful  wall, 
Crimsoned    with    shame,    with    terror 

mute, 
Dreading  alike  escape,  pursuit, 
Till  love,  victorious  o'er  alarms, 
Hid  fears  and  blushes  in  his  arms. 

"  Alas  !  "  he  thought,  "  how  changed  that 

mien  ! 
How   changed  these   timid   looks   have 

been, 
Since  years  of  guilt  and  of  disguise 
Have  steeled  her  brow   and   armed   her 

eyes ! 
No  more  of  virgin  terror  speaks 
The  blood  that  mantles  in  her  cheeks ; 
Fierce  and  unfeminine  are  there, 
Frenzy  for  joy,  for  grief  despair  ; 
And  I  the  cause — for  whom  were  given 
Her    peace   *on     earth,    her    hopes    in 

heaven  ! — 
Would,"   thought  he,     as     the  picture 

grows. 
"Ion  its  stalk  had  left  the  rose  ! 
Oh,  why  should  man's  success  remove 
The  very  charms  that  wake  his  love? — 
Her  convent's  peaceful  solitude 
Is  now  a  prison  harsh  and  rude ; 
And,  pent  within  the  narrow  cell, 
How  will  her  spirit  chafe  and  swell! 
How  brook  the  stern  monastic  laws ! 
The  penance  how— and  I  the  cause  ! — 
Vigil    ami      scourge — perchance     even 

worse  I 


And  twice  he  rose  to  cry,  "  To  horse  !" 
And  twice  his  sovereign's  mandate  came, 
Like  damp  upon  a  kindling  flame  ; 
And  twice   he    thought,    "Gave  I  not 

charge  ? 
She    should    be    safe,    though    not    at 

large  ? 
Thejr  durst  not,  for  their  island,  shred 
One  golden  ringlet  from  her  head." 

While  thus  in  Marmion's  bosom  strove 

Repentance  and  reviving  love, 

Like  whirlwinds  whose  contending  sway 

I've  seen  Loch  Vennachar  obey, 

Their   host    the     Palmer's   speech     had 

heard, 
And  talkative  took  up  the  word  : 

"  Ay,  reverend  pilgrim,  you  who  stray 
From  Scotland's  simple  land  away, 

To  visit  realms  afar, 
full  often  learn  the  art  to  know 
Of  future  weal  or  future  woe, 
By  word,  or  sign,  or  star  ; 
Yet  might  a  knight  his  fortune  hear, 
If,  Knightdike,  he  despises  fear, 
Not  far  from  hence  ; — if  fathers  old 
Aright  our  hamlet  legend  told." 
These  broken  words  the  menials  move, — 
For  marvels  still  the  vulgar  love, — 
And.  Marmion  giving  license  cold, 
His  tale  the  host  thus  gladly  told  : — 

THE   HOST'S    TALE 

"A  clerk  could   tell  what  years  have 

flown 
Since  Alexander  filled  our  throne, — 
Third  monarch  of  that  warlike  name, — 
And  eke  the  time  when  here  he  came 
To  seek  Sir  Hugo,  then  our  lord  : 
A  braver  never  drew  a  sword  ; 
A  wiser  never,  at  the  hour 
Of  midnight,  spoke  the  word  of  power  ; 
The  same  whom  ancient  records  call 
The  founder  of  the  Goblin-Hall. 
I  would,  Sir  Knight,  your  longer  stay 
Gave  you  that  cavern  to  survey. 
Of  lofty  roof  and  ample  size, 
Beneath  the  castle  deep  it  lies : 
To  hew  the  living  rock  profound, 
The  floor  to  pave,  the  arch  to  round, 
There  never  toiled  a  mortal  arm, 
It  all  was  wrought  by  word  and  charm  : 
And  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say 
That  the  wild  clamor  and  affray 
Of  those  dread  artisans  of  hell, 
Who  labored  under  Hugo's  spell, 
Sounded  as  loud  as  ocean's  war 
Among  the  caverns  of  Dunbar. 


SCOTT 


129 


'•The  king  Lord  Gifford's  castle  sought,. 
Deep  laboring  with  uncertain  thought. 
Even  then  he  mustered  all  his  host, 
To  meet  upon  the  western  coast ; 
For  Norse  and  Danish  galleys  plied 
Their  oars  within  the  Firth  of  Clyde- 
There  floated  Haco's  banner  trim 
Above  Norweyan  warriors  grim, 
Savage  of  heart  and  large  of  limb, 
Threatening  both  continent  and  isle, 
Bute,  Arran,  Cunninghame,  and  Kyle. 
Lord  Gifford,  deep  beneath  the  ground, 
Heard  Alexander's  bugle  sound, 
And  tarried  not  his  garb  to  change, 
But,  in  his  wizard  habit  strange, 
Came  forth, — a  quaint  and  fearful  sight : 
His  mantle  lined  with  fox-skins  white  ; 
His  high  and  wrinkled  forehead  bore 
A  pointed  cap,  such  as  of  yore 
Clerks  say  that  Pharaoh's  Magi  wore  ; 
His  shoes  were  marked  with  cross  and 

spell. 
Upon  his  breast  a  pentacle  ; 
His  zone  of  virgin  parchment  thin, 
Or,  as  some  tell,  of  dead  man's  skin, 
Bore  many  a  planetary  sign, 
Combust,  and  retrogade,  and  trine  ; 
And  in  his  hand  he  held  prepared 
A  naked  sword  without  a  guard. 

"  Dire  dealings  with  the  fiendish  race 
Had  marked  strange  lines  upon  his  face  ; 
Vigil  and  fast  had  worn  him  grim. 
His  eyesight  dazzled  seemed  and  dim, 
As  one  unused  to  upper  day  ; 
Even  his  own  menials  with  dismay 
Beheld.  Sir  Knight,  the  grisly  sire 
In  this  unwonted  wild  attire  ; 
Unwonted,  for  traditions  run 
He  seldom  thus  beheld  the  sun. 
'  I  know,'  he  said. — his  voice  was  hoarse 
And  broken  seemed  its  hollow  force, — 
'  I  know  the  cause,  although  untold. 
Why  the  king  seeks  his  vassal's  hold  : 
Vainly  from  me  my  liege  would  know 
His  kingdom's  future  weal  or  woe  ; 
But  yet,  if  strong  his  arm  and  heart, 
His  courage  may  do  more  than  art. 

"  'Of  middle  air  the  demons  proud, 
Who  ride  upon  the  racking  cloud, 
Can  read  in  fixed  or  wandering  star 
The  issue  of  events  afar, 
But  still  their  sullen  aid  withhold. 
Save  when  by  mightier  force  controlled. 
Such  late  I  summoned  to  my  hall  ; 
And  though  so  potent  was  the  ("ill 
That  scarce  the  deepest  nook  of  hell 
I  deemed  a  refuge  from  the  spell, 

9 


Yet,  obstinate  in  silence  still, 
The  haughty  demon  mocks  my  skill. 
But  thou, — who  little  know'st  thy  might 
As  born  upon  that  blessed  night 
When  yawning  graves  and  dying  groan 
Proclaimed  hell's  empire  overthrown, — 
With  untaught  valor  shalt  compel 
Response  denied  to  magic  spell.' 
'  Gramercy,'  quoth  our  monarch  free, 
'  Place  him  but  front  to  front  with  me, 
And,  by  this  good  and  honored  brand, 
The  gift  of  Cceur-de-Lion's  hand, 
Soothly  I  swear  that,  tide  what  tide, 
The  demon  shall  a  buffet  bide.' 
His  bearing  bold  the  wizard  viewed, 
And  thus,  well  pleased,  his  speech   re- 
newed : 
'  There  spoke  the  blood  of  Malcolm  ! — 

mark  : 
Forth  pacing  hence  at  midnight  dark, 
The  rampart  seek  whose  circling  crown 
Crests  the  ascent  of  yonder  down  : 
A  southern  entrance  shalt  thou  find  ; 
There  halt,  and  there  thy  bugle  wind, 
And  trust  thine  elfin  foe  to  see 
In  guise  of  thy  worst  enemy. 
Couch    then    thy   lance    and    spur   thy 

steed — 
Upon  him  !  and  Saint  George  to  speed  ! 
If  he  go  down,  thou  soon  shalt  know 
Whate'er  these  airy  sprites  can  show  ; 
If  thy  heart  fail  thee  in  the  strife, 
I  am  no  warrant  for  thy  life.' 

"  Soon  as  the  midnight  bell  did  ring, 
Alone  and  armed,  forth  rode  the  king 
To  that  old  camp's  deserted  round. 
Sir  Knight,  you  well  might  mark   the 

mound 
Left  hand  the  town, — the  Pictish  race 
The   trench,  long    since,    in   blood    did 

trace  ; 
The  moor  around  is  brown  and  bare, 
The  space  within  is  green  and  fair. 
The  spot  our  village  children  know, 
For  there  the  earliest  wild-flowers  grow  ; 
But  woe  betide  the  wandering  wight 
That  treads  its  circle  in  the  night ! 
The  breadth  across,  a  bowshot  clear, 
Gives  ample  space  for  full  career  ; 
Opposed  to  the  four  points  of  heaven, 
By  four  deep  gaps  are  entrance  given. 
The  southernmost  our  monarch  passed, 
Halted,,  and  blew  a  gallant  blast ; 
And  on  the  north,  within  the  ring, 
Appeared  the  form  of  England's  king, 
Who  then,  a  thousand  leagues  afar, 
In  Palestine  waged  holy  war : 
Yet  arms  like  England's  did  he  wield ; 


'3° 


BRITISH    POETS 


Alike  tlic  leopards  in  the  shield, 
Alike  liis  Syrian  courser's  frame, 
Tlie  rider's  length  of  limb  the  same. 
Long  afterwards  did  Scotland  know 
Fell  Edward  was  her  deadliest  foe. 

"The  vision  made  our  monarch  start, 
But  soon  he  manned  his  noble  heart, 
And  in  the  first  career  they  ran, 
The  Elfin  Knight  fell,  horse  and  man  ; 
Yet  did  a  splinter  of  his  lance 
Through  Alexander's  visor  glance, 
And  razed  the  skin — a  puny  wound. 
The  king,  light  leaping  to  the  ground, 
With  naked  blade  his  phantom  foe 
Compelled  the  future  war  to  show. 
Of  Largs  he  saw  the  glorious  plain, 
Where  still  gigantic  bones  remain, 

Memorial  of  the  Danish  war  ; 
Himself  he  saw,  amid  the  field, 
On  high  his  brandished  war-axe  wield 
And  strike  proud  Haco  from  his  car, 
While  all  around  the  shadowy  kings 
Denmark's  grim  ravens  cowered   their 

wings. 
'  T  is  said  that  in  that  awful  night 
Remoter  visions  met  his  sight, 
Foreshowing  future  conquest  far, 
When    our  sons'  sons    wage    Northern 

war ; 
A  royal  city,  tower  and  spire, 
Reddened  the  midnight  sky  with  fire, 
And  shouting  crews  her  navy  bore 
Triumphant  to  the  victor  shore. 
Such  signs  may  learned   clerks  explain, 
They  pass  the  wit  of  simple  swain. 

"  The  joyful  king  turned  home  again, 
Headed  his  host,  and  quelled  the  Dane  ; 
But  yearly,  when  returned  the  night 
Of  his  strange  combat  with  the  sprite, 

His  wound  must  bleed  and  smart ; 
Lord  Gifford  then  would  gibing  say, 
'  Bold  as  ye  were,  my  liege,  ye  pay 

The  penance  of  your  start.' 
Long  since,  beneath  Dunfermline's  nave, 
King  Alexander  fills  his  grave, 

Our  Lady  give  him  rest! 
Yet  still  the  knightly  spear  and  shield 
The  Elfin  Warrior  doth  wield 

Upon  the  brown  hill's  breast, 
And  many  a  knight    hath  proved   his 

chance 
In  the  charmed  ring  to  break  a  lance, 

But  all  have  foully  sped  ; 
Save  two.  as  legends  tell,  and  they 
Were     Wallace      wight     and     Gilbert 
Hay. — 

Gentles,  my  tale  is  said." 


The    quaighs    were     deep,    the    liquoi 

strong, 
And  on  the  tale  the  yeoman-throng 
Had  made  a  comment  sage  and  long, 

But  Marmion  gave  a  sign, 
And  with  their  lord  the  squires  retire, 
The  rest  around  the  hostel  fire 

Their  drowsy  limbs  recline  ; 
For  pillow,  underneath  each  head 
The  quiver  and  the  targe  were  laid. 
Deep  slumbering  on  the  hostel  floor, 
Oppressed  with  toil  and  ale,  they  snore  ; 
The  dying  flame,  in  fitful  change, 
Threw  on  the  group  its  shadows  strange. 

Apart,  and  nestling  in  the  hay 
Of  a  waste  loft,  Fitz-Eustace  lay  ; 
Scarce  by  the  pale  moonlight  were  seen 
The  foldings  of  his  mantle  green  : 
Lightly  he  dreamt,  as  youth  will  dream, 
Of  sport  by  thicket,  or  by  stream, 
Of  hawk  or  hound,  or  ring  or  glove, 
Or,  lighter  yet,  of  lady's  love. 
A  cautious  tread  his  slumber  broke, 
And,  close  beside  him  when  he  woke, 
In  moonbeam  half,  and  half  in  gloom, 
Stood  a  tall  form  with  nodding  plume  ; 
But,  ere  his  dagger  Eustace  drew, 
His  master  Marmion's  voice  he  knew  : 

"  Fitz-Eustace  !  rise, — I  cannot  rest ; 
Yon   churl's  wild    legend    haunts    my 

breast, 
And  graver  thoughts  have  chafed  my 

mood  ; 
The  air  must  cool  my  feverish  blood, 
And  fain  would  I  ride  forth  to  see 
The  scene  of  elfin  chivalry. 
Arise,  and  saddle  me  my  steed  ; 
And,  gentle  Eustace,  take  good  heed 
Thou    dost     not     rouse    these    drowsy 

slaves ; 
I  would  not  that  the  prating  knaves 
Had  cause  for  saying,  o'er  their  ale, 
That  I  could  credit  such  a  tale." 
Then  softly  down  the  steps  they  slid, 
Eustace  the  stable  door  undid. 
And,  darkling,  Marmion's  steed  arrayed, 
While,    whispering,     thus     the     baron 

said : — 

"  Didst  never,  good  my  youth,  hear  tell 
That  on  the  hour  when  I  was  born 

Saint  George,  who  graced  my  sire's  cha- 
pelle, 

Down  from  his  steed  of  marble  fell, 
A  weary  wight  forlorn  ? 

The  flattering  chaplains  all  agree 

The  champion  left  his  steed  to  me 


SCOTT 


1.3 x 


I  would,  the  omen's  truth  to  show, 
That  I  could  meet  this  elfin  foe  ! 
Blithe  would  I  battle  for  the  right 
To  ask  one  question  at  the  sprite. — 
Vain  thought !  for  elves,  if  elves  there 

be, 
An  empty  race,  by  fount  or  sea 
To  dashing  waters  dance  and  sing, 
Or    round  the  green    oak   wheel  their 

ring." 
Thus  speaking,  he  his  steed  bestrode, 
And  from  the  hostel  slowly  rode. 

Fitz-Eustace  followed  him  abroad, 
And  marked  him  pace  the  village  road, 

And  listened  to  his  horse's  tramp, 
Till,  by  the  lessening  sound, 

He  judged  that  of  the  Pictish  camp 
Lord  Marmion  sought  the  round. 
AVonder  it  seemed,  in  the  squire's  eyes, 
That  one,  so  wary  held  and  wise, — 
Of  whom  'twas  said,  he  scarce  received 
For  gospel  what  the  Church  believed, — 

Should,  stirred  by  idle  tale, 
Ride  forth  in  silence  of  the  night, 
As  hoping  half  to  meet  a  sprite, 

Arrayed  in  plate  and  mail. 
For  littlS  did  Fitz-Eustace  know 
That  passions  in  contending  flow 

Unfix  the  strongest  mind  ; 
Wearied  from  doubt  to  doubt  to  flee, 
We  welcome  fond  credulity, 

Guide  confident,  though  blind. 

Little  for  this  Fitz-Eustace  cared, 
But  patient  waited  till  he  heard 
At  distance,  pricked  to  utmost  speed. 
The  foot-tramp  of  a  flying  steed 

Come  town  ward  rushing  on  ; 
First,  dead,  as  if  on  turf  it  trode, 
Then,  clattering  on  the  village  road, — 
In  other  pace  than  forth  he  yode, 

Returned  Lord  Marmion, 
Down  hastily  he  sprung  from  selle, 
And  in  his  haste  wellnigh  he  fell; 
To  the  squire's  hand  the  rein  he  threw, 
And  spoke  no  word  as  lie  withdrew  : 
But  yet  the  moonlight  did  betray 
The  falcon-crest  was  soiled  with  clay  ; 
\nil  plainly  might  Fitz  Eustace  see, 
By  stains  upon  the  charger's  knee 
And  his  left  side,  that  on  the  moor 
He  had  not  kept  his  footing  sure. 
Long  musing  on  these  wondrous  signs, 
At  length  to  rest  the  squire  reclines, 
Broken  and  short ;  for  still  between 
Would  dreams  of  terror  intervene  : 
Eustace  did  ne'er  so  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  morning  lark. 


CANTO  FOURTH 


THE  CAMP 


Eustace,  I  said,  did  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  merry  lark. 
The  lark  sang  shrill,  the  cock  he  crew, 
And  loudly  Marmion's  bugles  blew, 
And  with  their  light  and  lively  call 
Brought  groom  and  yeoman  to  the  stall. 

Whistling  they  came  and  free  of  heart, 
But  soon  their  mood  was  changed  ; 

Complaint  was  heard  on  every  part 
Of  some  thing  disarranged. 
Some  clamored  loud  for  armor  lost ; 
Some  brawled  and  wrangled  with  the 

host ; 
'  By  Becket's  bones.'  cried  one,  '  I  fear 
That  some    false    Scot    has   stolen   my 


spear 


Young  Blount,  Lord  Marmion's  second 

squire, 
Found  his  steed  wet  with  sweat  and  mire, 
Although  the  rated  horse-boy  sware 
Last  night  he  dressed  him  sleek  and  fair. 
While  chafed  the  impatient   squire  like 

thunder, 
Old  Hubert  shouts  in  fear  and  wonder, — • 
Help,  gentle  Blount !  help,  comrades  all ! 
Bevis  lies  dying  in  his  stall ; 
To  Marmion  who  the  plight  dare  tell 
Of  the  good  steed  he  loves  so  well  ?  ' 
Gaping  for  fear  and  ruth,  they  saw 
The  charger  panting  on  his  straw  ; 
Till  one,  who  would  seem  wisest,  cried, 
"  What  else  but  evil  could  betide, 
With  that  cursed  Palmer  for  our  guide? 
Better  we  had  through  mire  and  bush 
Been  lantern-led  by  Friar  Rush." 

Fitz-Eustace,      who     the      cause     but 
guessed, 

Nor  wholly  understood, 
His  comrades'   clamorous    plaints  sup- 
pressed : 

He  knew  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
Him,  ere  he  issued  forth,  he  sought, 
And    found   deep    plunged   in   gloomy 
thought, 

And  did  his  tale  display 
Simply  as  if  he  knew  of  nought 

To  cause  such  disarray. 
Lord  Marmion  gave  attention  cold, 
Nor  marvelled  at  the  wonders  told,— 
Passed  them  as  accidents  of  course, 
And  bade  his  clarions  sound  to  horse. 

Young   Henry  Blount,  meanwhile,  the 

cost 
Had  reckoned  with  their  Scottish  host ; 


132 


BRITISH    POETS 


And,  as  tlu>  charge  lit1  cast  and  paid, 
••  HI  thou  deserv'st  thy  hire,"  he  said  ; 
"Dost see,  thou  knave,  my  horse's  plight? 
Fairies  have  ridden  him  all  the  night, 

And  left  him  in  a  foam  ! 
I  trust  that  soon  a  conjuring  band, 
With  English  cross  and  blazing  brand, 
Shall  drive  the  devils  from  this  land 

To  their  infernal  home  ; 
For  in  this  haunted  den,  I  trow, 
All  night  they  trampled  to  and  fro." 
The  laughing  host  looked  on  the  hire  : 
"  Gramercy,  gentle  southern  squire, 
And  if  thou  com'st  among  the  rest, 
With  Scottish  broadsword  to  be  blest, 
Sharp  be  the  brand,  and  sure  the  blow, 
And  short  the  pang  to  undergo." 
Here  stayed  their  talk,  for  Marmion 
Gave  now  the  signal  to  set  on. 
The  Palmer  showing  forth  the  way, 
They  journeyed  all  the  morning-day. 

The  greensward  way  was    smooth  and 

good, 
Through  Humbie's  and  through  Saltoun's 

wood  ; 
A  forest  glade,  which,  varying  still, 
Here  gave  a  view  of  dale  and  hill 
There  narrower  closed  till  overhead 
A  vaulted  screen  the  branches  made. 
"  A  pleasant  path,"  Fitz-Eustace  said  ; 
"  Such  as  where  errant  knights   might 

see 
Adventures  of  high  chivalry, 
Might  meet  some  damsel  flying  fast, 
With  hair  unbound  and  looks  aghast ; 
And  smooth  and  level  course  were  here, 
In  her  defence  to  break  a  spear. 
Here,  too,  are  twilight  nooks  and  dells  ; 
And  oft  in  such,  the  story  tells, 
The  damsel  kind,  from  danger  freed. 
Did  grateful  pay  her  champion's  meed." 
He  spoke  to  cheer  Lord  Marmion's  mind, 
Perchance  to  show  his  lore  designed  ; 

For  Eustace  much  had  pored 
Upon  a  huge  romantic  tome, 
In  the  hall-window  of  his  home, 
Imprinted  at  the  antique  dome 

Of  Caxton  or  de  Worde, 
Therefore  he  spoke, — but  spoke  in  vain, 
For  Marmion  answered  nought  again. 

Now  sudden,  distant  trumpets  shrill. 
In  notes  prolonged  by  wood  and  hill, 

Were  heard  to  echo  far  ; 
Each  ready  archer  grasped  his  bow, 
But  by  the  flourish  soon  they  know 

They  breathed  no  point  of  war. 
Yet  cautious,  as  in  foeman's  land. 


Lord  Marmion's  order  speeds  the  band 

Some  opener  ground  to  gain  ; 
And  scarce  a  furlong  had  they  rode, 
When  thinner  trees  receding  showed 

A  little  woodland  plain. 
Just  in  that  advantageous  glade 
The  halting  troop  a  line  had  made, 
As  forth  from  the  opposing  shade 
Issued  a  gallant  train. 

First  came  the  trumpets,  at  whose  clang 
So  late  the  forest  echoes  rang  ; 
On  prancing  steeds  they  forward  pressed, 
With  scarlet  mantle,  azure  vest ; 
Each  at  his  trump  a  banner  wore, 
Which  Scotland's  royal  scutcheon  bore  : 
Heralds  and  pursuivants,  by  name 
Bute,     Islay,     Marchmount,    Rothsay, 

came, 
In  painted  tabai'ds,  proudly  showing 
Gules,  argent,  or,  and  azure  glowing. 

Attendant  on  a  king-at-arms, 
Whose  hand    the    armorial     truncheon 

held 
That  feudal  strife  had  often  quelled 

When  wildest  its  alarms. 

He  was  a  man  of  middle  age, 

In  aspect  manly,  grave,  and  sage, 

As  on  king's  errand  come  ; 
But  in  the  glances  of  his  eye 
A  penetrating,  keen,  and  sly 

Expression  found  its  home  ; 
The  flash  of  that  satiric  rage 
Which,  bursting  on  the  early  stage, 
Branded  the  vices  of  the  age, 

And  broke  the  keys  of  Rome. 
On  milk-white  palfrey  forth  he  paced  , 
His  cap  of  maintenance  was  graced 

With  the  proud  heron-plume. 
From    his    steed's    shoulder,  loin,    and 
breast, 

Silk  housings  swept  the  ground, 
With  Scotland's  arms,  device,  and  crest, 

Embroidered  round  and  round. 
The  double  tressure  might  you  see, 

First  by  Achaius  borne, 
The  thistle  and  the  fleur-de-lis, 

And  gallant  unicorn. 
So  bright  the  king's  armorial  coat 
That  scarce  the  dazzled  eye  could  note, 
In  living  colors  blazoned  brave, 
The  Lion,  which  his  title  gave  ; 
A  train,  which  well  beseemed  his  state, 
But  all  unarmed,  around  him  wait. 

Still  is  thy  name  in  high  account, 
And  still  thy  verse  has  charms, 

Sir  David  Lindesay  of  the  Mount, 
Lord  Lion  King-at-arms! 


SCOTT 


*33 


Down  from  his  horse  did  Marraion  spring- 
Soon  as  he  saw  the  Lion-King  ; 
For  well  the  stately  baron  knew 
To  him  such  courtesy  was  due 
Whom  royal  James  himself  had  crowned, 
And  on  his  temples  placed  the  round 

Of  Scotland's  ancient. diadem, 
And  wet  his  brow  with  hallowed  wine, 
And  on  his  finger  given  to  shine 

The  emblematic  gem. 
Their  mutual  greetings  duly  made, 
The  Lion  thus  his  message  said  : — 
'  Though  Scotland's  King    hath    deeply 

swore 
Ne'er  to  knit  faith  with  Henry  more, 
And  strictly  hath  forbid  resort 
From  England  to  his  royal  court. 
Yet,  for  he  knows  Lord  Marmion's  naine 
And  honors  much  his  warlike  fame, 
My   liege   hath    deemed   it  shame  and 
lack 

Of  courtesy  to  turn  him  back  ; 
And  by  his  order  I,  your  guide, 
Must  lodging  fit  and  fair  provide 
Till  finds  King  James  meet  time  to  see 
The  flower  of  English  chivalry." 

Though  inly  chafed  at  this  delay, 
Lord  Marmion  bears  it  as  he  may. 
The  Palmer,  his  mysterious  guide, 
Beholding  thus  his  place  supplied, 

Sought  to  take  leave  in  vain  ; 
Strict  was  the  Lion-King's  command 
That  none  who  rode  in  Marmion's   band 

Should  sever  from  the  train. 
"  England  has  here  enow  of  spies 
In  Lady  Heron's  witching  eyes  :  " 
To  Marchmount  thus  apart  he  said, 
But  fair  pretext  to  Marmion  made. 
The  right-hand  path  they  now-  decline, 
And  trace  against  the  stream  the  Tyne. 

At  length  up  that  wild  dale  they  wind, 

Where  Crichtoun  Castle    crowns    the 
bank  ; 
For  there  the  Lion's  care  assigned 

A  lodging  meet  for  Marmion's  rank. 
That  castle  rises  on  the  steep 

Of  the  green  vale  of  Tyne  ; 
And  far  beneath,  where  slow  they  creep 
From  pool  to  eddy,  dark  and  deep, 
Where  alders  moist  and  willows  weep, 

You  hear  her  streams  repine. 
The  towers  in  different  ages  rose, 
Their  various  architecture  shows 

The  builders'  various  hands  ; 
A  mighty  mass,  that  could  oppose, 
When  deadliest  hatred  fired  its  foes, 

The  vengeful  Douglas  bands. 


Crichtoun  !  though  now  thy  miry  court 

But  pens  the  lazy  steer  and  sheep, 

Thy  turrets  rude  and  tottered  keep 
Have  been  the  minstrel's  loved  resort. 
Oft  have  I  traced,  within  thy  fort. 

Of    mouldering     shields    the    mystic 
sense, 

Scutcheons  of  honor  or  pretence, 
Quartered  in  old  armorial  sort, 

Remains  of  rude  magnificence. 
Nor  wholly  yet  hath  time  defaced 

Thy  lordly  gallery  fair, 
Nor  yet  the  stony  cord  unbi'aced 
Whose  twisted  knots,  with  roses  laced, 

Adorn  thy  ruined  stair. 
Still  rises  unimpaired  below 
The  court-yard's  graceful  portico  ; 
Above  its  cornice,  row  and  row 
Of  fair-hewn  facets  richly  show 

Their  pointed  diamond  form, 
Though  there  but  houseless  cattle  go, 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm. 
And,  shuddering,  still  may  we  explore, 

Where  oft  whilom  were  captives  pent, 
The  darkness  of  thy  Massy  More, 

Or,  from  thy  grass-grown  battlement, 
May  trace  in  undulating  line 
The  sluggish  mazes  of  the  Tyne. 

Another  aspect  Crichtoun  showed 
As  through  its  portal  Marmion  rode ; 
But  yet  't  was  melancholy  state 
Received  him  at  the  outer  gate, 
For  none  were  in  the  castle  then 
But  women,  boys,  or  aged  men. 
With  eyes  scarce  dried,  the  sorrowing 

dame 
To  welcome  noble  Marmion  came  ; 
Her  son,  a  stripling  twelve  years  old, 
Proffered  the  baron's  rein  to  hold  : 
For  each  man  that  could  draw  a  sword 
Had  marched  that  morning  with  their 

lord, 
Earl  Adam  Hepburn, — he  who  died 
On  Flodden  by  his  sovereign's  side. 
Long  may  his  lady  look  in  vain  ! 
She  ne'er  shall  see  his  gallant  train 
Come  sweeping  back  through  Crichtoun 

Dean . 
'T  was  a  brave  race  before  the  name 
Of  hated  Bothwell  stained  their  fame. 

And  here  two  days  did  Marmion  rest, 
With  every  right  that  honor  claims, 

Attended  as  the  king's  own  guest ; — 
Such  the  command  of  Royal  James, 

Who  marshalled  then  his  land's  array, 

Upon  the  Borough-moor  that  lay. 

Perchance  he  would  not  foeman's  eye 


34 


BRITISH    POETS 


Upon  his  gathering  host  should  pry, 
Till  full  prepared  was  every  band 
To  march  against  the  English  land. 
Here  while  they  dwelt,  did  Lindesay's 

w  it 
Oft  cheer  the  baron's  moodier  fit ; 
And,  in  his  turn,  he  knew  to  prize 
Lord    Maroiion's    powerful    mind    and 

wise. — 
Trained  in  the  lore  of  Rome  and  Greece, 
And  policies  of  war  and  peace. 

It  chanced,  as  fell  the  second  night, 

That  on  the  battlements  they  walked, 
And  by  the  slowly  fading  light 

(  >f  varying  topics  talked  : 
And,  unaware,  the  herald-bard 
Sa  id  Marmion  might  his  toil  have  spared 

In  travelling  so  far, 
For  that  a  messenger  from  heaven 
In  vain  to  James  had  counsel  given 

Against  the  English  war  ; 
And,  closer  questioned,  thus  he  told 
A  tale  which  chronicles  of  old 
In  Scottish  story  have  enrolled  : — 

SIR   DAVID   LINDESAY'S   TALE 

"  Of  all  the  palaces  so  fair. 

Built  for  the  royal  dwelling 
In  Scotland,  far  beyond  compare 

Linlithgow  is  excelling  ; 
And  in  its  park,  in  jovial  June, 
How  sweet  the  merry  linnet's  tune, 

How  blithe  the  blackbird's  lay  ! 
The  wild  buck  bells  from  ferny  brake, 
The  coot  dives  merry  on  the  lake, 
The  saddest  heart  might  pleasure  take 

To  see  all  nature  gay. 
But  June  is  to  our  sovereign  dear 
The  heaviest  month  in  all  the  year  ; 
Too  well  his  cause  of  grief  you  know, 
June  saw  his  father's  overthrow. 
Woe  to  the  traitors  who  could  bring 
The  princely  boy  against  his  king  ! 
Still  in  his  conscience  burns  the  sting. 
Iu  offices  as  strict  as  Lent 
King  James's  June  is  ever  spent. 

"When    last    this   ruthful  month  was 

come. 
And  in  Linlithgow's  holy  dome 

The  king,  as  wont,  was  praying  ; 
While  for  his  royal  father's  soul 
The  chanters  sung,  the  bells  did  toll, 

The  bishop  mass  was  saying — 
For  now  the  year  brought  round  again 
The  day  the  luckless  king  was  slain — 
In  Catherine's  aisle  the  monarch  knelt, 
With  sackcloth  shirt  and  iron  belt, 


And  eyes  with  sorrow  streaming  ; 
Around  him  in  their  stalls  of  state 
The  Thistle's  Knight-Companions  sate, 

Their  banners  o'er  them  beaming. 
I  too  was  there,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 
Bedeafened  with  the  jangling  knell. 
Was  watching  where  the  sunbeams  fell. 

Through  the  stained  casement  gleam- 
ing ; 
But  while  I  marked  what  next  befell 

It  seemed  as  I  were  dreaming, 
Stepped  from  the  crowd  a  ghostly  wight, 
In  azure  gown,  with  cincture  white  ; 
His  forehead  bald,  his  head  was  bare, 
Down  hung  at  length  his  yellow  hair. — 
Now,  mock  me  not  when,  good  my  lord, 
I  pledge  to  you  my  knightly  word 
That  when  I  saw  his  placid  grace, 
His  simple  majesty  of  face, 
His  solemn  bearing,  and  his  pace 

So  stately  gliding  on, — 
Seemed  to  me  ne'er  did  limner  paint 
So  just  an  image  of  the  saint 
Who  propped  the  Virgin  in  her  faint, 

The  loved  Apostle  John  ! 

"  He  stepped  before  the  monarch's  chair, 
And  stood  with  rustic  plainness  there, 

And  little  reverence  made  ; 
Nor  head,  nor  body,  bowed,  nor  bent, 
But  on  the  desk  his  arm  he  leant, 

And  words  like  these  he  said, 
In  a  low  voice, — but  never  tone 
So  thrilled  through  vein,  and  nerve,  and 

bone  : — 
'  My  mother  sent  me  from  afar, 
Sir  King,  to  warn  thee  not  to  war, — 

Woe  waits  on  thine  array  ; 
If  war  thou  wilt,  of  woman  fair, 
Her  witching  wiles  and  wanton  snare, 
James  Stuart,  doubly  warned,  beware  : 

God  keep  thee  as  He  may  ! ' — 
The  wondering  monarch  seemed  to  seek 

For  answer,  and  found  none  ; 
And  when  he  raised  his  head  to  speak, 

The  monitor  was  gone. 
The  marshal  and  myself  had  cast 
To  stop  him  as  he  outward  passed  ; 
But,  lighter  than  the  whirlwind's  blast, 

He  vanished  from  our  eyes, 
Like  sunbeam  on  the  billow  cast, 

That  glances  but,  and  dies." 

While  Lindesay  told  his  marvel  strange 

The  twilight  was  so  pale, 
He  marked  not  Marmion's  color  change 

While  listening  to  the  tale  ; 
But,  after  a  suspended  pause, 
The  baron  spoke  :  "  Of  Nature's  laws 


SCOTT 


*3S 


So  strong  I  held  the  force, 
That  never  superhuman  cause 

Could  e'er  control  their  course, 
And,  three  days  since,  had  judged  your 

aim 
Was    but    to    make    your    guest    your 

game  ; 
But  I  have  seen,  since  past  the  Tweed, 
What    much  has    changed  my  sceptic 

creed, 
And  made  me  credit  aught." — He  stayed, 
And  seemed  to  wish  his  words  unsaid, 
But,  by  that  strong  emotion  pressed 
Which  prompts  us  to  unload  our  breast 

Even  when  discovery's  pain. 
To  Lindesay  did  at  length  unfold 
The  tale  his  village  host  had  told, 

At  Gifford,  to  his  train. 
Nought  of  the  Palmer  says  he  there. 
And  nought  of  Constance  or  of  Clare; 
The  thoughts  which  broke  his  sleep  he 

seems 
To  mention  but  as  feverish  dreams. 

"  In  vain,"  said  he,  "  to  rest  I  spread 
My  burning  limbs  and  couched  my  head  ; 

Fantastic  thoughts  returned, 
And,  by  their  wild  dominion  led, 

My  heart  within  me  burned. 
So  sore  was  the  delirious  goad, 
I  took  my  steed  and  forth  I  rode, 
And,  as  the    moon    shone    bright  and 

cold, 
Soon  reached  the  camp  upon  the  wold. 
The  southern  entrance  I  passed  through, 
And  halted,  and  my  bugle  blew. 
Methought  an  answer  met  my  ear, — 
Yet  was  the  blast  so  low  and  drear, 
So  hollow,  and  so  faintly  blown, 
It  might  be  echo  of  my  own. 

"  Thus  judging,  for  a  little  space 
I  listened  ere  I  left  the  place, 

But  scarce  could  trust  my  eyes, 
Nor  yet  can  think  they  serve  me  true, 
When  sudden  in  the  ring  I  view, 
In  form  distinct  of  shape  and  hue, 

A  mounted  champion  rise. — 
I've  fought,  Lord-Lion,  many  a  day, 
In  single  fight  and  mixed  affray, 
And  ever.  I  myself  may  say, 

Have  borne  me  as  a  kniglit  ; 
But  when  this  unexpected  foe 
Seemed  starting  from  the  gulf  below, — 
I  care  not  though  the  truth  1  show, — 

I  trembled  with  affright ; 
And  as  I  placed  in  rest  my  spear, 
My  hand  so  shook  for  very  fear, 

I  scarce  could  couch  it  right. 


"  Why  need  my  tongue  the  issue  tell? 
We  ran  our  course, — my  charger  fell ; — 
What  could  he    'gainst  the    shock    of 
hell  ? 

I  rolled  upon  the  plain. 
High  o'er  my  head    with  threatening 

hand 
The  spectre  shook  his  naked  brand, — 

Yet  did  the  worst  remain  : 
My  dazzled  eyes  I  upward  cast, — 
Not  opening  hell  itself  could  blast 

Their  sight  like  what  I  saw  ! 
Full  on  his  face  the  moonbeam  strook  !— 
A  face  could  never  be  mistook  ! 
I  knew  the  stern  vindictive  look, 

And  held  my  breath  for  awe. 
I  saw  the  face  of  one  who,  fled 
To  foreign  climes,  has  long  been  dead, — ■ 

I  well  believe  the  last ; 
For  ne'er  from  visor  raised  did  stare 
A  human  warrior  with  a  glare 

So  grimly  and  so  gha^st. 
Thrice  o'er  my  head  he  shook  the  blade  ; 
But  when  to  good  Saint  George  I  prayed, 
— The  first  time  e'er  I  asked  ins  aid, — 

He  plunged  it  in  the  sheath. 
And,  on  his  courser  mounting  light, 
He  seemed  to  vanish  from  my  sight : 
The    moonbeam    drooped,   and  deepest 
night 

Sunk  down  upon  the  heath. — 
'T  were  long  to  tell  what  cause  I  have 

To  know  his  face  that  met  me  there, 
Called  by  his  hatred  from  the  grave 

To  cumber  upper  air  ; 
Dead  or  alive,  good  cause  had  he 
To  be  my  mortal  enemy." 

Marvelled  Sir  David  of  the  Mount ; 
Then,  learned  in  story,  gan  recount 

Such  chance  had  happed  of  old, 
When    once,   near   Norhan*,    there    did 

fight 
A  spectre  fell  of  fiendish  might, 
In  likeness  of  a  Scottish  kniglit, 

With  Brian  Bulmer  bold, 
And  trained  him  nigh  to  disallow 
The  aid  of  his  baptismal  vow, 
•'And  such  a  phantom,  too.  '  t  is  said, 
With  Highland   broadsword,  targe,  and 
plaid, 

And  fingers  red  with  gore. 
Is  seen  in  Rothiemurcus  glade, 
Or  where  the  sable  pine-trees  shade 
Dark  Tomantoul,  and  Auchnaslaid, 

Dromouchty,  or  Glenmore. 
And  yet,  what'er  such  legends  say 
Of  warlike  demon,  ghost,  or  fay, 

On  mountain,  moor,  or  plain, 


i36 


BRITISH    POETS 


Spotless  in  faith,  in  bosom  bold, 
True  son  of  chivalry  should  hold 

These  midnight  terrors  vain  ; 
For  seldom  have  such  spirits  power 
To  harm,  save  in  the  evil  hour 
When  guilt  we  meditate  within 
Or  harbor  un repented  sin." — 
Lord  Marmion  turned  him  half  aside, 
And  twice  to  clear  his  voice  he  tried, 

Then  pressed  Sir  David's  hand, — 
But  nought,  at  length,  in  answer  said  ; 
And  here  their  further  converse  stayed, 

Each  ordering  that  his  band 
Should  bowne  them  with  the  rising  day, 
To  Scotland's  camp  to  take  their  way, — 

Such  was  the  king's  command. 

Early  they  took  Dun-Edin's  road, 
And  I  could  trace  each  step  they  trode  ; 
Hill,  brook,  nor  dell,  nor  rock,  nor  stone, 
Lies  on  the  path  to  me  unknown. 
Much  might  it  boast  of  storied  lore  ; 
But,  passing  such  digression  o'er, 
Suffice  it  that  their  route  was  laid 
Across  the  furzy  hills  of  Braid. 
They  passed  the  glen  and  scanty  rill, 
And  climbed  the  opposing  bank,  until 
They  gained  the  top  of  Blackford  Hill. 

Blackford  !  on  whose  uncultured  breast, 

Among  the  broom  and  thorn  and  whin, 
A  truant-boy,  I  sought  the  nest, 
Or  listed,  as  I  lay  at  rest, 

While  rose  on  breezes  thin 
The  murmur  of  the  city  crowd, 
And.  from  his  steeple  jangling  loud, 

Saint  Giles's  mingling  din. 
Now,  from  the  summit  to  the  plain, 
Waves  all  the  hill  with  yellow  grain  ; 

And  o'er  the  landscape  as  I  look, 
Nought  do  I  see  unchanged  remain, 

Save  the  rude  cliffs  and  chiming  brook. 
To  me  they  make  a  heavy  moan 
Of  early  friendships  past  and  gone. 

But  different  far  the  change  has  been, 

Since  Marmion  from  the  crown 
Of  Blackford  saw  that  martial  scene 

Upon  the  bent  so  brown  : 
Thousand  pavilions,  white  as  snow, 
Spread  all  the  Borough-moor  below, 

Upland,  and  dale,  and  down. 
A  thousand  'lid  I  say?     I  ween, 
Thousa  nds  on  thousands  there  were  seen. 
That  checkered  all  the  heath  between 

The  streamlet  and  the  town, 
In  crossing  ranks  extending  far, 
Forming  a  camp  irregular  ; 
Oft  giving  way  where  still  there  stood 


Some  relics  of  the  old  oak  wood, 
That  darkly  huge  did  intervene 
And  tamed  the  glaring  white  with  green 
In  these  extended  lines  there  lay 
A  martial  kingdom's  vast  array. 

For  from  Hebudes,  dark  with  rain, 
To  eastern  Lodon's  fertile  plain, 
And  from  the  southern  Redswire  edge 
To  furthest  Rosse's  rocky  ledge, 
From  west  to  east,  from  south  to  north, 
Scotland  sent  all  her  warriors  forth. 
Marmion  might  hear  the  mingled  hum 
Of  myriads  up  the  mountain  come, — 
The  horses'  tramp  and  tinkling  clank. 
Where  chiefs  reviewed  their  vassal  rank, 

And  charger's  shrilling  neigh, — 
And  see  the  shifting  lines  advance, 
While  frequent  flashed  from  shield   and 
lance 

The  sun's  reflected  ray. 

Thin  curling  in  the  morning  air, 
The  wreaths  of  failing  smoke  declare 
To  embers  now  the  brands  decayed, 
Where  the  night-watch  their  fires  had 

made. 
They  saw,  slow  rolling  on  the  plain, 
Full  many  a  baggage-cart  and  wain, 
And  dire  artillery's  clumsy  car, 
By  sluggish  oxen  tugged  to  war  ; 
And    there    were    Borth wrick's     Sisters 

Seven, 
And  culverins  which  France  had  given. 
Ill-omened  gift !  the  guns  remain 
The  conqueror's  spoil  on  Flodden  plain.  . 

Nor  marked  they  less  where  in  the  air 
A  thousand  streamers  flaunted  fair  ; 
Various  in  shape,  device,  and  hue. 
Green,  sanguine,  purple,  red.  and  blue, 
Broad,     narrow,     swallow-tailed,      and 

square, 
Scroll,  pennon,  pencil,  bandrol,  there 

O'er  the  pavilions  flew. 
Highest  and  midmost,  was  descried 
The  royal  banner  floating  wide  ; 

The    staff,    a    pine-tree,    strong    and 
straight, 
Pitched  deeply  in  a  massive  stone, 
Which  still  in  memory  is  shown, 
Yet     bent    beneath     the     standard's 
weight, 
Whene'er  the  western  wind  unrolled 
With  toil  the   huge   and   cumbrous 
fold, 
And  gave  to  view  the  dazzling  field, 
Where  in  proud  Scotland's  royal  shield 
The  ruddy  lion  ramped  in  gold. 


SCOTT 


J37 


Lord    Marmion    viewed    the    landscape 

bright, 
He  viewed  it  with  a  chiefs  delight, 
Until  within  him  burned  his  heart, 
And  lightning  from  his  eye  did  part, 

As  on  the  battle-day  ; 
Such  glance  did  falcon  never  dart 
When  stooping  on  his  prey. 
"  Oh  !  well,  Lord-Lion,  hast  thou  said, 
Thy  king  from  warfare  to  dissuade 

Were  but  a  vain  essay  ; 
For,  by   Saint   George,  were  that   host 

mine, 
Not  power  infernal  nor  divine 
Should  once  to  peace  my  soul  incline, 
Till  I  had  dimmed  their  armor's  shine 

In  glorious  battle-fray  !  " 
Answered  the  bard,  of  milder  mood  : 
'  Fair  is  the  sight, — and  yet  'twere 
good 

That  kings  would  think  withal, 
When  peace  and   wealth  their  land  has 

blessed , 
'T  is  better  to  sit  still  at  rest 
Than  rise,  perchance  to  fall.  " 

Still  on  the  spot  Lord  Marmion  stayed, 
For  fairer  scene  he  ne'er  surveyed. 
When  sated  with  the  martial  show 
That  peopled  all  the  plain  below; 
The  wandering  eye  could  o'er  it  go, 
And  mark  the  distant  city  glow 

With  gloomy  splendor  red  ; 
For  on   the   smoke-wreaths,    huge   and 

slow, 
That  round  her  sable  tui'rets  flow, 

The  morning  beams  were  shed, 
And  tinged  them  with  a  lustre  proud, 
Like    that    which    streaks   a    thunder- 
cloud. 
Such  dusky  grandeur  clothed  the  height 
Where  the  huge  castle  holds  its  state, 

And  all  the  steep  slope  down, 
Whose  ridgy  back  heaves  to  the  sky, 
Piled  deep  and  massy,  close  and  high. 

Mine  own  romantic  town  ! 
But  northward  far,  with  purer  blaze, 
On  Ochil  mountains  fell  the  rays, 
And  as  each  heathy  top  they  kissed, 
It  gleamed  a  purple  amethyst. 
Yonder  the  shores  of  Fife  you  saw, 
Here  Preston -Bay  and  Berwick-law  ; 

And,  broad  between  them  rolled, 
The  gallant  Firth  the  eye  might  note, 
Whose  islands  on  its  bosom  float, 

Like  emeralds  chased  in  gold. 
Fitz-Eustace'  heart  felt  closely  pent ; 
As  if  to  give  his  rapture  vent, 
The  spur  he  to  his  charger  lent, 


And  raised  his  bridle  hand, 
And  making  demi-volt  in  air, 
Cried,  "  Where's  the  coward  that  would 
not  dare 

To  fight  for  such  a  land  !  " 
The  Lindesay  smiled  his  joy  to  see, 
Nor  Marmion's  frown  repressed  his  glee 

Thus  while  they  looked,  a  flourish  proud. 
Where  mingled  trump,  and  clarion  loud, 

And  fife,  and  kettle-drnm, 
And  sackbut  deep,  and  psaltery, 
And  war-pipe  with  discordant  cry, 
And  cymbal  clattering  to  the  sky, 
Making  wild  music  bold  and  high, 

Did  up  the  mountain  come  ; 
The  whilst  the  bells  with  distant  chime 
Merrily  tolled  the  hour  of  prime, 

And  thus  the  Lindesay  spoke  : 
"  Thus  clamor  still  the  war-notes  when 
The  king  to  mass  his  way  has  ta'en, 
Or  to  Saint  Catherine's  of  Sienne, 

Or  Chapel  of  Saint  Rocque. 
To  you  they  speak  of  martial  fame, 
But  me  remind  of  peaceful  game, 

When  blither  was  their  cheer. 
Thrilling  in  Falkland-woods  the  air, 
In  signal  none  his  steed  should  spare. 
But     strive     which     foremost     might 
repair 

To  the  downfall  of  the  deer. 

"  Nor  less,"  he  said,  "  when  looking  forth 
I  view  yon  Empress  of  the  North 

Sit  on  her  hilly  throne, 
Her  palace's  imperial  bowers. 
Her  castle,  proof  to  hostile  powers, 
Her  stateh*  halls  and  holy  towers — 

Nor  less,''  he  said,  "  I  moan 
To    think   what    woe    mischance    may 

bring, 
And  how  these  merry  bells  may  ring 
The  death-dirge  of  our  gallant  king, 

Or  with  their  larum  call 
The  burghers  forth  to  watch  and  ward, 
'Gainst     Southern    sack    and    fires     to 
guard 

Dun-Ed in's  leaguered  wall. — 
But  not  for  my  presaging  thought, 
Dream  conquest  sure  or  cheaply  bought ! 

Lord  Marmion,  I  say  nay  : 
God  is  the  guider  of  the  field. 
He   breaks   the   champion's   spear    and 
shield  ; 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  say, 
When  joins  yon  host  in  deadly  stowre, 
That   England's   dames   must   weep    in 
bower. 

Her  monks  the  death-mass  sing  ; 


'3* 


BRITISH   POETS 


For  never  saw'st  thou  such  a  power 

Led  on  by  such  a  king." 
Ami  now.  down  winding  to  the  plain, 
The  barriers  of  the  camp  they  gain, 

And  there  they  made  a  stay, — 
There  stays  the  Minstrel  till  he  fling 
His  hand  o'er  every  Border  string, 
An. I  til  his  harp  the  pomp  to  sing 
Of  Scotland's  ancient  court  and  king, 

In  the  succeeding  lay. 

CANTO  FIFTH 

THE    COURT 

The  train  has  left  the  hills  of  Braid  ; 
The  barrier  guard  have  open  made — 
So  Lindesay  bade — the  palisade 

That  closed  th^  tented  ground  ; 
Their  men  the  warders  backward  drew, 
And  carried  pikes  as  they  rode  through 

Into  its  ample  bound. 
Fast  ran  the  Scottish  warriors  there, 
Upon  the  Southern  band  to  stare, 
And  envy  with  their  wonder  rose, 
To  see  such  well-appointed  foes  ; 
Such   length    of   shafts,    such    mighty 

bows, 
So  huge,  that  many  simply  thought 
But  for  a  vaunt  sucli  weapons  wrought, 
And  little  deemed  their  force  to  feel 
Through  links  of  mail  and  plates  of  steel 
When,  rattling  upon  Flodden  vale, 
The  cloth-yard  arrows  flew  like  hail. 

Nor  less  did  Marmion's  skilful  view 
Glance  every  line  and  squadron  through, 
And  much  he  marvelled  one  small  land 
Could  marshal  forth  such  various  band  ; 

For  men-at-arms  were  here, 
Heavily  sheathed  in  mail  and  plate, 
Like  iron  towers  for  strength  and  weight 
On  Flemish  steeds  of  bone  and  height, 

With  battle-axe  and  spear. 
Young  knights   and  squires,  a   lighter 

train, 
Practised  their  charges  on  the  plain, 
By  aid  of  leg,  of  hand,  and  rein, 

Each  warlike  feat  to  show. 
To  pass,  to  wheel,  the  croupe  to  gain, 
And  high  curvet,  that  not  in  vain 
The  sword-sway  might  descend  amain 

On  foeman's  casque  below 
He  saw  the  hardy  burghers  there 
March  armed  on  foot  with  faces  bare, 

For  visor  they  wore  none, 
Nor  waving  plume,  nor  crest  of  knight ; 
But     burnished     were    their     corselets 

bright; 
Their  brigantines  and  gorgets  light 


Like  very  silver  shone. 
Long  pikes  they  had  for  standing  fight, 

Two-handed  swords  they  wore. 
And  many  wielded  mace  of  weight, 

And  bucklers  bright  they  bore. 

On  foot  the  yeoman  too,  but  dressed 
In  his  steel-jack,  a  swarthy  vest, 

With  iron  quilted  well ; 
Each  at  his  back — a  slender  store — 
His  forty  days'  provision  bore, 

As  feudal  statutes  tell. 
His  arms  were  halbert,  axe,  or  spear, 
A  crossbow  there,  a  hagbut  here, 

A  dagger-knife,  and  brand. 
Sober  he  seemed  and  sad  of  cheer, 
As  loath  to  leave  his  cottage  dear 

And  march  to  foreign  strand, 
Or  musing  who  would  guide  his  steer 

To  till  the  fallow  land. 
Yet  deem  not  in  his  thoughtful  eye 
Did  aught  of  dastard  terror  lie  ; 

More  dreadful  far  his  ire 
Than  theirs  who,  scorning  danger's  name 
In  eager  mood  to  battle  came, 
Their  valor  like  light  straw  on  flame, 

A  fierce  but  fading  fire. 

Not  so  the  Borderer  : — bred  to  war, 
He  knew  the  battle's  din  afar, 

And  joyed  to  hear  it  swell. 
His  peaceful  day  was  slothful  ease  ; 
Nor  harp  nor  pipe  his  ear  could  please 

Like  the  loud  slogan  yell. 
On  active  steed,  with  lance  and  blade, 
The  light-armed  pricker  plied  his  trade, — 

Let  nobles  fight  for  fame  ; 
Let  vassals  follow  where  they  lead, 
Burghers,    to    guard    their    townships, 
bleed, 

But  war's  the  Borderers'  game. 
Their  gain,  their  glory,  their  delight, 
To  sleep  the  day,  maraud  the  night, 

O'er  mountain,  moss  and  moor  ; 
Joyful  to  fight  they  took  their  way, 
Scarce  caring  who  might  win  the  day, 

Their  booty  was  secure. 
These,  as  Lord  Marmion's  train  passed 

by, 
Looked  on  at  first  with  careless  eye, 
Nor   marvelled    aught,  well    taught  to 

know 
The  form  and  force  of  English  bow. 
But  when  they  saw  the  lord  arrayed 
In  splendid  arms  and  rich  brocade, 
Each  Borderer  to  his  kinsman  said, — 

"  Hist,  Ringan  !  seest  thou  there  ! 
Canst  guess  which  road  they'll  homeward 
ride? 


SCOTT 


[39 


Oh  !  could  we  but  on  Border  side. 
By  Eusedale  glen,  or  Liddell's  tide, 

Beset  a  prize  so  fair  ! 
That  fangless  Lion,  too,  their  guide, 
Might  chance  to  lose  his  glistering  hide  ; 
Brown  Maudlin  of  that  doublet  pied 

Could  make  a  kirtle  rare." 

Next,  Marmion  marked  the  Celtic  race, 
Of  different  language,  form,  and  face, 

A  various  race  of  man  ; 
Just  then  the  chiefs  their  tribes  arrayed. 
And  wild  and  garish  semblance  made 
The  checkered  trews  and  belted  plaid. 
And  varying  notes  the  war-pipes  brayed 

To  every  varying  clan. 
Wild  through  their  red  or  sable  hair 
Looked  out  their  eyes  with  savage  stare 

On  Marmion  as  he  passed  ; 
Their  legs  above  the  knee  were  bare  ; 
Their   frame    was    sinewy,   short,     and 
spare. 

And  hardened  to  the  blast  ; 
Of  taller  race,  the  chiefs  they  own 
Were  by  the  eagle's  plumage  known. 
The  hunted  red-deer's  undressed  hide 
Their  hairy  buskins  well  supplied  ; 
The  graceful  bonnet  decked  their  head  ; 
Back    from    their   shoulders   hung   the 

plaid  ; 
A  broadsword  of  unwieldy  length, 
A  dagger  proved  for  edge  and  strength, 

A  studded  targe  they  wore, 
And   quivers,    bows,   and   shafts, — but, 

oh! 
Short  was  the  shaft  and  weak  the  bow 

To  that  which  England  bore. 
The  Isles-men  carried  at  their  backs 
The  ancient  Danish  battle-axe. 
They  raised  a  wild  and  wondering  cry, 
As  with  his  guide  rode  Marmion  by, 
Loud  were  their  clamoring  tongues,  as 

when 
The  clanging  sea-fowl  leave  the  fen 
And.  with  their  cries  discordant  mixed, 
Grumbled  and  yelled  the  pipes  betwixt. 

Thus   through  the  Scottish  camp  they 

passed, 
And  readied  the  city  gate  at  last, 
Where  all  around,  a  wakeful  guard. 
Armed  burghers  kept  their  watch  and 

ward. 
Well  had  they  cause  of  jealous  fear. 
When  lay  encamped  in  field  so  near 
The  Borderer  and  the  Mountaineer. 
As  through  the  bustling  streets  they  go, 
All  was  alive  with  martial  show  ; 
At  every  turn  with  dinning  clang 


The  armorer's  anvil  clashed  and  rang, 
Or  toiled  the  swarthy  smith  to  wheel 
The  bar  that  arms  the  charger's  heel, 
Or  axe  or  falchion  to  the  side 
Of  jarring  grindstone  was  applied, 
Page,  groom,  and  squire,  with  hurrying 

pace, 
Through  street  and  lane  and  market- 
place, 

Bore  lance  or  casque  or  sword  ; 
While  burghers,  with  important  face, 

Described  each  new-come  lord. 
Discussed  his  lineage,  told  his  name, 
His  following,  and  his  warlike  fame. 
The  Lion  led  to  lodging  meet, 
Which    high    o'erlooked    the    crowded 
street ; 

There  must  the  baron  rest 
Till  past  the  hour  of  vesper  tide, 
And  then  to  Holy-Rood  must  ride, — 

Such  was  the  king's  behest. 
Meanwhile  the  Lion's  care  assigns 
A  banquet  rich  and  costly  wines 

To  Marmion  and  his  train  ; 
And  when  the  appointed  hour  succeeds, 
The  baron  dons  his  peaceful  weeds, 
And  following    Lindesay  as    he   leads. 

The  palace  halls  they  gain. 

Old  Holy-Rood  rung  merrily 

That    night   with    wassail,    mirth,   and 

glee: 
King  James  within  her  princely  bower 
Feasted  the  chiefs  of  Scotland's  power, 
Summoned  to  spend  the  parting  hour  ; 
For  he  had  charged  that  his  array 
Should   southward   march   by  break  of 

day. 
Well  loved  that  splendid  monarch  aye 

The  banquet  and  the  song, 
By  day  the  tourney,  and  by  night 
The  merry  dance,  traced  fast  and  light, 
The  maskers  quaint,  the  pageant  bright, 

The  revel  loud  and  long. 
This  feast  outshone  his  banquets  past ; 
It  was  his  blithest — and  his  last. 
The  dazzling  lamps  from  gallery  gay 
Cast  on  the  court  a  dancing  ray  ; 
Here  to  the  harp  did  minstrels  sing, 
There  ladies  touched  a  softer  string  ; 
With  long-eared  cap  and  motley  vest, 
The  licensed  fool  retailed  his  jest  ; 
His  magic  tricks  the  juggler  plied  ; 
At  dice  and  draughts  the  gallants  vied  ; 
While  some,  in  close  recess  apart, 
Courted  the  ladies  of  their  heart, 

Nor  courted  them  in  vain  ; 
For  «il't en  in  the  parting  hour 
Victorious  Love  asserts  his  power 


140 


BRITISH    POETS 


O'er  coldness  and  disdain  ; 
And  flinty  is  lier  heart  can  view 
To  1  tattle  march  a  lover  true — 
Can  hear,  perchance,  his  last  adieu, 

Nor  own  her  share  of  pain. 

Through  this  mixed  crowd  of  glee  and 

game 
The  king  to  great  Lord  Marmion  came, 
While,  reverent,  all  made  room. 
An  easy  task  it  was,  I  trow, 
King  James's  manly  form  to  know, 
Although,  his  courtesy  to  show, 
He  doffed  to  Marmion  bending  low 

His  broidered  cap  and  plume. 
For  royal  were  his  garb  and  mien  : 

His  cloak  of  crimson  velvet  piled, 

Trimmed  with  the  fur  of  marten  wild, 
His  vest  of  changeful  satin  sheen, 

The  dazzled  eye  beguiled  ; 
His  gorgeous  collar  hung  adown, 
Wrought  with  the  badge  of  Scotland's 

crown, 
The  thistle  brave  of  old  renown  ; 
His  trusty  blade,  Toledo  right, 
Descended  from  a  baldric  bright ; 
White  were  his  buskins,  on  the  heel 
His  spurs  inlaid  of  gold  and  steel  ; 
His  bonnet,  all  of  crimson  fair, 
Was  buttoned  with  a  ruby  rare  : 
And  Marmion  deemed  he  ne'er  had  seen 
A  prince  of  such  a  noble  mien. 

The  monarch's  form  was  middle  size, 
For  feat  of  strength  or  exercise 

Shaped  in  proportion  fair  ; 
And  hazel  was  his  eagle  eye, 
And  auburn  of  the  darkest  dye 
His  short  curled  beard  and  I) air. 
Light  was  his  footstep  in  the  dance, 

And  firm  his  stirrup  in  the  lists  ; 
And,  oh  !  he  had  that  merry  glance 

That  seldom  lady's  heart  resists. 
Lightly  from  fair  to  fair  he  flew, 
And  loved   to  plead,  lament  and  sue, — 
Suit  lightly  won  and  short  lived  pain, 
For  monarchs  seldom  sigh  in  vain. 

I  said  he  joyed  in  banquet  bower  ; 
But,  mid  his  mirth,  't  was  often  strange 
How  suddenly  his  cheer  would  change, 

His  look  o'ercast  and  lower, 
If  in  a  sudden  turn  he  felt 
The  pressure  of  his  iron  belt, 
That  bound  his  breast  in  penance  pain, 
In  memory  of  his  father  slain. 
Even  so  't  was  strange  how  evermore, 
Soon  as  the  passing  pang  was  o'er, 
Forward  he  rushed  with  double  glee 
Into  the  stream  of  revelry. 


Thus  dim-seen  object  of  affright 
Startles  the  courser  in  his  flight, 
And  half  he  halts,  half  springs  aside, 
But  feels  the  quickening  spur  applied, 
And,  straining  on  the  tightened  rein, 
Scours  doubly  swift  o'er  hill  and  plain. 

O'er  James's  heart,  the  courtiers  say, 
Sir  Hugh  the  Heron's  wife  held  sway  ; 

To  Scotland's  court  she  came, 
To  be  a  hostage  for  her  lord, 
Who  Cessford's  gallant  heart  had  gored, 
And  with  the  king  to  make  accord 

Had  sent  his  lovely  dame. 
Nor  to  that  lady  free  alone 
Did  the  gay  king  allegiance  own  ; 

For  the  fair  Queen  of  France 
Sent  him  a  turquoise  ring  and  glove, 
And  charged  him,  as  her  knight  and  love, 

For  her  to  break  a  lance, 
And  strike  three  strokes  with  Scottish 

brand, 
And  march  three  miles  on  Southron  land 
And  bid  the  banners  of  his  band 

In  English  breezes  dance. 
And  thus  for  France's  queen  he  drest 
His  manly  limbs  in  mailed  vest, 
And  thus  admitted  English  fair 
His  inmost  councils  still  to  share, 
And  thus  for  both  he  madly  planned 
The  ruin  of  himself  and  land  ! 

And  yet,  the  sooth  to  tell, 
Nor  England's  fair  nor  France's  queen 
Were  worth  one  pearl-drop,  bright  and 
sheen, 

From  Margaret's  eyes  that  fell, — 
His  own  Queen  Margaret,  who  in  Lith- 

gow's  bower 
All  lonely  sat  and  wept  the  weary  hour. 

The  queen  sits  lone  in  Lithgow  pile, 

And  weeps  the  weary  day 
The  war  against  her  native  soil, 
Her  monarch's  risk  in  battle  broil, — 
And  in  gay  Holy-Rood  the  while 
Dame  Heron  rises  with  a  smile 

Upon  the  harp  to  play. 
Fair  was  her  rounded  arm,  as  o'er 

The  strings  her  fingers  flew  ; 
And  as  she  touched  and  tuned  them  all, 
Ever  her  bosom's  rise  and  fall 

Was  plainer  given  to  view  ; 
For,  all  for  heat,  was  laid  aside 
Her  wimple,  and  her  hood  untied. 
And  first  she  pitched  her  voice  to  sing, 
Then  glanced  her  dark  eye  on  the  king, 
And  then  around  the  silent  ring, 
And  laughed,  and  blushed,  and  oft  did 
say 


StUl  1 


141 


Her  pretty  oath,  by  yea  and  nay, 

She  could  not.  would  not,  durst  not  play  ! 

At  length,  upon  the  harp,  with  glee, 

Mingled  with  arch  simplicity, 

A  soft  yet  lively  air  she  rung, 

While  thus  the  wily  lady  sung  : — 

LOCHINYAR 

LADY   HERON'S  SONG 

Oh  !  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the 

west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed 

was  the  best ; 
And    save     his    good     broadsword     he 

weapons  had  none. 
He  rode  all   unarmed  and   he   rode   all 

alone. 
So  faithful  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in 

war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young 

Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  Hot  for  brake  and  he  stopped 
not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there 
was  none. 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant 
came  late  : 

For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in 
war 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Loch- 
invar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 
Among   bridesmen,  and   kinsmen,   and 

brothers,  and  all  : 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand 

on  his  sword.— 
For  the   poor  craven  bridegroom  said 

never  a  word, — 
'  Oh  !  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye 

in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 

Lochinvar  ? ' — 

'  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit 

you  denied  ; 
Love   swells  like  the  Sol  way,  but  ebbs 

like  its  tide — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love 

of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup 

of  wine. 
There   are   maidens   in    Scotland    more 

lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 

Lochinvar ' 


The  bride  kissed  the  goblet  ;  the  knight 

took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw 

down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked 

up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in 

her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother 

could  bar, — 
'  Now  tread  we  a  measure  ! '  said  young 

Lochinvar. 

So  statety  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her 

face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did 

grace  ; 
While   her   mother   did    fret,    and    her 

father  did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his 

bonnet  and  plume  ; 
And      the       bride-maidens      whispered 

'  'Twere  better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with 

young  Lochinvar.' 

One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in 

her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and 

the  charger  stood  near  ; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he 

swung, 
So  light   to  the  saddle  before   her  he 

sprung  ! 
'  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank, 

bush,  and  scaur ; 
They'll   have   fleet   steeds  that  follow,' 

quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of 

the  Netherby  clan  ; 
Forsters,  Fen  wicks,  and  Musgraves,  they 

rode  and  they  ran  : 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Can- 

nobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did 

they  see. 
So  daring  in  love  and   so  dauntless  in 

war. 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young 

Lochinvar  ? 

The  monarch  o'er  the  siren  hung, 
And  beat  the  measure  as  she  sung  ; 
And,  pressing  closer  and  more  near, 
He  whispered  praises  in  her  ear. 
In  loud  applause  the  courtiers  vied. 
And  ladies  winked  and  spoke  aside. 
The    witching     dame     to     Marmion 
threw 


1+2 


BRITISH    POETS 


A  glance,  where  seemed  to  reign 
The  pride  that  claims  applauses  due, 
And  of  her  royal  conquest  too 
A  real  or  feigned  disdain  : 
Familiar  was  the  look,  and  told 
Marmion  and  she  were  friends  of  old. 
The  king  observed  their  meeting  eyes 
With    something    like    displeased    sur- 
prise ; 
For  monarchs  ill  can  rivals  brook, 
Even  in  a  word,  or  smile,  or.  look. 
Straight   took   he   forth  the  parchment 

broad 
Which     Marmion's     high    commission 

showed  : 
"  Our  Borders  sacked  by  many  a  raid, 
Our  peaceful  liege-men  robbed,"  he  said, 
"  On  day  of  truce  our  warden  slain. 
Stout  Barton  killed,  his  vessels  ta'en — 
Unworthy  were  we  here  to  reign, 
Should  these  for  vengeance  cry  in  vain  ; 
Our  full  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Our  herald  has  to  Henry  borne." 

He  paused,  and  led  where  Douglas  stood 
And  with  stern  eye  the  pageant  viewed  ; 
I  mean  that  Douglas,  sixth  of  yore, 
Wlio  coronet  of  Angus  bore, 
And,   when   his   blood   and  heart  were 

high, 
Did  the  third  James  in  camp  defy, 
And  all  bis  minions  led  to  die 

On  Lauder's  dreary  fiat. 
Princess  and  favorites  long  grew   tame, 
And  trembled  at  the  homely  name 

Of  Archibald  Bell-the-Cat ; 
The  same  who  left  the  dusky  vale 
Of  Hermitage  in  Liddisdale, 

Its  dungeons  and  its  towers, 
Where  Rothwell's  turrets  brave  the  air, 
And  Bothwell  bank  is  blooming  fair, 

To  fix  his  princely  bowers. 
Though  now  in  age  he  had  laid  down 
His  armor  for  the  peaceful  gown, 

And  for  a  staff  Ids  brand, 
Yet  often  would  flash  forth  the  fire 
That  could  in  youth  a  monarch's  ire 

And  minion's  pride  withstand  ; 
And  even  that  day  at  council  board, 

Unapt  to  scothe  his  sovereign's  mood, 

Against  the  war  had  Angus  stood, 
Anil  chafed  his  royal  lord. 

His  giant-form,  like  ruined  tower, 
Though  fallen  its  muscles'  brawny  vaunt. 
Huge-boned,   and   tall,   and  grim,    and 
gaunt, 

Seemed  o'er  the  gaudy  scene  to  lower  ; 
His  locks  and  beard  in  silver  grew, 
His  eyebrows  kept  their  sable  hue. 


Near  Douglas  when  the  monarch  stood, 
His  bitter  speech  lie  thus  pursued  : 
"  Lord  Marmion,  since  these  letters  say 
That  in  the  North  you  needs  must  stay 

While  slightest  hopes  of  peace  remain . 
Uncourteous  speech  it  were  and  stern 
To  say — Return  to  Lindisfarne, 

Until  my  herald  come  again. 
Then  rest  you  in  Tantallon  hold  ; 
Your  host  shall  be  the  Douglas  bold, — 
A  chief  unlike  his  sires  of  old. 
He  wears  their  motto  on  his  blade, 
Their  blazon  o'er  his   towers  displayed, 
Yet  loves  his  sovereign  to  oppose 
More  than  to  face  his  country's  foes. 

And,  I  bethink  me,  by  Saint  Stephen, 

But  e'en  this  morn  to  me  was  given 
A  prize,  the  first  fruits  of  the  war, 
Ta'en  by  a  galley  from  Dunbar, 

A  bevy  of  the  maids  of  heaven. 
Under  your  guard  these  holy  maids 
Shall  safe  return  to  cloister  shades, 
And,  while  they  at  Tantallon  stay, 
Requiem  for  Cochran's  soul  may  say." 
And    with    the    slaughtered    favorite's 

name 
Across  the  monarch's  brow  there  came 
A  cloud  of  ire,  remorse,  and  shame. 

In  answer  nought  could  Angus  speak, 
His   proud   heart   swelled   well-nigh   to 

break  ; 
He  turned  aside,  and  down  his  cheek 

A  burning  tear  there  stole. 
His  hand  the  monarch  sudden  took, 
That   sight   his   kind   heart    could    not 
brook : 

"  Now,  by  the  Bruce's  soul, 
Angus,  my  hasty  speech  forgive  I 
For  sure  as  doth  his  spirit  live, 
As  he  said  of  the  Douglas  old, 

I  well  may  say  of  you, — 
That  never  king  did  subject  hold, 
In  speech  more  free,  in  war  more  bold 

More  tender  and  more  true  ; 
Forgive  me,  Douglas,  once  again." — 
And,  while  the  king  his  hand  did  strain 
The  old  man's  tears  fell  down  like  rain 
To  seize  the  moment  Marmion  tried, 
And  whispered  to  the  king  iiside  : 
"  Oh  !  let  such  tears  unwonted  plead 
For  respite  short  from  dubious  deed  ! 
A  child  will  weep  a  bramble's  smart, 
A  maid  to  see  her  sparrow  part, 
A  stripling  for  a  woman's  heart ; 
But  woe  awaits  a  country  when 
She  sees  the  tears  of  bearded  men. 
Then,  oh  !  what  omen,  dark  and  high. 
When  Douglas  wets  his  manly  eye  !  " 


SCOTT 


J43 


Displeased    was  James    that    stranger 

viewed 
And  tampered  with  his  changing  mood. 
"  Laugh  those  that  can,  weep  those  that 

may," 
Thus  did  the  fiery  monarch  say, 
"  Southward  I  march  by  break  of  day  ; 
And  if  within  Tantallon  strong 
The  good  Lord  Marmion  tarries  long, 
Perchance  our  meeting  next  may  fall 
At  Tamworth  in  his  castle-hall." — 
The  haughty  Marmion  felt  the  taunt, 
And  answered  grave  the  royal  vaunt  : 
"Much  honored  were  my  humble  home, 
If  in  its  halls  King  James  should  come  ; 
But  Nottingham  has  archers  good, 
And  Yorkshire  men  are  stern  of  mood, 
Northumbrian  prickers  wild  and  rude. 
On  Derby  Hills  the  paths  are  steep, 
In  Ouse  and  Tyne  the  fords  are  deep  ; 
And  many  a  banner  will  be  torn, 
And  many  a  knight  to  earth  be  borne, 
And  many  a  sheaf  of  arrows  spent. 
Ere  Scotland's  king  shall  cross  the  Trent : 
Yet  pause,  brave  prince,  while  jet  you 

majr  ! " — 
The  monarch  lightly  turned  away, 
And  to  his  nobles  loud  did  call, 
"  Lords,  to  the  dance, — a  hall  !  a  hall !  " 
Himself  his  cloak  and  sword  flung  by, 
And  led  Dame  Heron  gallantly  : 
And  minstrels,  at  the  royal  order, 
Rung  out '  Blue  Bonnets  o'er  the  Border.' 

Leave  we  these  revels  now  to  tell 
What  to  Saint  Hilda's  maids  befell, 
Whose  galley,  as  they  sailed  again 
To  Whitby,  by  a  Scot  was  ta'en. 
Now  at  Dun-Edin  did  they  bide 
Till  James  should  of  their  fate  decide, 

And  soon  by  his  command 
Were  gently  summoned  to  prepare 
To  journey  under  Marmion 's  care, 
As  escort  honored,  safe,  and  fair, 

Again  to  English  land. 
The  abbess  told  her  chaplet  o'er, 
Nor    knew     which    Saint    she    should 

implore  ; 
For,  when  she  thought  of  Constance,  sore 

She  feared  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
And  judge  what  Clara  must  have  felt  ! 
The  sword  that  hung  in  Marmion's  belt 

Ha.l  drunk  De  Wilton's  blood. 
Unwittingly  King  James  had  given, 

As  guard  to  Whitby's  shades, 
The  man  most  dreaded  under  heaven 

By  these  defenceless  maids  ; 
Yet  what  petition  coidd  avail, 
Or  who  would  listen  to  the  tale 


Of  woman,  prisoner,  and  nun, 
Mid  bustle  of  a  war  begun  ? 
They  deemed  it  hopeless  to  avoid 
The  convoy  of  their  dangerous  guide. 

Their  lodging,  so  the  king  assigned, 
To  Marmion's  as  their  guardian,  joined  ; 
And  thus  it  fell  that,  passing  nigh, 
The  Palmer  caught  the  abbess'  eye, 

Who  warned  him  by  a  scroll 
She  had  a  secret  to  reveal 
That  much  concerned  the  Church's  weal 

And  health  of  sinner's  soul  ; 
And,  with  deep  charge  of  secrecy, 

She  named  a  place  to  meet 
Within  an  open  balcony. 
That  hung  from  dizzy  pitch  and  high 

Above  the  stately  street, 
To  which,  as  common  to  each  home, 
At  night  they  might  in  secret  come. 

At  night  in  secret  there  they  came, 

The  Palmer  and  the  holy  dame. 

The  moon   among  the  clouds  rode  high, 

And  all  the  city  hum  was  by. 

Upon  the  street,  where  late  before 

Did  din  of  war  and  warriors  roar, 

You  might  have  heard  a  pebble  fall, 
A  beetle  hum,  a  cricket  sing, 
An  owlet  flap  his  boding  wing 

On  Giles's  steeple  tall. 
The  antique  buildings,  climbing  high. 
Whose  Gothic   frontlets  sought  the  sky, 

Were  here  wrapt  deep  in  shade  ; 
There   on  their   brows   the    moonbeam 

broke 
Through  the   faint    wreaths  of  silvery 
smoke, 

And  on  the  casements  played. 
And  other  light  was  none  to  see, 

Save  torches  gliding  far, 
Before  some  chieftain  of  degree 
Who  left  the  royal  revelry 

Tobowne  him  for  the  war. — 
A  solemn  scene  the  abbess  chose- 
A  solemn  hour,  her  secret  to  disclose. 

"  O  holy  Palmer  !  "  she  began, — 
"For  sure  lie  must  be  sainted  man. 
Whose  blessed  feet  have  trod  the  ground 
Where  the  Redeemer's  tomb  is  found, — 
For  his  dear  Church's  sake,  my  tale 
Attend,  nor  deem  of  light  avail, 
Though  I  must  speak  of  worldly  love,— 
How  vain  to  those  who  wed  above  ! — 
De  Wilton  and  Lord  Marmion  wooed 
Clara  de  Clare,  of  Gloster's  blood  ; — 
Idle  it  were  of  Whitby's  dame 
To  say  of  that  same  blood  I  came  ; — 


144 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  once,  when  jealous  rage  was  high, 
Lord  Marmion  said  despiteously, 
Wilton  was  traitor  in  his  heart, 
And    had    made    league    with    Martin 

Swart 
When  he  came  here  on  Simnel's  part, 
And  only  cowardice  did  restrain 
His  rebel  aid  on  Stokefield's  plain, — 
And  down    he    threw    his    glove.     The 

thing 
Was  tried,  as  wont,  before  the  king ; 
Where  frankly  did  De  Wilton  own 
That  Swart  in  Guelders  he  had  known, 
And    that    between    them    then    there 

went 
Some  scroll  of  courteous  compliment. 
For  this  he  to  his  castle  sent ; 
But  when  his  messenger  returned, 
Judge  how  De  Wilton's  fury  burned  ! 
For  in  his  packet  there  were  laid 
Letters  that  claimed  disloyal  aid 
And    proved    King    Henry's  cause  be- 
trayed. 
His  fame,  thus  blighted,  in  the  field 
He    strove    to    clear    by     spear    and 

shield  ; — 
To  clear  his  fame  in  vain  he  strove, 
For  wondrous  are  His  ways  above  ! 
Perchance  some  form  was  unobserved, 
Perchance     in      prayer     or     faith     he 

swerved, 
Else  how  could  guiltless  champion  quail, 
Or  how  the  blessed  ordeal  fail  ? 

"  His  squire,  who  now  De  Wilton  saw 
As  recreant  doomed  to  suffer  law, 

Repentant,  owned  in  vain 
That  while  he  had  the  scrolls  in  care 
A  stranger  maiden,  passing  fair, 
Had   drenched  him    with    a    beverage 
rare  ; 

His  words  no  faitli  could  gain. 
With  Clare  alone  he  credence  won, 
Who,  rather  than  wed  Marmion, 
Did  to  Saint  Hilda's  shrine  repair, 
To  give  our  house  her  livings  fair 
And  die  a  vestal  votaress  there. 
The  impulse  from  the  earth  was  given, 
But  bent  her  to  the  paths  of  heaven. 
A  purer  heart,  a  lovelier  maid, 
Ne'er  sheltered  her  in  Whitby's  shade, 
No,  not  since  Saxon  Edelfled  ; 
Only  one  trace  of  earthly  stain, 

That  for  her  lover's  loss 
She  cherishes  a  sorrow  vain, 

And  murmurs  at  the  cross. — 
And  then  her  heritage  :  — it  goes 

Along  the  banks  of  Tame  ; 
Deep  fields  of  grain  the  reaper  mows, 


In  meadows  rich  the  heifer  lows, 
The  falconer  and  huntsman  knows 

Its  woodlands  for  the  game. 
Shame  were  it  to  Saint  Hilda  dear, 
And  I,  her  humble  votaress  here, 

Should  do  a  deadly  sin, 
Her  temple  spoiled  before  mine  eyes, 
If  this  false  Marmion  such  a  prize 

By  my  consent  should  win  ; 
Yet  hath  our  boisterous  monarch  sworn 
That  Clare  shall  from  our  house  be  torn, 
And  grievous  cause  have  I  to  fear 
Such  mandate  doth  Lord  Marmion  bear. 

"  Now,  prisoner,  helpless,  and  betrayed 
To  evil  power,  I  claim  thine  aid, 

By  every  step  that  thou  hast  trod 
To  holy  shrine  and  grotto  dim, 
By  every  martyr's  tortured  limb, 
By  angel,  saint,  and  seraphim, 

And  by  the  Church  of  God  ! 
For  mark  :  when  Wilton  was  betrayed, 
And  with  his  squire  forged  letters  laid, 
She  was,  alas  !  that  sinful  maid 

By  whom  the  deed  was  done, — 
Oh  !  shame  and  horror  to  be  said  ! 

She  was — a  perjured  nun  ! 
No  clerk  in  all  the  land  like  her 
Traced  quaint  and  varying  character. 
Perchance  you  may  a  marvel  deem, 

That  Marmion's  paramour — 
For  such   vile  thing    she    was — should 
scheme 

Her  lover's  nuptial  hour  ; 
But  o'er  him  thus  she  hoped  to  gain, 
As  privy  to  his  honor's  stain, 

Illimitable  power. 
For  this  she  secretly  retained 

Each  proof  that  might  the  plot  reveal, 

Instructions  with  his  hand  and  seal ; 
And  thus  Saint  Hilda  deigned, 

Through  sinners'  perfidy  impure, 

Her  house's  glory  to  secure 

And  Clare's  immortal  weal. 

"  'T  were  long  and  needless  here  to  tell 
How  to  my  hand  tl*ese  papers  fell ; 

With  me  they  must  not  stay. 
Saint  Hilda  keep  her  abbess  true  ! 
Who  knows  what  outrage  he  might  d'" 

While  journeying  by  the  way  ? — 

0  blessed  Saint,  if  e'er  again 

1  venturous  leave  thy  calm  domain, 
To  travel  or  by  land  or  main, 

Deep  penance  may  I  pay  ! — 
Now,  saintly  Palmer,  mark  my  prayer  : 
I  give  this  packet  to  thy  care, 
For  thee  to  stop  they  will  not  dare  ; 

And  oh  !  with  cautious  speed 


SCOTT 


J45 


To  Wolsey's  hand  the  papers  bring, 
That  he  may  show  them  to  the  king : 

And  for  thy  well-earned  meed, 
Thou  holy  man,  at  Whitby's  shrine 
A  weekly  mass  shall  still  be  thine 

While  priest  can  sing  and  read. — 
What  ail'st  thou? — Speak  !  " — For  as  he 

took 
The  charge  a  strong  emotion  shook 

His  frame,  and  ere  reply 
The\'  heard  a  faint  yet  shrilly  tone, 
Like  distant  clarion  feebly  blown, 

That  on  the  breeze  did  die  ; 
And  loud  the  abbess  shrieked  in  fear, 
' '  Saint  Withold,  save  us  ! — What  is  here  ; 

Look  at  yon  City  Cross  ! 
See  on  its  battled  tower  appear 
Phantoms,  that  scutcheons  seem  to  rear 

And  blazoned  banners  toss  ! " — 

Dnn-Edin's  Cross,  a  pillared  stone, 

Rose  on  a  turret  octagon  ;— 

But  now  is  razed  that  monument, 

Whence  royal  edict  rang, 
And  voice  of  Scotland's  law  was  sent 

In  glorious  trumpet-clang. 
Oh  !  be  his  tomb  as  lead  to  lead 
Upon  its  dull  destroyers  head  ! — 
A  minstrel's  malison  is  said. — 
Then  on  its  battlements  they  saw 
A  vision,  passing  Nature's  law, 

Strange,  wild,  and  dimly  seen  ; 
Figures  that  seemed  to  rise  and  die, 
Gibber  and  sign,  advance  and  fly, 
While  nought  confirmed  could  ear  or  eye 

Discern  of  sound  or  mien. 
Yet  darkly  did  it  seem  as  there 
Heralds  and  pursuivants  prepare, 
With  trumpet  sound  and  blazon  fair, 

A  summons  to  proclaim  ; 
But  indistinct  the  pageant  proud, 
As  fancy  forms  of  midnight  cloud 
When  flings  the  moon  upon  her  shroud 

A  wavering  tinge  of  flame  ; 
It  flits,  expands,  and  shifts,  till  loud, 
From  midmost  of  the  spectre  crowd, 

This  awful  summons  came  : — 

"  Prince,  prelate,  potentate,  and  peer, 
Whose  names  I  now  shall  call, 

Scottish  or  foreigner,  give  ear  ! 

Subjects  of  him  who  sent  me  here, 

At  his  tribunal  to  appear 
I  summon  one  and  all : 

I  cite  you  by  each  deadly  sin 

That  e'er  hath  soiled  your  hearts  within  ; 

I  cite  you  by  each  brutal  lust 

That  e'er  defiled  your  earthly  dust, — 
By  wrath,  by  pride,  by  fear, 


By  each  o'ermastering  passion's  tone, 
By  the  dark  grave  and  dying  groan  ! 
When  forty  days  are  passed  and  gone, 
I  cite  you,  at  your  monarch's  throne 

To  answer  and  appear." — 
Then  thundered  forth  a  roll  of  names  :— 
The  first  was  thine,  unhappy  James  ! 

Then  all  thy  nobles  came  ; 
Crawford,  Glencairn,  Montrose,  Argyle, 
Ross,  Bothwell,  Forbes,  Lennox,  Lyle, — 
Why  should  I  tell  their  separate  style  ? 

Each  chief  of  birth  and  fame, 
Of  Lowland,  Highland,  Border,  Isle, 
Foredoomed  to  Flodden's  carnage  pile, 

Was  cited  there  by  name  : 
And  Marmion,  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbaye  ; 
De  Wilton,  erst  of  Aberley, 
The    self-same    thundering    voice    did 
say.— 

But  then  another  spoke  : 
"  Thy  fatal  summons  I  deny 
And  thine  infernal  lord  defy, 
Appealing  me  to  Him  on  high, 

Who  burst  the  sinner's  yoke." 
At  that  dread  accent,  with  a  scream, 
Parted  the  pageant  like  a  dream, 

The  summoner  was  gone. 
Prone  on  her  face  the  abbess  fell. 
And  fast,  and  fast,  her  beads  did  tell ; 
Her  nuns  came,  startled  by  the  yell, 

And  found  her  there  alone. 
She  marked  not,  at  the  scene  aghast, 
What  time  or  how  the  Palmer  passed. 

Shift    we    the    scene. — The  camp  doth 
move  ; 

Dun-Edin's  streets  are  empty  now, 
Save  when,  for  weal  of  those  they  love, 

To  pray  the  prayer  and  vow  the   vow, 
The  tottering  child,  the  anxious  fair, 
The  gray-haired  sire,  with  pious  care, 
To  chapels  and  to  shrines  repair. — 
Where  is  the  Palmer  now?  and  where 
The  abbess,  Marmion,  and  Clare? — 
Bold  Douglas  !  to  Tantallon  fair 

They  journey  in  thy  charge  : 
Lord  Marmion  rode  on  his  right  hand, 
The  Palmer  still  was  with  the  band  ; 
Angus,  like  Lindesay,  did  command 

That  none  should  roam  at  large. 
But  in  that  Palmer's  altered  mien 
A  wondrous  change  might  now  be  seen  ; 

Freely  he  spoke  of  war, 
Of  marvels  wrought  by  single  hand 
When  lifted  for  a  native  land, 
And  still  looked  high,  as  if  he  planned 

Some  desperate  deed  afar. 
His  courser  would  he  feed  and  stroke, 


146 


BRITISH    POETS 


Ami,  bucking  up  his  sable  frock, 
Would  first  his  mettle  bold  provoke, 

Then  soothe  or  quell  his  pride. 
Old  Hubert  said  that  never  one 
He  saw,  except  Lord  Marniion, 

A  steed  so  fairly  ride. 

Some  half-hour's   march  behind   there 
came, 
By  Eustace  governed  fair 
A  troop  escorting  Hilda's  dame, 
With  all  her  nuns  and  Clare. 
No  audience  had  Lord  Marmion  sought ; 
Ever  he  feared  to  aggravate 
Clara  de  Clare's  suspicious  hate  ; 
And  safer  't  was,  he  thought, 
To  wait  till,  from  the  nuns  removed, 
The  influence  of  kinsmen  loved, 
And  suit  by  Henry's  self  approved, 
Her  slow  consent  had  wrought. 
His  was  no  flickering  flame,  that  dies 
Unless  when  fanned  by  looks  and  sighs 
And  lighted  oft  at  lady's  eyes  ; 
He  longed  to  stretch  his  wide  command 
O'er  luckless  Clara's  ample  land  : 
Besides,  when  Wilton  with  him  vied, 
Although  the  pang  of  humbled  pride 
The  place  of  jealousy  supplied, 
Yet  conquest,  by  that  meanness  won 
He  almost  loathed  to  think  upon, 
Led  him,  at  times,  to  hate  the  cause 
Which  made  him  burst  through  honor's 

lawTs. 
If  e'er  he  loved,   'twas  her  alone 
Who  died  within  that  vault  of  stone. 

And  now,  when  close  at  hand  they  saw 
North  Berwick's  town  and  lofty  Law, 
Fitz-Eustace  bade  them  pause  awhile 
Before  a  venerable  pile 

Whose  turrets  viewed  afar 
The  lofty  Bass,  the  Lambie  Isle, 

The  ocean's  peace  or  war. 
At  tolling  of  a  bell,  forth  came 
The  convent's  venerable  dame, 
And    prayed    Saint  Hilda's  abbess  rest 
With  her,  a  loved  and  honored  guest, 
Till  Douglas  should  a  bark  prepare 
To  waft  her  back  to  Whitby  fair. 
Glad  was  the  abbess,  you  may  guess, 
And  thanked  the  Scottish  prioress  ; 
And  tedious  were  to  tell,  I  ween, 
The  courteous  speech    that    passed    be- 
tween. 

O'erjoyed    the    nuns    their    palfreys 
leave  ; 
But  when  fair  Clara  did  intend, 
Like  them,  from  horseback  to   descend, 

Fitz-Eustace  said  :    "I  grieve, 


Fair  lady,  grieve  e'en  from  my  heart, 
Such  gentle  company  to  part ; — 

Think  not  discourtesy, 
But  lords'  commands  must  be  obeyed, 
And  Marmion  and  the  Douglas  said 

That  you  must  wend  with  me. 
Lord  Marmion  hath  a  letter  broad, 
Which  to  the  Scottish  earl  he  showed, 
Commanding  that  beneath  his  care 
Without  delay  you  shall  repair 
To  your  good  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare." 

The  startled  abbess  loud  exclaimed  ; 
But  she  at  whom  the  blow  was  aimed 
Grew  pale  as  death  and  cold  as  lead, — 
She  deemed  she  heard  her  death-doom 

read. 
"  Cheer  thee,  my  child  ! "  the  abbess  said, 
"  They  dare  not  tear  thee  from  my  hand, 
To  ride  alone  with  armed  band.'' — 

"Nay,  holy  mother,  nay," 
Fitz  Eustace  said,  "  the  lovely  Clare 
Will  be  in  Lady  Angus'  care, 

In  Scotland  while  we  stay  ; 
And  when  we  move  an  easy  ride 
Will  bring  us  to  the  English  side, 
Female  attendance  to  provide 

Befitting  Gloster's  heir ; 
Nor  thinks  nor  dreams  my  noble  lord, 
By  slightest  look,  or  act,  or  word, 

To  harass  Lady  Clare. 
Her  faithful  guardian  he  will  be, 
Nor  sue  for  slightest  courtesy 

That  e'en  to  stranger  falls, 
Till  he  shall  place  her  safe  and  free 

Within  her  kinsman's  halls." 
He  spoke,   and    blushed  with    earnest 

grace  ; 
His  faith  was  painted  on  his  face, 

And  Clare's  worst  fear  relieved, 
The  Lady  Abbess  loud  exclaimed 
On  Henry,  and  the  Douglas  blamed, 

Entreated,  threatened,  grieved, 
To  martyr,  saint,  and  prophet  prayed, 
Against  Lord  Marmion  inveighed, 
And  called  the  prioress  to  aid, 
To  curse  with  candle,  bell,  and  book. 
Her  head  the  grave  Cistertian  shook  : 
"  The  Douglas  and  the  king,"  she  said, 
"  In  their  commands  will  be  obeyed  ; 
Grieve  not,  nor  dream  that  harm  can 

fall 
The  maiden  in  Tantallon  Hall." 

The  abbess,  seeing  strife  was  vain, 
Assumed  her  wonted  state  again, — 

For  much  of  state  she  had, — 
Composed  her  veil,  and  raised  her  head, 
And  "  Bid,"  in  solemn  voice  she  said, 


SCOTT 


147 


"  Thy  master,  bold  and  bad, 

fhe  records  of  his  house  turn  o'er, 
And,  when  lie  shall  there  written  see 
That  one  of  his  own  ancestry 
Drove  the  monks  forth  of  Coventry, 

Bid  him  his  fate  explore  ! 
Prancing  in  pride  of  earthly  trust, 
His  charger  hurled  him  to  the  dust, 
And,  by  a  base  plebeian  thrust, 

He  died  his  band  before. 
God  judge  'twixt  Marmion  and  me  : 
He  is  a  chief  of  high  degree, 

And  I  a  poor  recluse, 
Yet  oft  in  holy  writ  we  see 
Even  such  weak  minister  as  me 

May  the  oppressor  bruise  ; 
For  thus,  inspired,  did  Judith  slay 

The  mighty  in  his  sin, 
And  Jael  thus,  and  Deborah  " — 
Here  hasty  Blount  broke  in  : 

"  Fitz-Eustace,  we  must  march  our  band  ; 

Saint  Anton  fire  thee  I  wilt  thou  stand 

All  day,  with  bonnet  in  thy  hand, 
To  hear  the  lady  preach  ? 

By  this  good  light  !  if  thus  we  stay, 

Lord  Marmion  for  our  fond  delay 
Will  sharper  sermon  teach. 

Come,  don  thy  cap  and  mount  thy  horse  ; 

The  dame  must  patience  take  perforce." 

"Submit  we  then  to  force,"  said  Clare, 
"  But  let  this  barbarous  lord  despair 

His  purposed  aim  to  win  ; 
Let  him  take  living,  land,  and  life, 
But  to  be  Marmion's  wedded  wife 
In  me  were  deadly  sin : 
And  if  it  be  the  king's  decree 
That  I  must  find  no  sanctuary 
In  that  inviolable  dome 
Where  even  a  homicide  might  come 

And  safely  rest  his  head, 
Though  at  its  open  portals  stood, 
Thirsting  to  pour  forth  blood  for  blood, 

The  kinsmen  of  the  dead, 
Yet  one  asylum  is  my  own 

Against  the  dreaded  hour, — 
A  low,  a  silent,  and  a  lone, 

Where  kings  have  little  power. 
One  victim  is  before  me  there. — 
Mother,  your  blessing,  and  in  prayer 
Remember  your  unhappy  Clare  1  " 
Loud  weeps  the  abbess,  and  bestows 

Kind  blessings  many  a  one  : 
Weeping  and  wailing  loud  arose, 
Round  patient  Clare,  the  clamorous  woes 

Of  every  simple  nun. 
His  eyes  the  gentle  Eustace  dried, 
And  scarce  rude  Blount  the  sight  could 
bide. 


Then  took  the  squire  her  rein, 
And  gently  led  away  her  steed, 
And  by  each  courteous  word  and  deed 

To  cheer  her  strove  in  vain. 

But  scant  three  miles  the  band  had  rode. 

When  o'er  a  height  they  passed, 
And,  sudden,  close  before  them  showed 

His  towers  Tantallon  vast, 
Broad,  massive,  high,  and  stretching  far, 
And  held  impregnable  in  war. 
On  a  projecting  rock  they  rose, 
And  round  three  sides  the  ocean  flows. 
The  fourth  did  battled  walls  enclose 

And  double  mound  and  fosse. 
By  narrow  drawbridge,  outworks  strong, 
Through    studded    gates,    an    entrance 
long, 

To  the  main  court  they  cross. 
It  was  a  wide  and  stately  square  ; 
Around  were  lodgings  fit  and  fair, 

And  towers  of  various  form, 
Which  on  the  court  projected  far 
And  broke  its  lines  quadrangular. 
Here  was  square  keep,  there  turret  high, 
Or  pinnacle  that  sought  the  sky. 
Whence  oft  the  warder  could  descry 

The  gathering  ocean-storm. 

Here  did  they  rest. — The  princely  care 
Of  Douglas  why  should  I  declare, 
Or  say  they  met  reception  fair  T 

Or  why  the  tidings  say, 
Which  varying  to  Tantallon  came, 
By  hurrying  posts  or  fleeter  fame, 

With  every  varying  day  ? 
And,  first,  they  heard  King  James  had 
won 

Etall,  and  Wark,  and  Ford  ;  and  then, 

That  Norham  Castle  strong  was  ta'en. 
At  that  sore  marvelled  Marmion, 
And  Douglas  hoped  his  monarch's  hand 
Would  soon  subdue  Northumberland  ; 

But  whispered  news  there  came, 
That  while  his  host  inactive  lay, 
And  melted  by  degrees  away, 
King  James  was  dallying  off  the  day 

With  Heron's  wily  dame. 
Such  acts  to  chronicles  I  yield  ; 

Go  seek  them  there  and  see  : 
Mine  is  a  tale  of  Flodden  Field, 

And  not  a  history. — 
At  length  they  heard  the  Scottish  host 
On  that  high  ridge  had  made  their  post 

Which  frowns  o'er  Millfield  Plain  ; 
And  that  brave  Surrey  many  a  band 
Had  gathered  in  the  Southern  land, 
And  inarched  into  Northumberland, 

And  camp  at  Wooler  ta'en. 


148 


BRITISH    POETS 


Marmion,  like  charger  in  the  stall, 
That  hears,  without,  the  trumpet-call, 

Began  to  chafe  and  swear  : — 
"  A  sorry  thing  to  hide  my  head 
In  castle,  like  a  fearful  maid, 

When  such  a  field  is  near. 
Needs  must  I  see  this  battle-day  ; 
Death  to  my  fame  if  such  a  fray 
Were  fought,  and  Marmion  away  ! 

The  Douglas,  too,  I  wot  not  why, 

Hath  bated  of  his  courtesy  ; 
No  longer  in  his  halls  I'll  stay :  " 
Then  bade  his  band  they  should  array 
For  march  against  the  dawning  day. 

CANTO  SIXTH 

THE  BATTLE 

While  great  events  were  on  the  gale, 
And  each  hour  brought  a  varying  tale, 
And  the  demeanor,  changed  and  cold, 
Of  Douglas  fretted  Marmion  bold, 
And,  like  the  impatient  steed  of  war, 
He  snuffed  the  battle  from  afar, 
And  hopes  were  none  that  back  again 
Herald  should  come  from  Terouenne, 
Where  England's  king  in  leaguer  lay, 
Before  decisive  battle-day, — 
While  these  things  were,  the  mournful 

Clare 
Did  in  the  dame's  devotions  share  ; 
For  the  good  countess  ceaseless  prayed 
To  Heaven  and  saints  her  sons  to  aid, 
And  with  short  interval  did  pass 
From  prayer  to  book,  from  book  to  mass, 
And  all  in  high  baronial  pride, — 
A  life  both  dull  and  dignified  : 
Yet,  as  Lord  Marmion  nothing  pressed 
Upon  her  intervals  of  rest, 
Dejected  Clara  well  could  bear 
The  formal  state,  the  lengthened  prayer, 
Though  dearest  to  her  wounded  heart 
The  hours  that  she  might  spend  apart. 

I  said  Tantallon's  dizzy  steep 
Hung  o'er  the  margin  of  the  deep. 
Many  a  rude  tower  and  rampart  there 
Repelled  the  insult  of  the  air, 
Which,  when  the  tempest  vexed  the  sky, 
Half  breeze,  half  spray,  came  whistling 

by. 
Above  the  rest  a  turret  square 
Did  o'er  its  Gothic  entrance  bear, 
Of  sculpture  rude,  a  stony  shield  ; 
The  Bloody  Heart  was  in  the  field, 
And  in  the  chief  three  mullets  stood, 
The  cognizance  of  Douglas  blood. 
The  turret  held  a  narrow  stair, 
Which,  mounted,  gave  you  access  where 


A  parapet's  embattled  row 

Did  seaward  round  the  castle  go. 

Sometimes  in  dizzy  steps  descending, 

Sometimes  in  narrow  circuit  bending, 

Sometimes  in  platform  broad  extending 

Its  varying  circle  did  combine 

Bulwark,  and  bartizan,  and  line, 

And  bastion,  tower,  and  vantage-coigin 

Above  the  booming  ocean  leant 

The  far- projecting  battlement ; 

The  billows  burst  in  ceaseless  flow 

Upon  the  precipice  below. 

Where'er  Tantallon  faced  the  land, 

Gate-works    and    walls    were   strongly 

manned  ; 
No  need  upon  the  sea-girt  side  : 
The  steepy  rock  and  frantic  tide 
Approach  of  human  step  denied, 
And  thus  these  lines  and  ramparts  rude 
Were  left  in  deepest  solitude. 

And,  for  they  were  so  lonely,  Clare 
Would  to  these  battlements  repair, 
And  muse  upon  her  sorrows  there, 

And  list  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
Or  slow,   like    noontide    ghost,    would 

glide 
Along  the  dark-gray  bulwarks'  side, 
And  ever  on  the  heaving  tide 

Look  down  with  weary  eye. 
Oft  did  the  cliff  and  swelling  main 
Recall  the  thoughts  of  Whitby's  fane,— 
A  home  she  ne'er  might  see  again  ; 

For  she  had  laid  adown, 
So  Douglas  bade,  the  hood  and  veil, 
And  frontlet  of  the  cloister  pale, 

And  Benedictine  gown  : 
It  were  unseemly  sight,  he  said, 
A  novice  out  of  convent  shade. — 
Now  her  bright  locks  with  sunny  glow 
Again  adorned  her  brow  of  snow  ; 
Her  mantle  rich,  whose  borders  round 
A  deep  and  fretted  broidery  bound, 
In  golden  foldings  sought  the  ground  ; 
Of  holy  ornament,  alone 
Remained  a  cross  with  ruby  stone  ; 

And  often  did  she  look 
On  that  which  in  her  hand  she  bore, 
With  velvet  bound  and  broidered  o'er, 

Her  breviary  book. 
In  such  a  place,  so  lone,  so  grim, 
At  dawning  pale  or  twilight  dim, 

It  fearful  would  have  been 
To  meet  a  form  so  richly  dressed, 
With  book  in  hand,  and  cross  on  breast 

And  such  a  woful  mien. 
Fitz-Eustace,  loitering  wTith  his  bow, 
To  practise  on  the  gull  and  crow, 
Saw  her  at  distance  gliding  slow, 


SCOTT 


149 


And  did  by  Mary  swear 
Some  lovelorn  fay  she  might  have  been, 
Or  in  romance  some  spell-bound  queen, 
For  ne'er  in  work-day  world  was  seen 

A  form  so  witching  fair. 

Once  walking  thus  at  evening  tide 
It  chanced  a  gliding  sail  she  spied, 
And  sighing  thought — "  The  abbess  there 
Perchance  does  to  her  home  repair  ; 
Her  peaceful  rule,  where  Duty  free 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  Charity, 
Where  oft  Devotion's  tranced  glow 
Can  such  a  glimpse  of  heaven  bestow 
That  the  enraptured  sisters  see 
High  vision  and  deep  mystery, — 
The  very  form  of  Hilda  fair, 
Hovering  upon  the  sunny  air. 
And  smiling  on  her  votaries'  prayer. 
Oil !  wherefore  to  my  duller  eye 
Did  still  the  Saint  her  form  deny  ? 
Was  it  that,  seared  by  sinful  scorn, 
My  heart  could  neither  melt  nor  burn  ? 
Or  lie  my  warm  affections  low 
With   him    that    taught   them   first   to 

glow  ? 
Yet,  gentle  abbess,  well  I  knew 
To  pay  thy  kindness  grateful  due, 
And  well  could   brook  the  mild  com- 
mand 
That  ruled  thy  simple  maiden  band. 
How  different  now,  condemned  to  bide 
My  doom  from  this  dark  tyrant's  pride  !— 
But  Mar m ion  has  to  learn  ere  long 
That  constant  mind  and  hate  of  wrong 
Descended  to  a  feeble  girl 
From  Red  de  Clare,  stout  Gloster's  Earl  ; 
Of  such  a  stem  a  sapling  weak. 
He  ne'er  shall  bend,  although  he  break. 

"  But     see  !  — what    makes    this  armor 
here  ? " — 
For  in  her  path  there  lay 
Targe,  corselet,  helm  ;  she  viewed  them 

near. — 
' !  The  breastplate  pierced  !— Ay,  much  I 

fear, 
Weak  fence  wert  thou  'gainst  foeman's 

spear 
That  hath  made  fatal  entrance  here, 

As  these  dark  blood-gouts  say. — 
Thus  Wilton  !  Oh  !  not  corslet's  ward, 
Not  truth,  as  diamond  pure  and  hard, 
Could  be  thy  manly  bosom's  guard 

On  yon  disastrous  day  !  " — 
She  raised  her  eyes  in  mournful  mood, — 
Wilton  himself  before  her  stood  ! 
It  might  have  seemed  his  passing  ghost, 
For  every  youthful  grace  was  lost, 


And  joy  unwonted  and  surprise 

Gave     their    strange     wildness  to    his 

eyes. — 
Expect  not,  noble  dames  and  lords, 
That  I  can  tell  such  scene  in  words : 
What  skillful  limner  e'er  would  choose 
To  paint  the  rainbow's  varying  hues, 
Unless  to  mortal  it  were  given 
To  dip  his  brush  in  dyes  of  heaven  ? 
Far  less  can  my  weak  line  declare 

Each  changing  passion's  shade : 
Brightening  to  rapture  from  despair. 
Sorrow,  surprise,  and  pity  there, 
And  joy  with  her  angelic  air, 
And  hope  that  paints  the  future  fair 

Their  varying  hues  displayed  ; 
Each  o'er  its  rival's  ground  extending. 
Alternate  conquering,    shifting,  blend- 
ing, 
Till  all  fatigued  the  conflict  yield, 
And  mighty  love  retains  the  field. 
Shortly  I  tell  what  then  he  said, 
By  many  a  tender  word  delayed, 
And  modest  blush,  and  bursting  sigh, 
And  question  kind,  and  fond  reply  ; — 

DE  "WILTON'S  HISTORY 

"  Forget  we  that  disastrous  day 
When  senseless  in  the  lists  I  lay. 

Thence  dragged, — but  how  I    cannot 
know 
For  sense  and  recollection  fled, — 

I  found  me  on  a  pallet  low 

Within  my  ancient  beadsman's  shed. 

Austin, — remember'st  thou,  my  Clare, 
How  thou  didst  blush  when  the  old  man, 

When  first  our  infant  love  began, 

Said    we    would   make    a    matchless 
pair  ? — 
Menials  and  friends  and  kinsmen  fled 
From  the  degraded  traitor's  bed  — 
He  only  held  my  burning  head, 
And  tended  me  for  many  a  day 
While  wounds  and  fever  held  their  sway. 
But  far  more  needful  was  his  care 
When  sense  returned  to  wake  despair 

For  I  did  tear  the  closing  wound, 

And  dash  me  frantic  on  the  ground, 
If  e'er  I  heard  the  name  of  Clare. 
At  length,  to  calmer  reason  brought. 
Much  by  his  kind  attendance  wrought, 

With  him  I  left  my  native  strand, 
And,  in  a  palmer's  weeds  arrayed 
My  hated  name  and  form  to  shade, 

I  journeyed  many  a  land, 
No  more  a  lord  of  rank  and  birth. 
But  mingled  with  the  dregs  of  earth. 

Oft  Austin  for  my  reason  feared, 


'5° 


BRITISH    POETS 


When  I  would  sit,  and  deeply  brood 
On  dark  revenge  and  deeds  of  blood, 

Or  wild  mad  schemes  upreared. 
My  friend  at  length  fell  sick,  and  said 

God  would  remove  him  soon  ; 
And  while  upon  his  dj'ing  bed 

He  begged  of  me  a  boon — 
If  e*er  my  deadliest  enemy 
Beneath  rny  brand  should  conquered  lie, 
Even  then  my  mercy  should  awake 
And  spare  his  life  for  Austin's  sake. 

"  Still  restless  as  a  second  Cain, 

To  Scotland  next  my  route  was  ta'en, 

Full  well  the  paths  I  knew. 
Fame  of  my  fate  made  various  sound, 
That  death  in  pilgrimage  I  found, 
That  I  had  perished  of  my  wound, — 

None  cared  which  tale  was  true  ; 
And  living  eye  could  never  guess 
De  Wilton  in  his  palmer's  dress, 
For  now  that  sable  slough  is  shed, 
And   trimmed    my    shaggy   beard  and 

head, 
I  scarcely  know  me  in  the  glass. 
A  chance  most  wondrous  did  provide 
That  I  should  be  that  baron's  guide — 

I  will  not  name  his  name  ! — 
Vengeance  to  God  alone  belongs  ; 
But,  when  I  think  on  all  my  wrongs, 

My  blood  is  liquid  flame  ! 
And  ne'er  the  time  shall  I  forget 
When,  in  a  Scottish  hostel  set, 

Dark  looks  we  did  exchange  : 
What  were  his  thoughts  I  cannot  tell, 
But  in  my  bosom  mustered  Hell 

Its  plans  of  dark  revenge. 

"  A  word  of  vulgar  augury 
That  broke    from  me,   I  scarce   knew 
why, 

Brought  on  a  village  tale, 
Which  wrought  upon  his  moody  sprite, 
And  sent  him  armed  forth  by  night. 

I  borrowred  steel  and  mail 
And  weapons  from  his  sleeping  band  ; 

And,  passing  from  a  postern  door, 
We  met  and  countered,  hand  to  hand, — 

He  fell  on  Gifford-moor. 
For  the  death-stroke  my  brand  I  drew, — 
Oh  !  then  my  helmed  head  he  knew, 

The  palmer's  cowl  was  gone, — 
Then  had  three  inches  of  my  blade 
The  heavy  debt  of  vengeance  paid, — 
My  hand  the  thought  of  Austin  stayed  ; 

I  left  him  there  alone, — 
O  good  old  man  !  even  from  the  grave 
Thy  spirit  could  thy  master  save  : 
If  I  tad  slain  my  foeman,  ne'e* 


Had  Whitby's  abbess  in  her  fear 
Given  to  my  hand  this  packet  dear, 
Of  power  to  clear  my  injured  fame 
And  vindicate  De  Wilton's  name. — 
Perchance  you  heard  the  abbess  tell 
Of  the  strange  pageantry  of  hell 

That  broke  our  secret  speech — 
It  rose  from  the  infernal  shade, 
Or  featly  was  some  juggle  played, 

A  tale  of  peace  to  teach. 
Appeal  to  Heaven  I  judged  was  best 
When  my  name  came  among  the  rest. 

"  Now  here  within  Tantallon  hold 

To  Douglas  late  my  tale  I  told, 

To  whom  my  house  was  known  of  old. 

Won  by  my  proofs,  his  falchion  bright 

This  eve  anew  shall  dub  me  knight. 

These  were  the  arms  that  once  did  turn 

The  tide  of  fight  on  Otterburne, 

And  Harry  Hotspur  forced  to  yield 

When  the  Dead  Douglas  won  the  field. 

These  Angus  gave — his  armorer's  care 

Ere  morn  shall  every  breach  repair  ; 

For  nought,  he  said,  was  in  his  halls, 

But  ancient  armor  on  the  walls, 

And  aged  chargers  in  the  stalls, 

And  women,    priests,   and  gray-haired 

men  ; 
The  rest  were  all  in  Twisel  glen. 
And  now  I  watch  my  armor  here, 
By  law  of  arms,  till  midnight's  near  ; 
Then,  once  again  a  belted  knight, 
Seek  Surrey's  camp  with  dawn  of  light. 

"  There  soon  again  we  meet,  my  Clare  ! 
This  baron  means  to  guide  thee  there  : 
Douglas  reveres  his  king's  command, 
Else  would  he  take  thee  from  his  band. 
And  there  thy  kinsman  Surrey,  too, 
Will  give  De  Wilton  justice  due. 
Now  meeter  far  for  martial  broil, 
Firmer  my  limbs  and  strung  by  toil, 
Once  more" — "  O  Wilton  !  must  we  then 
Risk  new-found  happiness  again, 

Trust  fate  of  arms  once  more  ? 
And  is  there  not  an  humble  glen 

Where  we,  content  and  poor, 
Might  build  a  cottage  in  the  shade, 
A  shepherd  thou,  and  I  to  aid 

Thy  task  on  dale  and  moor  ? — 
That  reddening  brow  ! — too  well  I  know 
Not  even  thy  Clare  can  peace  bestow 

While  falsehood  stains  thy  name  : 
Go  then  to  fight !  Clare  bids  thee  go  ! 
Clare  can  a  warrior's  feelings  know 

And  weep  a  warrior's  shame, 
Can  Red  Earl  Gilbert's  spirit  feel, 
Buckle  the  spurs  upon  thy  heel 


SCOTT 


*5i 


And  belt  thee  with  thy  brand  of  steel, 
And  send  thee  forth  to  fame  I  " 

That  night  upon  the  rocks  and  bay 
The   midnight    moonbeam    slumbering 

lay, 
And  poured  its  silver  light  and  pure 
Through  loophole  and  through  embra- 
sure 

Upon  Tantallon  tower  and  hall : 
But  chief  where  arched  windows  wide 
Illuminate  the  chapel's  pride 

The  sober  glances  fall. 
Much  was  there  need  ;  though  seamed 

with  scars, 
Two  veterans  of  the  Douglas'  wars, 

Though  two  gray  priests  were  there, 
And  each  a  blazing  torch  held  high, 
You  could  not  by  their  blaze  descry 

The  chapel's  carving  fair. 
Amid  that  dim  and  smoky  light. 
Checkering  the  silvery  moonshine  bright, 

A  bishop  by  the  altar  stood, 

A  noble  lord  of  Douglas  blood, 
With  mitre  sheen  and  rochet  white. 
Yet  showed  his  meek  and  thoughtful  eye 
But  little  pride  of  prelacy  ; 
More  pleased  that  in  a  barbarous  age 
He  gave  rude  Scotland  Virgil's  page 
Than  that  beneath  his  rule  lie  held 
The  bishopric  of  fair  Dunkeld. 
Beside  him  ancient  Angus  stood, 
Doffed  his  furred  gown  and  sable  hood  ; 
O'er  his  huge  form  and  visage  pale 
He  wore  a  cap  and  shirt  of  mail. 
And  leaned  his  large  and  wrinkled  hand 
Upon  the  huge  and  sweeping  brand 
Which  wont  of  yore  in  battle  fray 
His  foeman's  limbs  to  shred  away, 
As  wood-knife  lops  the  sapling  spray. 

He  seemed  as,  from  the  tombs  around 
Rising  at  judgment-day, 

Some  giant  Douglas  may  be  found 
In  all  his  old  array  ; 
So  pale  his  face,  so  huge  his  limb, 
So  old  his  arms,  his  look  so  grim. 

Then  at  the  altar  Wilton  kneels, 
And  Clare  the  spurs  bound  on  his  heels  ; 
And  think  what  next  he  must  have  felt 
At  buckling  of  the  falchion  belt ! 

And  judge  how  Clara  changed  her  hue 
While  fastening  to  her  lover's  side 
A  friend,  which,  though  in  danger  tried, 

He  once  had  found  untrue  ! 
Then  Douglas  struck  him  with  his  blade  : 
'■Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Andrew  aid, 

I  dub  thee  knight. 
Arise,  Sir  Ralph,  De  Wilton's  heir  ! 


For  king,  for  church,  for  lady  fair. 

See  that  thou  fight." 
And  Bishop  Gawain,  as  he  rose, 
Said  :  "  Wilton  !  grieve  not  for  thy  woes. 

Disgrace,  and  trouble  ; 
For  He  who  honor  best  bestows 

May  give  thee  double." 
De  Wilton  sobbed,  for  sob  he  must  : 
•'  Where'er  I  meet  a  Douglas,  trust 

That  Douglas  is  my  brother  !  " 
"  Nay,  nay,"  old  Angus  said,  "  not  so  ? 
To  Surrey's  camp  thou  now  must  go, 

Thy  wrongs  no  longer  smother. 
I  have  two  sons  in  yonder  field  ; 
And,  if  thou  meet'st  them  under  shield, 
Upon  them  bravely — do  thy  worst, 
And  foul  fall  him  that  blenches  first  I  " 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride  ; 
He  had  safe-conduct  for  his  band 
Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand, 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide. 
The  ancient  earl  with  stately  grace 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whispered  in  an  undertone, 
"  Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown." 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew, 
But  Marmion  stopped  to  bid  adieu  : 

"  Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he 
said, 
"  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  stayed, 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble  earl,  receive  my  hand." — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  : — 
"  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still 
Be  open  at  my  sovereign's  will 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone, 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own, 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp." 

Burned  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like 

fire 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 
And — "  This  to  me  !  "  he  said, 
"  An  't  were  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head  ! 
And  first  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here» 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state, 


l52 


BRITISH  POETS 


May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  tliy  mate  ; 
And.  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride, 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, — 
Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword, — 

I  tell  thee,  thou  'rt  defied  ! 
And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here, 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !  " 
On  the  earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth, — "  And  darest  thou 

then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And   hopest  thou  hence    unscathed    to 

go?— 
No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Both  well,  no  ! 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms — what,  warder, 
ho! 

Let  the  portcullis  fall, — " 
Lord    Marmion   turned, — well    was    his 

need. —  \ 

And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed, 
Like  arrow7  through  the  archway  sprung 
The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung  ; 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
Tiie  bars  descending  razed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies 
Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise  ; 
Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 
Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  : 
And   when  Lord  Marmion  reached   his 

band, 
He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 
And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 
"  Horse !  horse  I  "the  Douglascried,  "and 

chase !  " 
But  soon  he  reined  his  fury's  pace  : 
"  A  royal  messenger  he  came, 
Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name. — 
A  letter  forged  !  Saint  Jude  to  speed  ! 
Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed  *? 1 


1  Lest  the  reader  should  partake  of  the  Earl's 
astonishment  and  consider  the  crime  as  incon- 
sistent with  the  manners  of  the  period,  I  have  to 
remind  him  of  the  numerous  forgeries  (partly 
executed  by  a  female  assistant  )  devised  by 
Robert  of  Artois,  to  forward  his  suit  against  the 
Countess  Matilda  ;  which,  being  detected,  occa- 
sioned his  flight  into  England,  and  proved  the 
remote  cause  of  Edward  the  Third's  memorable 
wars  in  France.  John  Harding,  also,  was  ex- 
pressly hired  by  Edward  IV.  to  forge  such  docu- 
ments as  might  appear  to  establish  the  claim  of 
fealty  asserted  over  Scotland  by  the  English 
monarehs.     (ScotVs  note.) 


At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill 
When  the  king  praised  his  clerkly  skill 
Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine, 
Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line  ; 
So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still, 
Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill. — 
Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood  ! 
Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 
I  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 
'T  is  pity  of  him  too,"  he  cried  : 
"  Bold  can  he  speak  and  fairly  ride, 
I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried." 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls, 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 

The  day  in  Marmion's  journey  wore  ; 
Yet,  ere  his  passion's  gust  was  o'er, 
They  crossed  the  heightsof  Stanrig-moor, 
His  troop  more  closely  there  he  scanned, 
And  missed  the  Palmer  from  the  band. 
"  Palmer  or  not,"  young  Blount  did  say, 
"  He  parted  at  the  peep  of  day  ; 
Good  sooth,  it  was  in  strange  array." 
•'  In  what  array  ?"  said  Marmion  quick. 
"  My  lord,  I  ill  can  spell  the  trick  ; 
But  all  night  long  with  clink  and  bang 
Close  to  my  couch  did  hammers  clang  ; 
At  dawn  the  falling  drawbridge  rang, 
And  from  a  loophole  while  I  peep, 
Old  Bell-the-Cat  came  from  the  keep, 
Wrapped  in  a  gown  of  sables  fair, 
As  fearful  of  the  morning  air  ; 
Beneath,  when  that  was  blown  aside, 
A  rusty  shirt  of  mail  I  spied, 
By  Archibald  won  in  bloody  work 
Against  the  Saracen  and  Turk  ; 
Last  night  it  hung  not  in  the  hall ; 
I  thought  some  marvel  would  befall. 
And  next  I  saw  them  saddled  lead 
Old  Cheviot  forth,  the  earl's  best  steed, 
A  matchless  horse,  thoughsomethingold, 
Prompt  in  his  paces,  cool  and  bold. 
I  heard  the  Sheriff  Sholto  say 
The  earl  did  much  the  Master  pray 
To  use  him  on  the  battle-day, 
But  he  preferred  " — "  Nay,  Henry,  cease  ! 
Thou   sworn     horse-courser,     hold    thy 

peace. — 
Eustace,  thou  bear'st  a  brain — I  pray, 
What  did  Blount  see  at  break  of  day  ?  " — 

"  In  brief,  my  lord,  we  both  descried — 
For  then  I  stood  by  Henry's  side — 
The  Palmer  mount  and  outwards  ride 

Upon  the  earl's  own  favourite  steed. 
All  sheathed  he  was  in  armour  bright, 
And  much  resembled  fliat  same  knight 
Subdued  by  you  in  Cotswold  fight ; 

Lord  Angus  wished  him  speed."— 


SCOTT 


J53 


The  instant  that  Fitz-Eustace  spoke, 
A  sudden  light  on  Marmion  broke  : — 
"  Ah  !  dastard  fool,  to  reason  lost  !  " 
He  muttered  :  "  'T  was  nor  fay  nor  ghost 
I  met  upon  the  moonlight  wold, 
But  living  man  of  earthly  mould. 

O  dotage  blind  and  gross ! 
Had  I  but  fought  as  wont,  one  thrust 
Had  laid  De  Wilton  in  the  dust, 

My  path  no  more  to  cross. — 
How  stand  we  now  ? — he  told  his  tale 
To  Douglas,  and  with  some  avail ; 

'T  was  therefore  gloomed  his  rugged 
brow. — 
Will  Surrey  dare  to  entertain 
'Gainst  Marmion  charge  disproved  and 
vain  ? 

Small  risk  of  that,  I  trow. 
Yet  Clare's  sharp  questions  must  I  shun, 
Must  separate  Constance  from  the  nun — 
Oli  !  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive  ! 
A  Palmer  too  ! — no  wonder  why 
I  felt  rebuked  beneath  his  eye  ; 
I  might  have  known  there  was  but  one 
Whose  look  could  quell  Lord  Marmion." 

Stung  with  these  thoughts,  he  urged  to 

speed 
His  troop,  and  reached  at  eve  the  Tweed, 
Where    Lennel's    convent    closed  their 

march. 
There  now  is  left  but  one  frail  arch, 

Yet  mourn  thou  not  its  cells  ; 
Our  time  a  fair  exchange  lias  made  : 
Hard  by,  in  hospitable  shade 

A  reverend  pilgrim  dwells, 
Well  worth  the  whole  Bernardine  brood 
That  e'er  wore  sandal,  frock,  or  hood. 
Yet  did  Saint  Bernard's  abbot  there 
Give  Marmion  entertainment  fair, 
And  lodging  for  his  train  and  Clare. 
Next  morn  the  baron  climbed  the  tower, 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power, 

Encamped  on  Flodden-  edge  ; 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Long   Marmion    looked  : — at  length  his 

eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry 

Amid  the  shifting  lines  ; 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears, 
For,  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears, 

The  eastern  sunbeam  shines. 
Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extend- 
ing, 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bend- 
ing, 


Now  drawing   back,  and  now  descend- 
ing, 
The  skilful  Marmion  well  could  know 
They  watched  the  motions  of  some  foe 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 

Even  so  it  was.     From  Flodden  ridge 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave  Barmore-wood,   their    evening 

post, 
And   heedful  watched  them  as  they 
crossed 
The  Till  by  Twisel  Bridge.1 

High  sight  it  is  and  haughty,  while 
They  dive  into  the  deep  defile  ; 
Beneath  the  caverned  cliff  they  fall, 
Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 
By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn-tree. 
Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing  ; 
Troop   after  troop  their  banners  rear- 
ing 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see  ; 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till. 
And  rising  from  the  dim-wood  glen, 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men, 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march, 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet  clang, 
Twisel !  thy  rock's  deep  echo  rang, 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint  Helen  !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly, 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom, 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 
And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now, 
Dark  Flodden  !  on  thy  airy  brow, 


1  On  the  evening  previous  to  the  memorable 
battle  of  Flodden,  Surrey's  head-quarters  were 
at  Barmore-wood,  and  King  James  held  an  in- 
accessible position  on  the  ridge  of  Flodden-hill, 
one  of  the  last  and  lowest  eminences  detached 
from  the  ridge  of  Cheviot.  The  Till,  a  deep  and 
slow  river,  winded  between  the  armies.  On  the 
morning  of  the  9th  September,  1513,  Surrey 
marched  in  a  northwesterly  direction,  and 
crossed  the  Till,  with  his  van  and  artillery,  at 
Twifel-bridge,  nigh  where  that  river  joins  the 
Tweed,  his  rear-guard  column  passing  about  a 
mile  higher,  by  a  ford.  This  movement  had 
the  double  effect  of  placing  his  army  between 
King  James  and  his  supplies  from  Scotland 
and  of  striking  the  Scottish  monarch  with  sur- 
prise, as  he  seems  to  have  relied  on  the  depth 
of  the  river  in  his  front.  But  as  the  passage, 
both  over  the  bridge  and  through  the  ford,  was 
difficult  and  slow,  it  seems  possible  that  the 
English  might  have  been  attacked  to  great  ad- 
vantage, while  struggling  with  these  natural  ob- 
stacles.— (Scott). 


154 


BRITISH    POETS 


Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while, 
A  in!  struggles  through  the  deep  defile? 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James  ? 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the  dames 

Inactive  on  his  steed, 
And  sees,  between  him  and  his  land, 
Between     him    and    Tweed's    southern 
strand, 

His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead  ? 
What  vails    the     vain    knight-errant's 

brand  ? — 
O  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand  ! 

Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  speed! 
Oh  !  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight, 
( )v  well-skilled  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight 
And  cry,  "  Saint  Andrew  and  our  right !  " 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn, 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn, 
And     Flodden     had     been      Bannock- 
bourne  ! — 
The  precious  hour  has  passed  in  vain, 
A  nd  England's  host  has  gained  the  plain, 
Wheeling  their  march  and  circling  still 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden  hill. 

Ere  yet  the  bands  met  Marmion's  eye, 
Fitz-Eustace  shouted  loud  and  high, 
"  Hark  !  hark  !  my  lord, an  English  drum! 
And  see  ascending  squadrons  come 

Between  Tweed's  river  and  the  hill, 
Foot,  horse,  and  cannon  !  Hap  what  hap, 
My  basnet  to  a  prentice  cap, 

Lord  Surrey's  o'er  the  Till ! — 
Yet  more  !  yet  more  ! — how  fair  arrayed 
They  file  from  out  the  hawthorn  shade, 

And  sweep  so  gallant  by  ! 
With  all  their  banners  bravely  spread, 

And  all  their  armor  flashing  high, 
Saint    George  might   waken    from  the 
dead , 

To  see  fair  England's  standards  fly." — 
"Stint    in   thy    prate,"   quoth    Blount, 

"  thou  'dst  best, 
And  listen  to  our  lord's  behest."  — 
With  kindling  brow  Lord  Mar m ion  said, 
"  This  instant  be  our  band  arrayed  ; 
The  l'iver  must  be  quickly  crossed, 
That  we  may  join  Lord  Surrey's  host. 
If  fight  King  James, — as  well  I  trust 
That  fight  he  will,  and  fight  he  must, — 
The  Lady  Clare  behind  our  lines 
Shall  tarry  while  the  battle  joins." 

Himself  he  swift  on  horseback  threw, 
Scarce  to  the  abbot  bade  adieu, 
Far  less  would  listen  to  his  prayer 
To  leave  behind  the  helpless  Clare. 
Down  to  the  Tweed  his  band  he  drew, 
And  muttered  as  the  flood  they  view, 


"  The  pheasant  in  the  falcon's  claw, 
He  scarce  will  yield  to  please  a  daw  ; 
Lord  Angus  may  the  abbot  awe, 

So  Clare  shall  bide  with  me." 
Then  on  that  dangerous  ford  and  deep 
Where  to  the  Tweed  Leat's  eddies  creep, 

He  ventured  desperately  : 
And  not  a  moment  will  he  bide 
Till  squire  or  groom  before  him  ride  ; 
Headmost  of  all  he  stems  the  tide, 

And  stems  it  gallantly. 
Eustace  held  Clare  upon  her  horse, 

Old  Hubert  led  her  rein, 
Stoutly  they  braved  the  current's  course, 
And,  though  far  downward  driven  per- 
force, 

The  southern  bank  they  gain. 
Behind  them  straggling  came  to  shore, 

As  best  they  might,  the  train  : 
Each  o'er  his  head  his  yew-bow  bore, 

A  caution  not  in  vain  ; 
Deep  need  that  day  that  every  string, 
By  wet  unharmed,  should  sharply  ring. 
A  moment  then  Lord  Marmion  stayed, 
And  breathed  his  steed,  his  men  arrayed, 

Then  forward  moved  his  band, 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won, 
He  halted  by  a  cross  of  stone, 
That  on  a  hillock  standing  lone 

Did  all  the  field  command. 

Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 
Of  either  host  for  deadly  fray  ; 
Their  marshalled    lines   stretched  east 
and  west, 

And  fronted  north  and  south, 
And  distant  salutation  passed 

From  the  loud  cannon  mouth  ; 
Not  in  the  close  successive  rattle 
That  breathes  the  voice  of  modern  battle, 

But  slow  and  far  between. 
The     hillock     gained,     Lord    Marmion 

stayed  : 
"  Here,  by  this  cross,"  he  gently  said, 

"  You  well  may  view  the  scene. 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare  : 
Oh  !  think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer  ! — 
Thou  wilt  not  ? — well,  no  less  my  care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare. — 
You,  Blount  and  Eustace,  are  her  guard, 

With  ten  picked  archers  of  my  train  ; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard, 

To  Berwick  speed  amain. — 
But  if  we  conquer,  cruel  maid, 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid, 

When  here  we  meet  again." 
He  waited  not  for  answer  there, 
And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair, 

Nor  heed  the  discontented  look 


SCOTT 


T55 


From  either  squire,  but  spurred  amain, 
And,  dashing  through  the  battle-plain, 
His  way  to  Surrey  took. 

"  The  good  Lord  Marmion,  by  my  life ! 

Welcome  to  danger's  hour  ! — 
Short  gi"eeting  serves  in  time  of  strife. — 

Thus  have  I  ranged  my  power: 
Myself  will  rule  this  central  host, 

Stout  Stanley  fronts  their  right, 
My  sons  command  the  vaward  post, 

With  Brian  Tunstall,  stainless  knight ; 

Lord  Dacre,  with  his  horsemen  light, 

Shall  be  in  rearward  of  the  fight, 
And  succor  those  that  need  it  most. 

Now,  gallant  Marmion,  well  I  know, 

Would  gladly  to  the  vanguard  go  ; 
Edmund,  the  Admiral,  Tunstall  there, 
With  thee  their  charge    will    blithely 

share ; 
There  fight  thine  own  retainers  too 
Beneath  De  Burg,  thy  steward  true." 
"  Thanks,  noble  Surrey  !  "  Marmion  said, 
Nor  further  greeting  there  he  paid, 
But,  parting  like  a  thunderbolt, 
First  in  the  vanguard  made  a  halt, 

Where  such  a  shout  there  rose 
Of  "  Marmion  !  Marmion  !  "  that  the  cry, 
Up  Flodden  mountain  shrilling  high, 

Startled  the  Scottish  foes. 

Blount  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill, 
On  which — for  far  the  day  was  spent — 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent ; 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew, 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view  : 

Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
"  Unworthy  office  here  to  stay  ! 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day. — 
But  see  !  look  up —  on  Flodden  bent 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent." 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill, 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 
Vol inned  and  vast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke  ; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone, 
Announced   their    march  ;    their    tread 

alone, 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a  stifled  hum. 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come. 
Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes 
Until  at   weapon-point  they  close. — 
They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 


With    sword-sway    and    with    lance's 
thrust ; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there, 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth, 

And  fiends  in  upper  air  : 
Oh  !  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout. 
Recoil  and  rail}',  charge  and  rout, 

And  triumph  and  despair. 
Long  looked  the  anxious  squires  ;  their 

eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  nought  descry. 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast ; 
And  first  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears, 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew, 
As  in  the  storm  the  white  seamew. 
Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and 

far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war. 
And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ; 

But  nought  distinct  they  see  : 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain  ; 
Spears    shook     and     falchions    flashed 

amain  ; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain  ; 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly  ; 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white, 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright, 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight, 

Although  against  them  come 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one, 
And  many  a  stubborn  Badenoch-man, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntly  and  with  Home. — 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle, 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside. 
And  with    both   hands   the  broadsword 

plied. 
'  T  was  vain. — But  Fortune,  on  the  right, 
With   fickle    smile    cheered    Scotland's 

fight. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 

The  Howard's  lion  fell  ; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky  i 
A  Home  1  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry ; 


<56 


BRITISH  POETS 


Loud  were  the  clanging  blows  ; 
Advanced, — forced     back, — now     low, 
now  high, 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose  ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  wavered  mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear  : 
"  By  heaven  and  all  its  saints  !     I  swear 

I  will  not  see  it  lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads  and  patter  prayer, — 

I  gallop  to  the  host." 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain, 
Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth,  with  desperate  charge, 
Made  for  a  space  an  opening  large, — 

The  rescued  banner  rose,— 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around, 
Like  pine-tree  rooted  from  the  ground 

It  sank  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too, — yet  stayed, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  helpless  maid, 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly, 
Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread, 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head, 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 

Lord  Marmion's  steed  rushed  by  ; 
And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast 

To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 
Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 

Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels, 

Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone  : 
Perchance  her  reason  stoops  or  reels  ; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own, 

Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone. — 
Tne  scattered  van  of  England  wheels  ; — 

She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 
The  tumult  roared.  "  Is  Wilton  there  ?  " — 

They  fly,  or,  maddened  by  despair, 

Fight  but  to  die,—"  Is  Wilton  there  ?  " 
With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 

Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore, 
And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 

A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand  ; 
His  arms  where  smeared  with  blood  and 

sand. 
Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet, 
With  dinted  shield  and  helmet  beat, 
The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone, 
Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion  !  .  .  . 
Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace, 
And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face, 

Said,  "  By  Saint  George,  he's  gone  ! 
That  spear- wound  has  our  master  sped. 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head  ! 


Good-night  to  Marmion." — 
"  Unnurtured     Blount  I    thy   brawling 

cease : 
He     opes    his    eyes,"    said      Eustace ; 

"  peace  ! " 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 

Around  gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  : 

"  Where's  Harry  Blount?     Fitz-Eustace 

where  ? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ! 
Redeem  my  pennon, — charge  again  ! 
Cry,  '  Marmion  to  the  rescue  ! ' — Vain  ! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  ! — 
Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's — fly, 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring  : 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. — 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie  : 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field, 
His  lifeblood  stains  the  spotless  shieM 
Edmund  is  down  ;  my  life  is  reft ; 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire, — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 
Or  victory  and  England's  lost. — 
Must  I  bid  twice  ? — hence,  varlets  !  fly  !— ■ 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die." 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay ; 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away, 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmured,  "  Is  there  none 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst, 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 
To  slake  my  dying  thirst  !  " 

O  Woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made  ; 
When     pain    and    anguish    wring    the 

brows, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  ! — 
Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said, 
When  with  the  baron's  casque  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears  ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  heai's, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew  ; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain's  side 
AVliere  raged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where    shall    she    turn   ? — behold    her 
mark 

A  little  fountain  cell, 


SCOTT 


*S7 


Where  water,  clear  as  diamond  spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half- worn  letters  say, 

2>rtnft.  wears,   pilgrim.    orinh.  ano. 

pras- 
ffor.  tbe.  ftino.  soul,  of,  Sibgl.  <Sre£. 
"Mho.  built,  tbis.  cross,  ano.  well. 

She  rilled  tlie  helm  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting  Marmion's  head  ; 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrive  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stooped  his  brow  to  lave — 
'•  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clai-e,"  he  said, 
"  Or    injured     Constance,     bathes     my 
head  ?  " 
'  Then,  as  remembrance  rose, — 
"  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer  ! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,    few    words,    are   mine  to 

spare ; 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  !  " 

"  Alas  !"  she  said,  "  the  while. — 
Oh  !  think  of  your  immortal  weal  ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal  ! 

She — died  at  Holy  Isle.''— 
Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground 
As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound, 
Thougli  in  the  action  burst  the  tide 
In  torrents  from  his  wounded  side. 
"  Then  it  was  truth,"  he  said — "  I  knew 
That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. — 

I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 
The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day  ! 
For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 
And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be  ! — this  dizzy  trance — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 
Then  fainting  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 
Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

With  fruitless  labor  Clara  bound 

And    strove     to     stanch     the    gushing 

wound  : 
The  monk  witli  unavailing  cares 
Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers. 
Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 
A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear, 
And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear  ; 
For  that  she  ever  sung. 

II  In  the  lost  battle  borne  down  by  the  fly- 

ing, 


Where  mingles  war's  rattle  with  groans 
of  the  dying ! " 

So  the  notes  rung. — 
"  Avoid  thee,  Fiend  ! — with  cruel  hand 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  ! — 
Oh  !  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine  ; 

Oh  !  think  on  faith  and  bliss  ! — 
By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 

But  never  aught  like  this." 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now     trebly    thundering    swelled     tht 
gale, 

And  "  Stanley  !  "  was  the  cry. — 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  tired  his  glazing  eye  ; 
With  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted  "  Victory  ! — 
Charge,  Chester,  charge  !     On,  Stanley, 

on  !" 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell, 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell, 
For  still  the  Scots  around  their  king, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing, 

Where  Huntley,  and  where  Home?— 
Oh  !  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come, 
When  Rowland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer, 

On  Roncesvalles  died  ! 
Such  blasts  might  warn  them,  not  in 

vain, 
To  quit  the  plunder  of  the  slain 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again, 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side 
Afar  the  Royal  Standard  flies, 
And  round  it  toils  and  bleeds  and  dies 

Our  Caledonian  pride  ! 
In  vain  the  wish — for  far  away, 
While  spoil  and  havoc  mark  their  way, 
Near  Sibyl's  Cross  the  plunderers  stray. — 
"  O  lady,"  cried  the  monk,  "  away  !" 

And  placed  her  on  her  steed, 
A  nd  led  her  to  the  chapel  fair 

Of  Tilmouth  upon  Tweed. 
There  all  the  night  they  spent  in  prayer, 
And  at  the  dawn  of  morning  there 
She  met  her  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare- 

But  as  they  left  the  darkening  heath 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 
The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed. 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed; 


»5* 


BRITISH  POETS 


Front,    Hank,    and  rear,    the   squadrons 

sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep 

That  fought  around  their  king. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow, 
Though    charging    knights   like   whirl-. 

winds  go. 
Though  billmen  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring  ; 
The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood, 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight ; 
Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight, 
Groom   fought  like  noble,   squire   like 
knight, 

As  fearlessly  and  well, 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  king. 
Then  skilfnl  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands  ; 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 
As  mountain-waves  from  wasted  lands 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know  ; 
Their  king,  their  lords,  their  mightiest 

low, 
They  melted  from  the  field,  as  snow, 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds 
blow, 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash, 

While  many  a  broken  band 
Disordered  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land  ; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale, 
To  tell  red  Flodden-'s  dismal  tale, 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong  ; 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife  and  carnage  drear 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field. 
Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland's  spear 

And  broken  was  her  shield  ! 

Day  dawns  upon  the  mountain's  side. — 
There,  Scotland  !  lay  thy  bravest  pride, 
Chiefs,  knights,  and  nobles,  many  a  one  ; 
The  sad  survivors  all  are  gone. — 
View  not  that  corpse  mistrustfully, 
Defaced  and  mangled  though  it  be  ; 
Nor  to  yon  Border  castle  high 
Look  northward  with  upbraiding  eye  ; 

Nor  cherish  hope  in  vain 
That,  journeying  far  on  foreign  strand, 
The  Royal  Pilgrim  to  his  land 

May  yet  return  again. 


He  saw  the  wreck  his  rashness  wrought 
Reckless  of  life,  he  desperate  fought, 

And  fell  on  Flodden  plain  : 
And  well  in  death  his  trusty  brand, 
Firm  clenched  within  his  manly  hand, 

Beseemed  the  monarch  slain. 
But  oh  !  how  changed  since  yon  blithe 

night ! — 
Gladly  I  turn  me  from  the  sight 
Unto  my  tale  again. 

Short  is  my  tale  : — Fitz-Eustace'  care 
A  pierced  and  mangled  body  bare 
To  moated  Lichfield's  lofty  pile  ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  southern  aisle 
A  tomb  with  Gothic  sculpture  fair 
Did  long  Lord  Marmion's  image  bear. — 
Now  vainly  for  its  site  you  look ; 
'T  was  levelled  when  fanatic  Brook 
The  fair  cathedral  stormed  and  took, 
But,  thanks  to  Heaven  and  good  Saint 

Chad, 
A  guerdon  meet  the  spoiler  had  ! — 
There  erst  was  martial  Marmion  found, 
His  feet  upon  a  couchant  hound, 
His  hands  to  heaven  upraised  ; 
And  all  around,  on  scutcheon  rich, 
And  tablet  carved,  and  fretted  niche, 

His  arms  and  feats  were  blazed. 
And  yet,  though  all  was  carved  so  fair. 
And  priests  for  Marmion  breathed  the 

prajer, 
The  last  Lord  Marmion  lay  not  there. 
From  Ettrick  woods  a  peasant  swain 
Followed  his  lord  to  Flodden  plain, — 
One  of  those  flowers  whom  plaintive  lay 
In  Scotland  mourns  as  "  wede  away  : " 
Sore  wounded,  Sibyl's  Cross  he  spied. 
And  dragged  him  to  its  foot,  and  died 
Close  by  the  noble  Marmion's  side. 
The  spoilers  stripped  and    gashed   the 

slain, 
And  thus  their  corpses  were  mista'en  ; 
And  thus  in  the  proud  baron's  tomb 
The  lowly  woodsman  took  the  room. 

Less  easy  task  it  were  to  show 

Lord  Marmion's  nameless  grave  and  low 

They  dug  his  grave  e'en  where  he  lay, 

But  every  mark  is  gone  : 
Time's  wasting  hand  has  done  away 
The  simple  Cross  of  Sibyl  Grey, 

And  broke  her  font  of  stone  ; 
But  yet  from  out  the  little  hill 
Oozes  the  slender  springlet  still. 

Oft  halts  the  stranger  there. 
For  thence  may  best  his  curious  eye 
The  memorable  field  descry  ; 

And  shepherd  boys  repair 


StJOTi 


'59 


To  seek  the  water-flag  and  rush, 
And  rest  them  by  the  hazel  bush, 

And  plait  their  garlands  fair. 
Nor  dream  they  sit  upon  the  grave 
That    holds     the     bones    of     Marmion 

brave. — 
When  thou  shalt  find  the  little  hill, 
With  thy  heart  commune  and  be  still. 
If  ever  in  temptation  strong 
Thou    left'st    the    right    path     for    the 

wrong, 
If  every  devious  step  thus  trod 
Still  led  thee  further  from  the  road. 
Dread  thou  to  speak  presumptuous  doom 
On  noble  Marmion's  lowly  tomb  ; 
But  say,  "  He  died  a  gallant  knight. 
With    sword    in    hand,    for    England's 

right." 

I  do  not  rhyme  to  that  dull  elf 

Who  cannot  image  to  himself 

That  all  through  Flodden's  dismal  night 

Wilton  was  foremost  in  the  fight. 

That    when    brave   Surrey's  steed    was 

slain 
'Twas  Wilton  mounted  him  again  ; 
'Twas  Wilton's  brand  that  deepest  hewed 
Amid  the  spearmen's  stubborn  wood  : 
Unnamed  by  Holinshed  or  Hall, 
He  was  the  living  soul  of  all ; 
That,  after  fight,  his  faith  made  plain, 
He  won  his  rank  and  lands  again, 
And  charged  his  old  paternal  shield, 
With  bearings  won  on  Flodden  Field. 
Nor  sing  I  to  that  simple  maid 
To  whom  it  must  in  terms  be  said 
That  king  and  kinsmen  did  agree 
To  bless  fair  Clara's  constancy  ; 
Who  cannot,  unless  I  relate. 
Paint  to  her  mind  the  bridal's  state, — 
That  Wolsey's  voice  the  blessing  spoke, 
More,  Sands,  and  Denny,  passed  the  joke; 
That  bluff  King  Hal  the  curtain  drew, 
And    Katherine's     hand    the    stocking 

threw  ; 
And  afterwards,  for  many  a  day, 
That  it  was  held  enough  to  say, 
In  blessing  to  a  wedded  pair, 
"  Love  they  like  Wilton  and  like  Clare  !  " 
November,  1806 — January,  1808. 
February  23,  1808. 

SOLDIER,    REST!    THY    WARFARE 
O'ER 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  notbreak- 
mg  ; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 


Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest  !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more  ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear. 

Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here. 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champ- 
ing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping. 

Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done  ; 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying  : 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest  !  thy  chase  is  done  ; 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun. 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  37e 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille. 

From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  1810. 

HAIL     TO     THE     CHIEF    WHO    IN 
TRIUMPH  ADVANCES  ! 

Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  ad- 
vances ! 
Honored  and  blessed  be  the  ever-green 
Pine  ! 
Long  may   the   tree,  in  his  banner  that 
glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our 
line  ! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew  . 
(lavly  to  bourgeon  and  broadly  to  grow, 
While  every  Highland  glen 
.    Sends  our  shout  back  again. 
"  Roderigh     Vich     Alpine    dhu,    ho  ! 
ieroe  ! " 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the 
fountain, 


i6o 


BRITISH   BOLTS 


Blooming   at   Beltane,    in    winter  to 
fade; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripped  every 
leaf  on  the  mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan -Alpine  exult  in 
her  shade. 
Moored  in  the  rifted  rock, 
Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock. 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the   ruder  it  blow  ; 
Menteith    and    Breadalbane,    then 
Echo  his  praise  again, 
"  Roderigh   Vich    Alpine    dhu,    ho ! 
ieroe  !  " 

Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen 
Fruin, 
And  Bannochar's  groans  to  our  slogan 
replied  : 
Glen-Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smok- 
ing in  ruin, 
And  the    best  of  Loch  Lomond  lie 
dead  on  her  side. 
Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 
Think  of  Clan-Alpine   with   fear   and 

with  woe  ; 
Lennox  and  Leven-glen 

Shake  when  they  hear  again, 
"  Roderigh   Vich     Alpine   dhu,     ho  ! 
ieroe  !  " 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the   pride   of  the 
Highlands  ! 
Stretch  to  your  oars  for  the  ever-green 
Pine  ! 
O  that  the  rosebud    that  graces  yon   is- 
lands 
Were   wreathed   in  a  garland   around 
him  to  twine  ! 
O  that  some  seedling  gem, 
Worthy  such  noble  stem 
Honored  and  blessed  in  their   shadow 
might  grow  ! 
Loud  should  Clan- Alpine  then 
Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
"  Roderigh    Vich     Alpine    dhu,    ho ! 
ieroe  !  " 

From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

CORONACH 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain. 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 


The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing, 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber  ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain. 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever  ! 

From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

HARP  OF  THE  NORTH,  FAREWELL  ! 

Harp  of  the  North,  farewell !     The  hills 
grow  dark, 
On  purple  peaks  a  deeper  shade  de- 
scending ; 
Tn  twilight  copse  the  glow-worm  lights 
her  spark, 
The  deer,  half-seen,  are  to  the  covert 
wending. 
Resume  thy  wizard   elm  !  the  fountain 
lending, 
And  the  wild  breeze,  thy  wilder  min- 
strelsy ; 
Thy  numbers  sweet  with  nature's  vespers 
blending, 
With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and 
lea, 
And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  hum 
of  housing  bee. 

Yet,  once  again,  farewell,  thou  Minstrel 
Harp  ! 
Yet,  once  again,    forgive  my   feeble 
sway, 
And  little  reck  I  of  the  censure  sharp 

May  idly  cavil  at  an  idle  lay. 
Much  have  I  owed  thy  strains  on  life's 
long'  way, 
Through  secret  woes  the  world  has 
never  known, 
When    on  the    weary    night    dawned 
wearier  day, 
And  bitterer  was  the  grief  devoured 
alone. — 
That  I  o'erlive  such  woes,  Enchantress ! 
is  thine  own. 

Hark  !  as  my   lingering   footsteps  slow 
retire, 


SCOTT 


161 


Some  spirit  of  the  Air  has  waked  thy 
string  ! 
T'is  now  a  seraph  bold,  with  touch  of 
fire, 
'Tis  now    the  brush   of  Fairy's  frolic 
wing. 
Receding  now,  the  dying  numbers  ring 
Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged 
dell; 
And  now  the  mountain  breezes  scarcely 
bring 
A  wandering  witch-note  of  the  distant 
spell — 
And  now,  'tis  silent  all  ! — Enchantress, 
fare  thee  well  ! 
Conclusion  of  Tlie  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

BRIGNALL    BANKS 

During  the  composition  of  Rokeby  Scott  wrote 
to  Morritt :  "  There  are  two  or  three  Songs,  and 
particularly  one  in  Praise  of  Brignall  Banks, 
which  I  trust  you  will  like — because,  entre  nous, 
I  like  them  myself.  One  of  them  is  a  little  dash- 
ing banditti  song,  called  and  entitled  Allen-a- 
Dale." 

O,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Daiton-ball, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily : 
"  O,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green  ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen." 

"  If,  maiden,  thou   wouldst  wend  with 
me, 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed, 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May." 
Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green  ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

"  I  read  you,  by  your  bugle  horn, 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  ranger  sworn 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood." 
"  A  ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light  ; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night." 
II 


Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay  ; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there, 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May  ! 

"  With  burnished  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum." 
li  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear  ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 
And  O,  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May ! 

;<  Maiden  !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die  : 
The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead 

Were  better  mate  than  I  ! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 
Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen." 

From  Rokeby,  1813. 

ALLEN-A-DALE 

Allen -a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allen  a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the    spin- 
ning, 
Yet  Allen-a-Dale  has  red    gold    for    the 

winning. 
Come,  read  me  my  riddle  !  come,  heark- 
en my  tale  ! 
And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prances  in 
pride, 

And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkin- 
dale  side. 

The  mere  for  his  net  and  the  land  for 
his  game, 

The  chase  for  the  wild  and  the  park  for 
the  tame  : 

Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake  and  the  deer  of 
the  vale 

Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allen- 
a-Dale  1 

Allen-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight. 
Though   his   spur   be   as   sharp  and  his 
blade  be  as  bright ; 


l62 


BRITISH  POETS 


AUen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord, 

Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his 

word  ; 
And  the  best  of  our  nobles    his    bonnet 

will  vail, 
Who  at   Rere-cross  on  Stanmore  meets 

Allen-a-Dale  ! 

Allen-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come  ; 
The  mother,  she  asked  of  his   household 

and  home : 
"  Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand 

fair  on  the  hill, 
My  hall."    quoth    bold    Allen,    "shows 

gallanter  still ; 
'Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its 

crescent  so  pale 
And  with  all  its  bright  spangles  ! "  said 

Allen-a-Dale. 

The  father  was    steel   and  the  mother 
was  stone ; 

They  lifted  the  latch  and  they  bade  him 
be  gone ; 

But  loud  on  the  morrow  their  wail    and 
their  cry : 

He  had  laughed  on    the    lass    with   his 
bonny  black  eye, 

And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love- 
tale, 

And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allen- 
a-dale ! 

From  RoJceby,  1813. 

HIE  AWAY,  HIE  AWAY 

Hie  away,  hie  away, 
Over  bank  and  over  brae, 
Where  the  copsewood  is  the  greenest, 
Where  the  fountains  glisten  sheenest, 
Where  the  lady-fern  grows  strongest, 
Where  the  morning  dew  lies  longest, 
Where  the  black-cock  sweetest  sips  it, 
Where  the  fairy  latest  trips  it : 

Hie  to  haunts  right  seldom  seen, 

Lovely,  lonesome,  cool,  and  green, 

Over  bank  and  over  brae, 

Hie  away,  hie  away. 

From  Waverley,  1814. 

TWIST  YE.  TWINE  YE  !  EVExN:  SO 

Twist  ye,  twine  ye  !  even  so, 
Mingle  shades  of  joy  and  woe, 
Hope  and  fear  and  peace  and  strife, 
In  the  thread  of  human  life. 

While  the  mystic  twist  is  spinning, 
And  the  infant's  life  beginning, 


Dimly  seen  through  twilight  bending, 
Lo,  what  varied  shapes  attending  ! 

Passions  wild  and  follies  vain, 
Pleasures  soon  exchanged  for  pain  ; 
Doubt  and  jealousy  and  fear, 
In  the  magic  dance  appear. 

Now  they  wax  and  now   they  dwindle, 
Whirling  with  the  whirling  spindle, 
Twist  ye,  twine  ye  !  even  so 
Mingle  human  bliss  and  woe. 

From  Guy  Mannering,  1815. 

WASTED,    WEARY,      WHEREFORE 
STAY 

Wasted,  weary,  wherefore  stay, 
Wrestling  thus  with  earth  and  clay  ? 
From  the  body  pass  away  ; — 

Hark  !  the  mass  is  singing. 

From  thee  doff  thy  mortal  weed, 
Mary  Mother  be  thy  speed, 
Saints  to  help  thee  at  thy  need  ; — 
Hark  !  the  knell  is  ringing. 

Fear  not  snow-drift  driving  fast, 
Sleet  or  hail  or  levin  blast ; 
Soon  the  shroud  shall  lap  thee  fast, 
And  the  sleep  be  on  thee  cast 

That  shall  ne'er  know  waking. 

Haste  thee,  haste  thee,  to  be  gone, 
Earth  flits  fast,  and  time  draws  on, — 
Gasp  thy  gasp,  and  groan  thy  groan, 
Day  is  near  the  breaking. 
From  Guy  Mannering. 

JOCK  O'  HAZELDEAN 

"  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride  : 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen  " — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 

"  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale  ; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale  ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen  " — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 


SCOTT 


163 


A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair  ; 
Nor    mettled    hound,    nor    managed 
hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair ; 
And  you,  the  foremost  o'  them  a', 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen." — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  decked  at  morning-tide, 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair  ; 
The  priest    and  bridegroom  wait  the 
bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 
Thev  sought  her  baitli  by  bower  and 
ha' ; 

The  ladie  was  not  seen  ! 
She's  o'er  the  Border  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  o'  Hazeldean.  1816. 

PIBROCH  OF  DONALD  DHU 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons  t 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky, 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  blade  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar  ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges  : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended  ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded  : 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 


Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come ; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset !  1816. 

TIME 

"  Why  sit'st  thou  by  that  ruined  hall, 
Thou  aged  carle  so  stern  and  gray  ? 

Dost  thou  its  former  pride  recall, 
Or  ponder  how  it  passed  away  ?  " 

"Know'st   thou   not   me?"    the    Deep 
Voice  cried  : 

"  So  long  enjoyed,  so  oft  misused — 
Alternate,  in  thy  fickle  pride, 

Desired,  neglected,  and  accused  ! 

"  Before  my  breath,  like  blazing  flax, 
Man  and  his  marvels  pass  away  ! 

And  changing  empires  wane  and  wax, 
Are  founded,  flourish,  and  decay. 

"  Redeem    mine    hours — the    space    is 
brief — 
While  in  my  glass  the    sand-grains 
shiver, 
And  measureless  thy  joy  or  grief, 
When  Time  and  thou  shalt  part  for- 
ever !  " 

From  The  Antiquary,  1816. 

CAVALIER  SONG 

And   what    though  winter  will   pinch 
severe 
Through   locks  of  gray  and  a  cloak 
that  's  old, 
Yet  keep  up  thy  heart,  bold  cavalier. 
For  a  cup  of  sack  shall  fence  the  cold. 

For  time  will  rust  the  brightest  blade, 
And   years   will   break   the  strongest 
bow  : 
Was  never  wight  so  starkly  made, 
But  time  and  years  would  overthrow. 
From  Old  Mortality,  1816. 

CLARION 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  I 
To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim. 

One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name. 
From  Old  Mortality,  1816. 


164 


BRITISH  POETS 


THE  SUN   UPON  THE  WEIRDLAW 
HILL 

"It  was  while  struggling  with  such  languor, 
on  one  lovely  evening  of  this  autumn  [1817], 
that  he  composed  the  following  beautiful  verses. 
They  mark  t  he  very  spot  of  their  birth,— namely, 
the  then  naked  height  overhanging  the  northern 
side  of  the  Cauldshields  Loch,  from  which  Mel- 
rose Abbey  to  the  eastward,  and  the  hills  of  Et- 
trick  and  Yarrow  to  the  west,  are  now  visible 
over  a  wide  range  of  rich  woodland,— all  the 
work  of  the  poet's  hand."  Lockhart's  Life  of 
Scott,  Chapter  39. 

The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill 

In  Ettrick's  vale  is  sinking  sweet ; 
The  westland  wind  is  hush  and  still, 

The  lake  lies  sleeping  at  my  feet. 
Yet  not  the  landscape  to  mine  eye 

Bears  those  bright  hues  that  once  it 
bore, 
Though  evening  with  her  richest  dye 

Flames  o'er  the  hills  of  Ettrick's  shore. 

With  listless  look  along  the  plain 

I  see  Tweed's  silver  current  glide, 
And  coldly  mark  the  holy  fane 

Of  Melrose  rise  in  ruined  pride. 
The  quiet  lake,  the  balmy  air, 

The  hill,  the  stream,  the  tower,   the 
tree — 
Are  they  still  such  as  once  they  were, 

Or  is  the  dreary  change  in  me  ? 

Alas  !  the  warped  and  broken  board, 

How  can  it  bear  the  painter's  dye  ? 
The  harp  of  strained  and  tuneless  chord, 

How  to  the  minstrel's  skill  reply  ? 
To  aching  eyes  each  landscape  lowers, 

To   feverish    pulse    each    gale    blows 
chill  ; 
And  Araby's  or  Eden's  bowers 

Were  barren  as  this  moorland  hill. 

1817. 

PROUD  MAISIE 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early  ; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird. 

When  shall  I  marry  me?" 
"  When  six  braw  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye." 

"  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly  ?  " 
"  The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 


"  The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady. 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing, 

'Welcome,  proud  lady.'" 

From  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,  1818. 

TRUE-LOVE,  AN  THOU  BE  TRUE 

True-love,  an  thou  be  true, 

Thou  hast  ane  kittle  part  to  play, 

For  fortune,  fashion,  fancy,  and  thou 
Maun  strive  for  many  a  day. 

I've  kend  by  mony  a  friend's  tale, 
Far  better  by  this  heart  of  mine, 

What  time  and  change  of  fancy  avail, 
A  true  love-knot  to  untwine. 

From  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  1819. 

REBECCA'  S  HYMN 

When  Israel  of  the  Lord  beloved 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And    trump    and    timbrel    answered 
keen, 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  be- 
tween. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  : 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen, 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous 
day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray  ! 
And  O,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In    shade     and    storm    the    frequent 
night, 
Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams. 
The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn  ; 

No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and  horn 

But  Thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goat 
The  flesh  of  rams  I  will  not  prize ; 


SCOTT 


165 


A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought, 
Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 

From  Ivanhoe,  1818. 

BORDER  BALLAD 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 

Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward 

in  order  ? 

March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for 

the  border. 

Many  a  banner  spread, 
Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story, 
Mount  and  make  ready  then, 
Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scot- 
tish glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels 
are  grazing, 
Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and 
the  roe ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon   is 
blazing. 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and 
the  bow-. 

Trumpets  are  sounding, 
War-steeds  are  bounding* 
Stand  to  your  arms  and  march  in  good 
order  ; 

England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the 
the  Border. 

From  The  Monastery,  1820. 

LIFE 

Youth  !  thou  wear'st  to  manhood  now  ; 

Darker  lip  and  darker  brow, 

Statelier  step,  more  pensive  mien, 

In  thy  face  and  gait  are  seen  : 

Thou      must      now      brook      midnight 

watches, 
Take  thy  food  and  sport  by  snatches  ! 
For  the  gambol  and  the  jest 
Thou  wert  wont  to  love  the  best, 
Graver  follies  must  thou  follow. 
But  as  senseless,  false,  and  hollow. 

From  Hie  Abbot,  1820. 

COUNTY  GUY 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  lias  left  the  lea, 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the   bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 


The  lark  his  lay  who  thrilled  all  day 
Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh  : 

Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 
But  where  is  County  Guy? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the 
shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear  ; 
To  beauty  shy  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky  ; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

From  Quentin  Dunvard,  1823. 

BONNY  DUNDEE 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  't  was  Clav- 

er'se  who  spoke, 
"  Ere  the  King's  crown  shall   fall   there 

are  crowns  to  be  broke  ; 
So  let  each   Cavalier   who   loves   honor 

and  me, 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 
Come  fill  up   my    cup,  come   fill   up 

my  can, 
Come  saddle  your  horses  and  call  up 

your  men  ; 
Come  open  the   West   Port   and    let 

me  gang  free, 
And  it  's  room   for   the    bonnets   of 
Bonny  Dundee ! " 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides   up   the 

street, 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums 

they  are  beat ; 
But  the  Provost,  douce  man,  said,  "  Just 

e'en  let  him  be, 
The  Gude  Town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Deil 

of  Dundee." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of 

the  Bow, 
Ilk  carline  was  fly  ting  and  shaking   her 

pow  ; 
But    the    young  plants  of  grace   they 

looked  couthie  and  slee, 
Thinking    luck    to    thy     bonnet,    thou 

Bonny  Dundee  ! 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grass- 
market  was  crammed, 

As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be 
hanged  ; 


1 66 


BRITISH    POETS 


There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was 

fear  in  each  e'e, 
A.s   they   watched   for   the   bonnets  of 

Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits 
and  had  spears, 

And    lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  cava- 
liers ; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads  and  the 
causeway  was  free, 

At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud 

Castle  rock, 
And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly 

spoke ; 
"  Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak 

twa  words  or  three, 
For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny 

Dundee." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way 

he  goes  — 
"  Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of 

Montrose  t 
Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  hear 

tidings  of  me. 
Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny 

Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland  and 
lands  beyond  Forth. 

If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's 
chiefs  in  the  North  ; 

There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thou- 
sand times  three, 

Will  cry  hoigli !  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"  There's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened 
bull-hide  ; 

There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles 
beside ; 

The  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel 
shall  flash  free. 

At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 


"Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the 

rocks  — 
Ere  I  own  an  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the 

fox ; 
And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst 

of  your  glee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet 

and  me  I " 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He    waved    his    proud    hand    and    the 

trumpets  were  blown, 
The  kettle-drums  clashed  and  the  horse- 
men rode  on, 
Till  on  ,Ravelston's   cliffs   and  on  Cler- 

miston's  lee 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up 

my  can, 
Come  saddle  the  horses  and  call  up 

the  men, 
Come  open  your  gates  and  let  me 

gae  free,  ' 
For  it's    up    with    the    bonnets  of 
Bonny  Dundee ! 

December,  1825.    1830. 

HERE'S    A    HEALTH    TO    KING 
CHARLES 

Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast, 

Fill  it  up  to  the  brim  ; 
'T  is  to  him  we  love  most, 

And  to  all  who  love  him. 
Brave  gallants,  stand  up, 

And  avaunt  ye,  base  carles  ! 
Were  there  death  in  the  cup, 

Here's  a  health  to  King  Charles. 

Though  he  wanders  through  dangers, 

Unaided,  unknown, 
Dependent  on  strangers, 

Estranged  from  his  own  ; 
Though  't  is  under  our  breath, 

Amidst  forfeits  and  perils, 
Here's  to  honor  and  faith, 

And  a  health  to  King  Charles! 

Let  such  honors  abound 

As  the  time  can  afford, 
The  knee  on  the  ground, 

And  the  hand  on  the  sword  ; 
But  the  time  shall  come  round 

When,  'mid  Lords,  Dukes,  and  Eark 
The  loud  trumpet  shall  sound, 

Here's  a  health  to  King  Charles ! 

From  Woodstock,  1826. 


BYRON 

LIST  OF   REFERENCES 

Editions 

**  Poetical  Works,  7  volumes,  edited  by  E.  H.  Coleridge;  Letters 
and  Journals,  6  volumes,  edited  by  R.  E.  Prothero:  London,  Murray, 
1898-1904  (the  standard  edition).—  Letters,  1804-1813,  edited  by  W.  E. 
Henley,  1897  (Vol.  I  of  "Works  ";  no  more  published). —  Poetical  Works, 
1  volume,  1896  (Oxford  Edition).  —  *  Poetic  and  Dramatic  Works, 
1  volume,  edited  by  Paul  E.  More,  1905  (Cambridge  Edition).  —  *  Poeti- 
cal Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  E.  H.  Coleridge,  Murray,  1905. 

Biography 

*  Moore  (Thomas),  The  Letters  and  Journals  of  Lord  Byron,  with 
Notices  of  his  Life,  1830  (the  standard  biography,  though  unreliable  on 
many  points).  —  Galt  (John),  Life  of  Lord  Byron,  1830  (based  in  part  on 
Moore's  Life).  —  Mondot  (Armand),  Histoire  de  la  Vie  et  des  Ecrits  de 
Lord  Byron,  Paris,  1860.  —  Lescure  (Adolphe),  Lord  Byron,  Histoire  d'un 
Homme,  Paris,  1866.  —  Elze  (Karl),  Lord  Byron,  Berlin,  1870;  English 
translation,  London,  1872.  —  Castelar  (Emilio),  Vida  de  Lord  Byron, 
Madrid,  1873;  English  translation,  London,  1875.  —  *  Nichol  (John), 
Byron  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series),  1880  (the  best  brief  biography). 
—  Jeaffreson  (J.  C),  The  Real  Lord  Byron,  1883.  —  Noel  (Roden),  Lord' 
Byron  (Great  Writers  Series),  1890.  —  Ackermann  (Richard),  Lord  Byron, 
sein  Leben,  seine  Werke,  Heidelberg,  1901.  —  Koeppel  (Emil),  Lord 
Byron,  1903. 

Personal  Reminiscences  and  Biographical  Material 

Medwin  (Thomas),  Conversations  of  Lord  Byron,  1824.  —  Dallas 
(R.  C),  Recollections  of  Lord  Byron,  from  1808  to  1814,  1824.  —  Gamba 
(Pietro),  A  Narrative  of  Lord  Byron's  Last  Journey  to  Greece,  1825. — 
Hunt  (Leigh),  Lord  Byron  and  some  of  his  Contemporaries,  1828.  —  Hunt 
(Leigh),  Autobiography,  1850.  —  Disraeli  (B.),  Venetia  (Portrait  of 
Byron). — De  Quincey  (T.),  Reminiscences. — Trelawney  (E.  J.), 
Recollections  of  the  Last  Days  of  Shelley  and  Byron,  1858.  —  Guiccioli 
(Countess),  Lord  Byron  juge  par  les  Temoins  de  sa  Vie,  Paris,  1868; 
English  translation  by  Jerningham,  London,  1869.  —  Proctor  (B.  W.), 
Autobiography.  —  Miller  (A.  B.),  Leigh  Hunt's  Relations  with  Byron, 
Shelley,  and  Keats,  1909.  —  Edgcumbe  (R.),  Byron,  the  Last  Phase, 
1909.  —  Hobhouse  (J.  C.)  (Lord  Broughton),  Recollections  of  a  Long 
Life,  1909. 

167 


168  BRITISH    POETS 

Early  Criticism 

Jeffrey  (Lord  Francis),  Edinburgh  Review:  No.  38,  Art.  10,  Childe 
Harold;  No.  42,  Art.  2,  The  Giaour;  No.  45,  Art.  9,  The  Corsair  and  Bride 
of  Abydos;  No.  54,  Art.  1,  Byron's  Poetry;  No.  56,  Art.  7,  Manfred;  No.  58, 
Art.  2,  Beppo;  No.  70,  Art.  1.  Marino' Faliero;  No.  72,  Art.  5,  Byron's 
Tragedies.  Also  in  his  Critical  Essays.  —  Scott  (Sir  Walter),  Childe 
Harold's  Pilgrimage;  in  the  Quarterly  Review,' 1S18.  Also  in  his  Critical 
and  Miscellaneous  Essays. — Macaulay  (T.  B.),  Moore's  Life  of  Byron; 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  1831.  Also  in  his  Essays. — Southey  (R.), 
Essays,  1832.  —  Hazlitt  (W.);  Spirit  of  the  Age.  —  Hugo  (V.),  Littera- 
ture  et  Philosophie,  1834. 

Later  Criticism 

*Arnold  (M.),  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series,  1888.  —  Brandes 
(G.  M.  C),  Shelley  und  Lord  Byron:  Zwei  litterarische  Charakterbilder, 
1894.  —  *Brandes  (G.  M.  C),  Die  Hauptstromungen  in  der  Litteratur 
des  neunzehnten  Jahrhunderts,  Vol.  IV;  English  translation,  1904.  — 
Chesterton  (G.  K.),  Twelve  Types:  The  Optimism  of  Byron,  1902.  — 
Darmesteter  (James),  Essais  de  Litterature  anglaise.  —  Dowden 
(Edward),  French  Revolution  and  English  Literature:  Essav  VI,  1897. 
■ — Dowden  (Edward),  Studies  in  Literature:  French  Revolution  and 
Literature,  1878.  —  Henley  (W.  E.),  Views  and  Reviews,  1890.  — 
Hutton  (R.  H.),  Literary  Essays,  1871,  1888.  —  Kingsley  (Charles), 
Works:  Thoughts  on  Shelley  and  Byron.  —  Loforte-Rondi  (Andrea), 
Nelle  Letterature  straniere,  1903.  —  Mazzini  (G.),  Essays:  Byron  and 
Goethe.  —  *More  (Paul  E.),  Atlantic  Monthly,  Dec,  1898:  The  Whole- 
some Revival  of  Byron;  Introduction  to  the  Cambridge  Edition,  1905; 
Shelburne  Essays,  Third  Series:  Don  Juan,  1906.  —  *Morley  (John), 
Miscellanies,  Vol.  I,  1871.  —  *Pyre  (J.  T.  A.),  Byron  in  our  Day;  in  the 
Atlantic,  April,  1907.  —  *Schmidt  (Julian),  Portraits  aus  dem  neunzehn- 
ten Jahrhundert:  Lord  Byron,  1878. — Swinburne  (A.  O),  Miscellanies: 
Wordsworth  and  Byron,  1886.  —  ^Swinburne  (A.  C),  Essays  and  Studies, 
1875.  —  *Symonds  (J.  A.),  In  Ward's  English  Poets,  Vol.  IV.  —  *Taine 
(H.),  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  IV,  1863,  1871.  —  *Trent  (W.  P.), 
Authority  of  Criticism:  The  Byron  Revival,  1899. — *Watts-Dunton 
(T.),  In  Chambers's  New  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  Ill,  1904. 

—  *Woodberry  (G.  E.),  Makers  of  Literature  (1890),  1900. 

Austin  (Alfred),  The  Bridling  of  Pegasus,  1910:  Wordsworth  and  Byron. 

—  Collins  (J.  C),  Studies  in  Poetry  and  Criticism,  1905.  — Gendarme  de 
Bevotte  (G.),  La  Legende  de  Don  Juan:  son  Evolution  dans  la  litterature 
des  origines  au  romantisme,  1907.  —  Hancock  (A.  E.),  French  Revolution 
and  the  English  Poets,  1899.  —  Lang  (A.),  Poets'  Country,  1907.— 
Leonard  (W.  E.),  Byron  and  Byronism  in  America,  1905.  —  Mengin 
(Urbain),  LTtalie  des  Romantiques,  1902.  —  Mom  (D.  M.),  Sketches  of 
the  Poetical  Literature  of  the  Past  Half-Century,  1851.  —  Nisard  (Desire), 
Portraits  et  Etudes  d'Histoire  litteraire.  —  Payne  (W.  M.),  Greater  Eng- 
lish Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907.  —  Schuyler  (Eugene),  Italian 
Influences.  —  Symons  (A.),  Romantic  Movement  in  English  Poetry,  1909. 


BYRON  169 

Byron's  Influence  on  the  Continent 

See  Brandes,  Elze,  Castelar,  Taine,  Mengin,  Nisard,  Mondot, 
Lescure,  Hugo,  etc.,  above;  and  Lamartine  and  Gautier,  below. 

Ackermann  (Richard),  Lord  Bryon:  sein  Leben,  seine  Werke,  sein 
Einfluss  auf  die  Deutsche  Litteratur. — Blaze  de  Bury  (H.),  Tableaux 
romantiques  de  Litterature  et  d'Art,  1878:  Lord  Byron  et  le  Byronisme; 
from  the  Revue  des  deux  Mondes,  Oct.  15,  1872.  — Clark  (W.  J.),  Byron 
und  die  Romantische  Periode  in  Frankreich,  Inaugural  Dissertation,  Leip- 
zig, 1901.  —  Dumas,  Memoires,  Vol.  IX,  Chap.  6,  7  and  8.  —  *Esteve 
(E.),  Byron  et  le  romantisme  francais  —  essai  sur  la  fortune  et  l'influence 
de  Byron  en  France  de  1812  a  1850,  Paris,  1907.  —  *Goethe,  Conversations 
with  Eckermann.  —  Hohenhausen  (E.  P.  A.),  Rousseau,  Goethe,  Byron, 
ein  Kritisch-literarischer  Umriss  aus  Ethischchristlichem  Standpunkt, 
1847.  —  Kaiser,  Byror's  und  Delavigne's  Marino  Faliero,  Dusseldorf, 
1870.  —  Lamartine,  Le  dernier  Chant  de  Childe  Harold,  1824.  —  Lorenzo 
y  d'Ayot  (Manuel),  Shakspere,  Lord  Byron,  y  Chateaubriand,  como 
modelos  de  la  Juventud  Literaria.  — •  Melchior  (Felix),  Heinrich  Heine's 
Verhiiltnis  zu  Lord  Byron,  Berlin,  1903.  — Muoni  (Guido),  La  Fama  del 
Byron,  e  il  Byronismo  in  Italia,  1903.  — Monti  (G.),  Studi  Critici:  Leo- 
pardi  e  Byron,  1887.  —  Musset  (A.  de),  La  Coupe  et  les  Levres  (Dedicace), 
Lettre  a  Lamartine,  Namouna,  etc.  — Ochsenbein  (W.),  Die  Aufnahme 
Lord  Byrons  in  Deutschland  und  sein  Einfluss  auf  den  jungen  Heine,  1905. 

—  Pichot  (A.),  Essai  sur  la  Vie,  le  Caractere,  et  le  Genie  de  Lord  Byron.  — 
Pons  (Gaspard  de),  Annales  romantiques,  1826:  Bonaparte  et  Byron.  — 
Rigal  (Eugene),  Victor  Hugo  et  Byron;  in  the  Revue  d  Histoire  litteraire 
de  la  France,  July-Sept.,  1907.  —  Sainte-Beuve,  Chateaubriand  et  son 
Groupe  litteraire,  Vol.  I.,  Chap.  15,  1848. — Sand  (George),  Histoire  de 
ma  Vie,  Vol.  III. — Sand  (George),  Essai  sur  le  drame  fantastique: 
Goethe,  Byron,  Mickievicz;  in  the  Revue  des  deux  Mondes,  Dec.  1,  1839. 

—  Simhart  (Max),  Lord  Byrons  Einfluss  auf  die  italienische  Literatur, 
1909.  —  Stendhal,  Racine  et  Shakspere,  1823.  —  Schmidt  (G.  B.  O.), 
Rousseau  und  Byron:  Ein  Beitrag  zur  Vergleichenden  Litteratur-Ge- 
schichte  des  Revolutions-zeitalters,  1890. — Weddigen  (Friedrich  H.  O.), 
Lord  Byron's  Einfluss  auf  die  Europaischen  Litteraturen  der  Neuzeit,  1884. 

Tributes  in  Verse 

Lamartine,  Meditations  poetiques,  1820:  L'Homme,  a  Lord  Byron.  — 
Shelley,  Julian  and»Maddalo,  1818;  Fragment  to  Byron,  1818;  Sonnet 
to  Byron,  1821.  —  Keats,  Sonnet  to  Byron.  —  Gautier,  Poesies,  Vol.  I. 

—  M alone  (W.),  Napoleon  and  Byron.  —  Watson  (William),  Epigrams: 
Byron  the  Voluptuary. — Crowninshield  (F.),  A  Painter's  Moods:  To 
Byron.  —  Noel  (R.),  Byron's  Grave. 

Bibliography 

*Coleridge  (E.  H.),  in  Vol.  VII  of  his  edition  of  the  Poetical  Works.  — 
Anderson  (J.  P.),  Appendix  to  Noel's  Life  of  Byron. 


BYRON 


LACHIN  Y  GAIR 

Away,  ye  gay  landscapes,   ye  gardens 
of  roses ! 
In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove  ; 
Restore  me  the  rocks,  where   the  snow- 
flake  reposes. 
Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom 
and  love : 
Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are   thy  moun- 
tains, 
Round    their  white   summits   though 
elements  war  ; 
Though  cataracts  foam  'stead  of  smooth- 
flowing  fountains, 
I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na 
Garr. 

Ah  !  there  my  young  footsteps  in  infancy 
wander'd ; 
My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was 
the  plaid  ; 
On  chieftains  long  perish'd  my  memory 
ponder'd, 
As  daily  I  strode  through    the    pine- 
cover'd  glade  ; 
I    sought  not   my    home   till  the   day's 
dying  glory 
Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the   bright 
polar  star  ; 
For    fancy  was    cheer'd    by  traditional 
story. 
Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch 
na  Garr. 

"  Shades  of  the  dead  !  have  I  not  heard 
your  voices 
Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the 
gale?" 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 
And  rides  on  the  wind,  o'er  his    own 
Highland  vale. 
Round  Loch  na  Garr  while  the   stormy 
mist  gathers, 
Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car  : 
Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my 
fathers ; 
They  dwell  in    the    tempests  of   dark 
Loch  na  Garr. 


"  Ill-starr'd,  though  brave,  did  no  visions 
foreboding 
Tell  you  that  fate  had  forsaken  your 
cause  ?  " 
Ah  !  were  you  destined  to  die  at  Culloden, 
Victory  crown'd  not    your    fall  with 
applause : 
Still  were  you  happy  in  death's  earthly 
slumber, 
You  rest  with  your  clan  in  the  caves  of 
Braemar  : 
The  pibroch  resounds,  to  the  piper's  loud 
number, 
Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch 
na  Garr. 

Years  have  roll'd  on,  Lochna  Garr,  since 
I  left  you, 
Years   must  elapse   ere    I   tread  you 
again : 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flow'rs  has  bereft 
you, 
Yet  still  are  you  dearer  than  Albion's 
plain. 
England  !    thy  beauties    are    tame   and 
domestic 
To  one  who  has  roved  o'er  the  moun- 
tains afar  : 
Oh  for  the    crags    that    are    wild    and 
majestic  ! 
The  steep    frowning    glories    of  dark 
Loch  na  Garr.  1807. * 

MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART 

Zaq  jxoi),  cag  ayairo 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart ! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest  ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
7,ut]  finv,  cag  ay  emu. 


*The  dates  for  Byron's  poems  are  made  up 
chiefly  from  the  very  full  accounts  of  their  writ- 
ing and  publication  given  in  the  notes  to  E.  H. 
Coleridge's  splendid  edition. 


70 


BYRON 


171 


By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
YVoo'd  by  each  JEgean  wind  ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge  ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Tjur]  fiov,  cdf  dyoTrw. 

B3'  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist  ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well  ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
Zdjrj  uoi),  <rdf  ayairo). 

Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone : 

Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone. 

Though  I  fly  to  Istambol. 

Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul ; 

Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?  No  ! 

7mt]  uov,  <rdf  aya-u,  1810.     1812. 


AND  THOU  ART  DEAD,  AS  YOUNG 
AND  FAIR 

"  Heu,   qaanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari 
quam   tui  meminisse  ! ,; 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare, 

Too  soon  return'd  to  Earth  ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low, 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow, 

So  I  behold  them  not : 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot ; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 
'  Tis  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Y~et  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last 

As  fervently  as  thou. 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the 
past, 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow  : 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not 

see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 


The  better  days  of  life  were  ours  ; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine  ; 
The  sun  that    cheers,   the  storm  that 
lowers, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep  ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine, 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away ; 
I    might  have   watch'd    through    long 
decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatched 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey  ; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away  ; 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  to-day  ; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade  ; 
The  night  that  follow'd  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade  ; 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  pass'd, 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last  ; 

Extinguish 'd,  not  decay'd  ; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 
My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 

To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 
One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed  ; 

To  gaze,  how  fondly  !  on  thy  face, 

To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 
Uphold  thy  drooping  head  ; 

And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 

Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee  ! 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 

Returns  again  to  me, 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught  except  its  living  years. 

February,  1812.     1812. 

WHEN  WE  TWO  PARTED 

When  we  two  parted 
In  silence  and  tears, 

Half  broken-hearted 
To  sever  for  years, 


£72 


BRITISH   POETS 


Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss ; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame : 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear  ; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well  : 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve. 
That  thy  heart  could  forget. 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee  ? — 

With  silence  and  tears. 

?  .  .  .  .  1816. 

THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS 

A  TURKISH   TALE 

*  Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 
Never  met  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted." — Burns. 

CANTO  THE  FIRST 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and 

myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in 

their  clime  ? 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love 

of  the  turtle, 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to 

crime  ! 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers    ever  blossom,   the 

beams  ever  shine : 
Where  the  light  wings   of  Zephyr,   od- 

press'd  with  perlum^. 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her 

bloom  ; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of 

fruit, 


And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never 
is  mute : 

Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the 
hues  of  the  sky, 

In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may 
vie, 

And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in 
dye; 

Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses 
they  twine, 

And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ? 

'T  is  the  clime  of  the  East ;  't  is  the  land 
of  the  Sun — 

Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  chil- 
dren have  done  ? 

Oh  !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  fare- 
well 

Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the 
tales  which  they  tell. 

Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 
Apparell'd  as  becomes  the  brave, 
Awaiting  each  his  lord's  behest 
To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest, 
Old  Giaffir  sate  in  his  Divan  : 

Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye  ; 
And  though  the  face  of  Mussulman 

Not  oft  betrays  to  standers  by 
The  mind  within,  well  skill'd  to  hide 
All  but  unconquerable  pride, 
His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brow 
Did  more  than  he  was  wont  avow. 

"  Let  the    chamber  be    clear'd."— The 

train  disappear'd. — 
"  Now  call  me  the  chief  of  the  Haram 

guard." 
With  Giaffir  is  none  but  his  only  son, 
And   the   Nubian   awaiting  the  sire's 

award. 
"  Haroun — when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 
Are  pass'd  beyond  the  outer  gate, 
(Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 
My  child  Zuleika's  face  unveil'd  !) 
Hence,    lead    my    daughter    from    her 

tower  ; 
Her  fate  is  fix'd  this  very  hour  : 
Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought ; 
By  me  alone  be  duty  taught !  " 

li  Pacha  !  to  hear  is  to  obey." 
No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say — 
Then  to  the  tower  had  ta'en  his  way, 
But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 

First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet ; 
And  downcast  look'd  and  gently  spake, 

Still  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet  : 
For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire, 
Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire  ! 


BYRON 


i73 


"Father!    for   fear  that  thou  sliouldst 

chide 
My  sister,  or  her  sable  guide, 
Know — for  the  fault,  if  fault  there  be, 
Was  mine,  then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me— 
So  lovelily  the  morning  shone, 

That — let  the  old  and  weary  sleep— 
I  could  not ;  and  to  view  alone 

The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep, 
With  none  to  listen  and  reply 
To  thoughts   with  which  my  heart  beat 

high 
Were  irksome — for  whatever  my  mood, 
In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude  ; 
I  on  Zuleika's  slumber  broke, 

And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 

Soon  turns  the  Haram's  grating  key, 
Before  the  guardian  slaves  awoke 
We  to  the  cypress  gi-oves  had  flown, 
And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our 

own  ! 
There  linger'd  we,  beguiled  too  long 
With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song  ; 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour 
Beat  thy  Divan's  approaching  hour, 
To  thee,  and  to  my  duty  true, 
Warn'd   by   the    sound,   to    greet    thee 

flew"; 
But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet — 
Nay,  Father,  rage  not — nor  forget 
That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 
But    those    who    watch    the    woman's 
tower." 

"  Son  of  a  slave" — the  Pacha  said — 
"  From  unbelieving  mother  bred, 
Vain  were  a  father's  hope  to  see 
Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 
Thou,  when  thine  arm  should  bend  the 
bow, 
And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 
Thou,  Greek  in  soul  if  not  in  creed, 
Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 
And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow. 
Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 
Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire. 
Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire  ! 
Thou,  who  wouldst  see  this  battlement 
By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent  ; 
Nay,  tamely  view  old  Stambol's  wall 
Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall, 
Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 
Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth  ! 
Go — let  thy  less  than  woman's  hand 
Assume  the  distaff — not  the  brand. 
But,  Haroun  ! — to  my  daughter  speed  ! 
And  hark — of  thine  own  head  take  heed — 
If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing — 
Thou  see'st  yon  bow — it  hath  a  string  !  " 


No  sound  from  Selim's  lip  was  heard, 

At  least  that  met  old  Giaffir's  ear. 
But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword. 

"Son  of    a  slave! — reproach'd    with 
fear  I 

Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear. 
Son  of  a  slave  ! — and  toho  my  sire  ?  " 

Thus   held    his    thoughts    their    dark 
career ; 
And  glances  ev'n  of  more  than  ire 
Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giafnr  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started  ;  for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  had  done ; 
He  saw  rebellion  there  begun  : 

"  Come  hither,  boy — what,  no  reply? 
I  mark  thee — and  I  know  thee  too  ; 
But  there  be  deeds  thou  dar'st  not  do  : 
But  if  thy  beard  had  manlier  length, 
And  if  thy  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 
I'd  joy  to  see  thee  break  a  lance, 
Albeit  against  my  own  perchance." 

As  sneeringly  these  accents  fell, 
On  Selim's  eye  he  fiercely  gazed : 

That  eye  return'd  him  glance  for  glance 
And  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised, 

Till  Giaffir's  quail'd  and  shrunk  as- 
kance— 
And  why — he  felt,  but  durst  not  tell. 
••  Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy  : 
I  never  loved  him  from  his  birth, 
And — but  his  arm  is  little  worth, 
And  scarcely  in  the  chase  could  cope 
With  timid  fawn  or  antelope, 
Far  less  would  venture  into  strife 
Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life — ■ 
I  would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone  : 
No — nor  the  blood  so  near  my  own. 
That    blood — he    hath    not    heard — no 

more — 
I'll  watch  him  closer  than  before. 
He  is  an  Arab  to  my  sight, 
Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight — 
But  hark  ! — I  hear  Zuleika's  voice  ; 

Like  Houris'  hymn  it  meets  mine  ear  ; 
She  is  the  offspring  of  my  choice  ; 

Oil  !  more  than   ev'n  her  mother  dear, 
With  all  to  hope,  and  nought  to  fear — 
My  Peri !  ever  welcome  here ! 
Sweet,  as  the  desert  fountain's  wave 
To  lips  just  cool'd  in  time  to  save — 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thoi-1  • 
Nor  can  they  waft  to  Mecca's  shrint. 
More  thanks  for  life,  than  I  for  thine, 

Who   blest   thy   birth   and  bless  thee 
now." 


'74 


BRITISH   POETS 


Fair,  as  the  first  that  fell  of  womankind, 
When  on  that  dread  yet  lovely  serpent 

smiling, 
Whose  image  then  was  stamp'd   upon 

her  mind — 
But  once  beguir'd — and  ever  more  be- 
guiling ; 
Dazzlh;g,  as  that,  oh  !  too  transcendent 

vision 
To  Sorrow's  phantom-peopled  slumber 

given, 
When  heart  meets  heart  again  in  dreams 

Elysian, 
And  paints  the  lost  on  Earth  revived 

in  Heaven  ; 
Soft,  as  the  memory  of  buried  love  ; 
Pure,   as   the   prayer   which  Childhood 

wafts  above 
Was  she — the  daughter  of  that  rude  old 

Chief, 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears — but  not 

of  grief. 

Who  hath  not  proved  how  feebly  words 

essay 
To  fix   one  spark  of  Beauty's  heavenly 

ray? 
Who   doth    not   feel,   until   his   failing 

sight 
Faints   into  dimness  with  its  own   de- 
light, 
His   changing  cheek,  his  sinking  heart 

confess 
The  might,  the  majesty  of  Loveliness? 
Such    was    Zuleika,   such    around    her 

shone 
The  nameless  charms  unmark'd  by  her 

alone — 
The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace, 
The   mind,   the   Music  breathing   from 

her  face, 
The   heart   whose   softness  harmonized 

the  whole, 
And  oh  !  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  Soul ! 

Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bending 

Across  her  gently  budding  breast ; 
At  one  kind  word  those  arms  extending 
To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  blest 
His  child  caressing  and  carest, 
Zuleika  came — and  Giaffir  felt 
His  purpose  half  within  him  melt : 
Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 
His  heart  though  stern  could  ever  feel  ; 
Affection  chain'd  her  to  that  heart ; 
Ambition  tore  the  links  apart. 

"  Zuleika  !  child  of  gentleness  ! 
How  dear  this  very  day  must  tell, 


When  I  forget  my  own  distress, 
In  losing  what  I  love  so  well, 
To  bid  thee  with  another  dwell  : 
Another  !  and  a  braver  man 
Was  never  seen  in  battle's  van. 
We  Moslem  reck  not  much  of  blood  ; 

But  yet  the  line  of  Carasnian 
Unchanged,  unchangeable  hath  stood 
First  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 
That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 
Enough  that  he  who  comes  to  woo 
Is  kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou : 
His  years  need  scarce  a  thought  employ  ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy. 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  noble  dower : 
And  his  and  my  united  power 
Will  laugh  to  scorn  the  death-firman, 
Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan, 
And  teach  the  messenger  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait. 
And  now  thou  know'st  thy  father's  will  , 

All  that  thy  sex  hath  need  to  know  : 
'T  was  mine  to  teach  obedience  still — 
The  way  to  love,  thy  lord  may  show.' 

In  silence  bow'd  the  virgin's  head  ; 

And  if  her  eye  was  fill'd  with  tears 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed, 
And   changed  her  cheek  from  pale  tr 
red, 

And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  ears 
Those  winged  words  like  arrows  sped, 

What  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears  ! 
So  bright  the  tear  in  Beauty's  eye, 
Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry  ; 
So  sweet  the  blush  of  Bashfulness, 
Even  Pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less  ! 
Whate'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot ; 
Or  if  remember'd,  mark'd  it  not ; 
Thrice  clapp'd  his  hands,  and  call'd  hi 
steed, 

Resign'd  his  gem-adorn'd  chibouque, 
And  mounting  featly  for  the  mead, 

With  Maugrabee  and  Mamaluke, 

His  way  amid  his  Delis  took- 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 
The  Kislar  only  and  his  Moors 
Watch  well  the  Haram's  massy  doors. 

His  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand, 
His  eye    look'd  o'er    the    dark    blue 
water 
That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 
Between  the  winding  Dardanelles; 
But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand, 
Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turban'd  band 

Mix  in  the  game  of  mimic  slaughter, 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt, 


BYRON 


J75 


With  sabre  stroke  right  sharply  dealt; 
Nor  rnark'd  the  javelin-darting  crowd 
Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  wild  and  loud- 
He     thought     but    of    old    Giaffir's 
daughter  t 

No  word  from  Selim's  bosom  broke  ; 
One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke  : 
Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate, 
Pale,  mute,  and  mournfully  sedate. 
To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  turn'd, 
But  little  from  his  aspect  learn'd : 
Equal  her  grief,  yet  not  the  same ; 
Her  heart  confess'd  a  gentler  flame  : 
But  yet  that  heart,  alarm'd  or  weak, 
She  knew  not   why,  forbade  to  speak. 
Yet  speak  she  must — but  when  essay  ? 
"How    strange    he    thus    should    tu»n 

away ! 
Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met ; 
Nor  thus  shall  be  our  parting  yet." 
Thrice    paced  she  slowly   through  the 
room , 

And  watch'd  his  eye — it  still  was  fix'd  : 

She    snatch'd    the   urn   wherein   was 
mix'd 
The  Persian  Atar-gul's  perfume, 
And  sprinkled  all  its  odors  o'er 
The  pictured  roof  and  marble  floor  : 
The  drops,  that  through   his   glittering 

vest 
The  playful  girl's  appeal  address'd, 
Unheeded  o'er  his  bosom  flew, 
As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too. 
'•  What,  sullen  yet  ?  it  must  not  be — 
Oh  !  gentle  Selim.  this  from  thee  !  " 
She  saw  in  curious  order  set 

The  fairest  flowers  of   eastern   land — 
"  He  loved  them  once  :  may  touch  them 
yet, 

If  offer'd  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was   hardly  brea- 
thed 
Before  the  rose  was  pluck'd  and  wrea- 
thed ; 
The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 
Her  fairy  form  at  Selim's  feet : 
"This  rose  to  calm  my  brother's  cares 
A  message  from  the  Bulbul  bears; 
It  says  to-night  he  will  prolong 
For  Selim's  ear  his  sweetest  song  ;. 
And  though   his  note  is  somewhat   sad, 
He'll  try  for  once  a  strain    more  glad, 
With  some   faint   hope  his    alter'd   lay 
May  sing  these  gloomy   thoughts  away. 

"  What  !  not  receive  my  foolish  flower? 

Nay  then  I  am  indeed  unblest  : 
On  me  can  thus  thy   forehead  lower? 


And  know'st  thou  not  who  loves  thee 
best? 
Oh,  Selim  dear  !  oh,  more  than  dearest  ! 
Say,  is  it  me  thou  hat'st  or  fearest? 
Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  into  rest, 
Since  words  of   mine,  and   songs   must 

fail, 
Ev'n  from  my  fabled  nightingale. 
I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stern, 
But  this  from  thee  had  yet  to  learn  : 
Too  well  I  know  he  loves  thee  not  ; 
But  is  Zuleika's  love  forgot  ? 
Ah  !  deem  I  right  ?  the   Pacha's  plan — 
This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasman 
Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine. 
If  so,  I  swear  by  Mecca's  shrine, — 
If  shrines  that  ne'er  approach  allow 
To  woman's  step,  admit  her  vow, — 
Without   thy    free   consent,   command, 
The  Sultan  should  not  have  my   hand ! 
Think'st  thou  that  I  could  bear  to   part 
With  Wee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart? 
Ah  1  were  I  sever'd  from  thy  side, 
Where  were  thy   friend — and  who   my 

guide  ? 
Years  have  not  seen,  Time  shall  not  see, 
The  hour  that  tears  my  soul  from  thee: 
Ev'n  Azrael,  from  his  deadly  quiver 

When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 
That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  for  ever 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust!  " 

He  lived,  he  breathed,  he  moved,  he  felt; 
He   raised   the    maid   from   where   she 

knelt  ; 
His  trance  was  gone,  his  keen  eye  shone 
With   thoughts   that   long  in   darkness 

dwelt : 
With  thoughts   that  burn — in  rays  that 

melt. 
As  the  stream  late  conceal'd 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows, 
When  it  rushes  reveal'd 

In  the  light  of  its  billows  ; 
As  the  bolt  bursts  on  high 

From  the  black  cloud   that   bound  it, 
Flash'd  the  soul  of  that  eye 

Through  the  long  lashes  round  it. 
A  war-horse  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 
A  lion  roused  by  heedless  hound, 
A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 
By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife, 
Starts  not  to  more  convulsive  life 
Than  he,  who  heard  that  vow,  display'd, 
And  all,  before  repress'd,  betray 'd  : 
"  Now  thou  art  mine,  for  ever  mine, 
With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce   with  life 
resign  ; 


176 


BRITISH   POETS 


Now  tliou  art  mine,  that  sacred   oath, 
Though  sworn  by  one,   hath   bound   us 

both. 
Yes,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  done  ; 
That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than 

one  : 
But  blench  not  thou — thy  simplest  tress 
Claims  more  from  me  than  tenderness  ; 
I  would  not  wrong   the   slenderest   hair 
That  clusters  round   thy   forehead  fair, 
For  all  the  treasures  buried  far 
Within  the  caves  of  Istakar. 
This  morning  clouds   upon  me   lovver'd, 
Reproaches  on  my  head  were   shower'd, 
And  Giaffir  almost  call'd  me  coward ! 
Now  I  have  motive  to  be  brave  ; 
The  son  of  his  neglected  slave, 
Nay,  start  not,  'twas  the  term  lie  gave, 
May   show,  though  little   apt  to   vaunt, 
A  heart  his  words  nor  deeds  can  daunt. 
His  son,  indeed  ! — jret,  thanks   to  thee, 
Perchance  I  am,  at  least  shall  be  ; 
But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 
Be  only  known  to  us  as  now. 
I  know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 
From  Giaffir  thy  reluctant  hand  ; 
More  ill-got  wealth,  a  meaner  soul 
Holds  not  a  Musselim's  control : 
Was  henot  bred  in  Egripo? 
A  viler  race  let  Israel  show  ! 
But  let  that  pass — to  none  be  told 
Our  oath  ;  the  rest  shall  time  unfold. 
To  me  and  mine  leave  Osman  Bey  ; 
I've  partisans  for  peril's  day : 
Think  not  I  am  what  I  appear  ; 
I've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance 

near." 

"  Think  not  thou  art  what  thouappearst  ! 

My  Selim,  thou  art  sadly  changed  : 
This  morn  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  dearest ; 

But    now   thou'rt     from    thyself    es- 
tranged. 
My  love  thou  surely  knew'st  before, 
It  ne'er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay, 

And  hate  the  night  I  know  not  why, 
Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day  ; 

With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 

I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny  : 
Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to   kiss, 
Like  this — and  this — no  more  than  this  ; 
For,  Allah  !  sure  thy  lips  are  flame  : 

What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushing? 
My  own  have  nearly  caught  the  same, 

At  least  I  feel  my  cheek,  too,  blushing. 
To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  health, 
Partake,  but  never  waste  thy  wealth, 
Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by, 


And  lighten  half  thy  poverty  ; 
Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye. 
For  that  I  could  not  live  to  try  ; 
To  these  alone  my  thoughts  aspire  : 
More  can  I  do?  or  thou  require? 
But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 
We  need  so  much  of  mystery  ? 
The  cause  I  cannot  dream  nor  tell, 
But  be  it,  since  thousay'st  'tis  well ; 
Yet  what  thou  mean'st  by  '  arms  '  and 

'  friends,' 
Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 
I  meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 

The  very  vow  I  plighted  thee  ; 
His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word  : 

But  surely  he  would  leave  me  free. 

Can  this  fond   wish  seem  strange  in 
•         me, 

To  be  what  I  have  ever  been? 
What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen 
From  simple  childhood's  earliest  hour? 

What  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
Than  thee,  companion  of  her  bower, 

The  partner  of  her  infancy  ? 
These  cherish'd  thoughts  with  life  begun, 

Say,  why  must  I  no  more  avow  ? 
What  change  is  wrought    to    make  me 
shun 

The   truth  ;  my  pride,  and  thine  till, 
now  ? 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  stranger's  eyes 
Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies  ; 
Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 
At  such,  our  Prophet's  will,  repine  : 
No  !  happier  made  by  that  decree, 
He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 
Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compell'd 
To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld  : 
This  wherefore  should  I  not  reveal  ? 
Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal  ? 
I  know  the  Pacha's  haughty  mood 
To  thee  hath  never  boded  good  ; 
And  he  so  often  storms  at  nought, 
Allah  !  forbid  that  e'er  he  ought ! 
And  why  I  know  not,  but  within 
My  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sin. 
If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime, 

And  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here  ; 
Oh,  Selim  !  tell  me  yet  in  time, 

Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear, 
Ah  !  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar, 
My  father  leaves  the  mimic  war  ; 
I  tremble  now  to  meet  his  eye — 
Say,  Selim,  canst  thou  tell  me  why  ?  " 

"  Zuleika — to  thy  tower's  retreat 
Betake  thee — Giaffir  I  can  greet ! 
And  now  with  him  I  fain  must  prate 
Of  firmans,  imposts,  levies,  state. 


BYRON 


177 


There's    fearful    news    from    Danube's 

banks, 
Our  Vizier  nobly  thins  his  ranks, 
For  which  the  Giaour  may    give    him 

thanks ! 
Our  Sultan  hath  a  shorter  way 
Such  costly  triumph  to  repay. 
But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight  drum 
Hath    warn'd  the  troops  to  food  and 
sleep, 
(Jnto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come  : 
Then  softly  from  the  Haram  creep 
Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep  : 
Our  garden  battlements  are  steep  ; 
Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 
To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time  ; 
And  if  he  doth,  I  want  not  steel 
Which    some  have  felt,  and  more  may 

feel. 
Then  shaft  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 
Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before  : 
Trust  me,  Zuleika — fear  not  me  ! 
Thou  know'st  I  hold  a  Haram  key." 
"  Fear  thee,  my  Selim  !    ne'er  till  now 
Did  word  like  this " 

"  Delay  not  thou  : 
I  keep  the  key — and  Haroun's  guard 
Have  some,  and  hope  of  more  reward. 
To-night,  Zuleika,  thou  shalt  hear 
My  tale,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear  : 
I  am  not,  love  !  what  I  appear." 

CANTO  THE  SECOND 

The  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave. 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter. 
Oh  !  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret-torch  was  blazing  high, 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam, 
And    shrieking    sea-birds    warn'd  him 

home  ; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below, 
With  signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go, 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear, 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear  ; 
His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love, 
The  only  star  it  hail'd  above  ; 
His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 
"  Ye  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long  !  " — 
That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 
May   nerve  young    hearts    to  prove  as 
true. 

The  winds  are  high,  and  Helle's  tide 
Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main  ; 
12 


And    Night's  descending  shadows  hide 
That    field    with  blood    bedew'd    in 
vain, 
The  desert  of  old  Priam's  pride  ; 

The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 
All — save  immortal  dreams  that  could 

beguile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle  ! 

Oh  !  yet — for  there  my  steps  have  been  ; 
These    feet   have  press'd    the  sacred 
shore, 
These   limbs    that  buoyant    wave  hath 

borne — 
Minstrel !    with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn, 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore, 
Believing  every  hillock  green 

Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes, 
And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 
Thine  own    "  broad  Hellespont "   still 
dashes, 
Be  long  my  lot  !  and  cold  were  he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee  ! 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone   on   his   high 

theme  : 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam 

But  conscious  shepherds  bless  it  still. 
Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 

Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow  -. 
That  mighty  heap  of  gather'd  ground 
Which  Amnion's  son  ran  proudly  round, 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarchscrown'd, 

Is  now  a  lone  and  nameless  ban'ow  ! 

Within — thy  dwelling-place  how  nar- 
row ! 
Without — can  only  strangers  breathe 
The  name  of  him  that  was  beneath  : 
Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone  ; 
But  Thou — thy  very  dust  is  gone  ! 

Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  cheer 
The  swain,   and  chase    the    boatman's 

fear ; 
Till  then — no  beacon  on  the  cliff 
May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff  ; 
The  scatter'd  lights  that  skirt  the  bay, 
All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away  ; 
The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 
Is  glimmering  in  Zuleika's  tower. 
Yes  !  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber, 

And  o'er  her  silken  ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber, 

O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran  ; 
Near  these,  with  emerald  rays  beset, 
(How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget?  ) 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet, 


i78 


BRITISH    POETS 


Whereon  engraved  the  Koorsee  text, 
Could   smooth   this   life,   and   win    the 

next ; 
And  by  her  coinboloio  lies 
A  Koran  of  illumined  dyes  ; 
And  many  a  bright  emblazon'd  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  redeem'd  from  time  ; 
And  o'er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute, 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute  ; 
And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China's  mould  ; 
The  richest  work  of  Iran's  loom, 
And  Sheeraz,  tribute  of  perfume  ; 
All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 

Are  gather'd  in  that  gorgeous  room  : 
But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloom 
She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sprite, 
What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a 
night  ? 

Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest, 

Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear, 
To    guard   from   winds  of  heaven  the 
breast 

As  heaven  itself  to  Selim  dear, 
With  cautious  steps  the  thicket  thread- 
ing, 

And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 

The  gust  its  hollow  moanings  made, 
Till  on  the  smoother  pathway  treading, 
More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat, 

The  maid  pursued  her  silent  guide  ; 
And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 

How  could  she  quit  her  Selim's  side  ? 

How  teach  her  tender  lips  to  chide  ? 

They  reach'd  at  length  a  grotto,  hewn 

By  nature,  but  enlarged  by  art, 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune, 

And  oft  her  Koran  conn'd  apart  ; 
And  oft  in  youthful  reverie 
She  dream'd  what  Paradise  might  be  : 
Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  Prophet  had  disdain'd  to  show  ; 
But  Selim's  mansion  was  secure, 
Nor  deem'd  she,  could  he  long  endure 
His  bower  in  other  worlds  of  bliss 
Without  her,  most  beloved  in  this! 
Oh  !  who  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell  ? 
What  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well? 

Since  last  she  visited  the  spot 

Some  change  seem'd  wrought  within  the 

p  grot: 
It  might  be  only  that  the  night 
Disguised  things  seen  by  better  light  : 
That  brazen  lamp  but  dimly  threw 
A  ray  of  no  celestial  hue  ; 
But  in  a  nook  within  the  cell 


Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell. 

There  arms  were  piled,  not  such  as  wield 

The  turban'd  Delis  in  the  field  ; 

But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt, 

And  one  was  red — perchance  with  guilt ! 

Ah  !  how  without  can  blood  be  spilt  ? 

A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 

That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet. 

What  may  this  mean?  she  turn'd  to  see 

Her  Selim—''  Oh  1  can  this  be  he  ?  " 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside, 

His  brow  no  high-crown'd  turban  bore, 
But  in  its  stead  a  shawl  of  red, 
Wreathed  lightly  round,  his  temples 
wore : 
That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 
Were  worthy  of  a  diadem, 
No  longer  glitter'd  at  his  waist, 
Where  pistols  unadorn'd  were  braced  ; 
And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung, 
And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung 
The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 
That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote  ; 
Beneath — his  golden  plated  vest 
Clung  like  a  cuirass  to  his  breast  ; 
The  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wound 
With  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and 

bound. 
But  were  it  not  that  high  command 
Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand, 
All  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 
In  him  wTas  some  young  Galiongee.1 

"  I  said  I  was  not  what  I  seem'd  ; 

And  now  thou  see'st  my  words  were 
true  : 
I  have  a  tale  thou  hast  not  dream'd, 

If  sooth — its  truth  must  others  rue. 
My  story  now  't  were  vain  to  hide, 
I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride  : 
But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 
How  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared. 
I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love  ; 
That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove: 
But  first — Oh  !  never  wed  another — 
Zuleika  !  I  am  not  thy  brother  !  " 

"  Oh  !  not  my  brother  ! — yet  unsay— 
God  !  am  I  left  alone  on  earth 

To  mourn — I  dare  not  curse — the  day 
That  saw  my  solitary  birth  ? 

Oh  !  thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more 
My  sinking  heart  foreboded  ill; 

But  know  me  all  I  was  before, 

1  A  Turkish  sailor. 


BYRON 


179 


Thy  sister — friend — Zuleika  still. 
Thou  led'st  me  here  perchance  to  kill ; 

If  thou  hast  cause  for  vengeance,  see  ! 
My  breast  is  offer'd — take  thy  fill ! 

Far  better  with  the  dead  to  be 

Than  live  thus  nothing  now  to  thee  ! 
Perhaps  far  worse,  for  now  I  know 
Why  Giaffir  alway  seem'd  thy  foe  ; 
And  I,  alas  !  am  Giaffir's  child, 
For  whom  thou  wertcontemn'd,  reviled. 
If  not  thy  sister — wouldst  thou  save 
My  life,  oh  !  bid  me  be  thy  slave  !  " 

• '  My  slave,  Zuleika  ! — nay,  I'm  thine  : 

But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm, 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  link'd  with  mine  ; 
I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  shrine, 

And    be  that    thought  thy    sorrow's 
balm. 
So  may  the  Koran  verse  display'd 
Upon  its  steel  direct  my  blade, 
In  danger's  hour  to  guard  us  both, 
As  I  preserve  that  awful  oath  I 
The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  prided 

Must  change  ;  but,  my  Zuleika,  know, 
That  tie  is  widen'd,  not  divided. 

Although  thy  Sire's  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giaffir  all 

That  Selim  late  was  deem'd  to  thee  : 
That  brother  wrought  a  brother's  fall, 

But  spared,  at  least,  my  infancy  ; 
And  lull'd  me  with  a  vain  deceit 
That  yet  a  like  return  may  meet. 
He  rear'd  me.  not  with  tender  help, 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain  ; 
He  watched  me  like  a  lion's  whelp. 

That  gnaws  and  yet  may   break  his 
chain. 

My  father's  blood  in  every  vein 
Is  boiling  ;  but  for  thy  dear  sake 
No  present  vengeance  will  I  take  ; 

Though  here  I  must  no  more  remain. 
But  first,  beloved  Zuleika  !  hear 
How  Giaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 

"  How  first  their  strife  to  rancor  grew, 

If  love  or  envy  made  them  foes, 
It  matters  little  if  I  knew  ; 
In  fiery  spirits,  slights,  though  few 

And  thoughtless,  will  disturb  repose. 
In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong, 
Remember'd  yet  in  Bosniac  song, 
And  Paswan's  rebel  hordes  attest 
How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest : 
His  death  is  all  I  need  relate, 
The  stern  effect  of  Giaffir's  hate  ; 
And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 
Whate'er  beside  it  makes,  hath  made  me 
free. 


"  When  Pas  wan,  after  years  of  strife, 
At  last  for  power,  but  first  for  life, 
In  Widdin's  walls  too  proudly  sate, 
Our  Pachas  rallied  round  the  state  ; 
Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command, 
Each  brother  led  a  separate  band  ; 
They  gave  their  horse-tails  1  to  the  wind, 

And  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain 
Their  tents  were  pitch'd,  their  post  as- 
sign'd  ; 

To  one,  alas  !  assign'd  in  vain  ! 
What  need  of  words  !  the  deadly  bowl, 

By  Giaffir's  order  drugged  and  given, 
With  venom  subtle  as  his  soul, 

Dismiss'd  Abdallah's  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 

He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  up, 
But  little  deem'd  a  brother's  wrath 

To  quench  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup  : 
The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore  ; 
He  drank  one  draught,  nor  needed  more  ! 
If  thou  my  tale,  Zuleika,  doubt, 
Call  Haroun — he  can  tell  it  out. 

"  The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 
In  part  suppress'd,  though  ne'er  subdued, 

Abdallah's  Pachalick  was  gain'd  : — 
Thou  know'st  not  what  in  our  Divan 
Can"  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man — 

Abdallah's  honors  were  obtain'd 
By  him  a  brother's  murder  stain'd  ; 
T  is  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drain'd 
His  ill  got  treasure,  soon  replaced. 
Wouldst  question  whence?    Survey  the 

waste, 
And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 
His  gains  repay  his  broiling  brow  ! — 
Why  me  the  stern  usurper  spared, 
Why  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 
I  know  not.     Shame,  regret,  remorse, 
And  little  fear  from  infant's  force  ; 
Besides,  adoption  as  a  son 
By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  hone, 
Or  some  unknown  cabal,  caprice, 
Preserved  me  thus ; — but  not  in  peace  : 
He  cannot  curb  his  haughty  mood, 
Nor  I  forgive  a  father's  blood. 

"Within  thy  father's  house  are  foes  ; 

Not  all  who  break  his  bread  are  true  ; 
To  these  should  I  my  birth  disclose, 

His  days,  his  very  hours  were  few  ; 
They  only  want  a  heart  to  lead, 
A  hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 
But  Haroun  only  knows,  or  knew, 

This  tale,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh  ; 


1 "  Horse-tail,"  the  standard  of  a  pacha. 

(Byron.) 


BRITISH    POETS 


He  in  Abdallah's  palace  grew, 
And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 
Which  holds  he  here — he  saw  him  die  ; 

But  what  could  single  slavery  do  ? 

A  \  enge  his  lord  ?  alas  !  too  late  ; 

Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate  ? 

He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elate 

With  foes  subdued,  or  friends  betray'd, 

Proud  Giaffir  in  high  triumph  sate, 

He  led  me  helpless  to  his  gate, 
And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essay'd 
To  save  the  life  for  which  he  pray'd. 

The  knowledge  of  my  birth  secured 
From  all  and  each,  but  most  from  me  ; 

Thus  Giaffir's  safety  was  insured. 
Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 

To  this  our  Asiatic  side, 

Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide, 
With  none  but  Haroun ,  who  retains 

Such  knowledge — and  that  Nubian  feels 
A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains, 

From  winch  the  captive  gladly  steals, 

And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals  : 

Such  still  to  guilt  just  Alia  sends — 

Slaves,  tools,  accomplices — no  friends  ! 

"  All  this,  Zuleika,  harshly  sounds  ; 

But  harsher  still  my  tale  must  be  : 
Howe'er  my  tongue  thy  softness  wounds, 

Yet  I  must  prove  all  truth  to  thee. 

I  saw  thee  start  this  garb  to  see, 
Yet  is  it  one  I  oft  have  worn, 

And  long  must  wear  :  this  Galiongee, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn, 

Is  leader  of  those  pirate  hordes, 

Whose   laws  and   lives    are    on    their 
swords  ; 
To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
Would  make  thy  waning    cheek    more 

pale  : 
Those  arms  thou  see'st  my    band  have 

brought. 
The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote  ; 
This  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

Is  fill'd — once  quaff 'd,  they  ne'er  repine  : 
Our  prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves  : 

They're  only  infidels  in  wine. 

"  What  could  I  be?    Proscribed  at  home, 

And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam  ; 

And  listless  left — for  Giaffir's  fear 

Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear — 

Though  oft— Oh,  Mahomet !  how  oft— 

In  full  Divan  the  despot  scoff'd, 

As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 

Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand : 

He  ever  went  to  war  alone, 

And  pent  me  here  untried — unknown  ; 

To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left, 


By  hope  unblest,  of  fame  bereft, 
While    thou — whose    softness  long  en 

dear'd, 
Though    it    unmann'd     me,    still     had 

cheer'd — 
To  Brusa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 
Awaited'st  there  the  field's  event. 
Haroun,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 
Beneath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke, 
His  captive,  though  with  dread  resign 

ing, 
My  thraldom  for  a  season  broke, 
On  momise  to  return  before 
The  _^ay  when  Giaffir's  charge  was  o'er. 
'T  is  vain — my  tongue  cannot  impart 
My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart, 
When  first  this  liberated  eye 
Survey'd  Earth,  Ocean,  Sun,  and  Sky, 
As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through, 
And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew  ! 
One  word  alone  can  paint  to  thee 
That  more  than  feeling — I  was  Free  ! 
E'en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine  ; 
The    World — nay,   Heaven     itself     was 

mine  ! 

"  The  shallop  of  a  trusty  Moor 
Convey'd  me  from  this  idle  shore  ; 
I  long'd  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 
Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem  : 
I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all ; 

But    when    and    where   I   join'd   the 
crew, 
With  whom  I'm  pledged  to  rise  or  fall, 

When  all  that  we  design  to  do 
Is  done,  't  will  then  be  time  more  meet 
To  tell  thee,  when  the  tale's  complete. 

"  'T  is  true,  they  are  a  lawless  brood, 
But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  mood  ; 
And  every  creed,  and  every  race, 
With   them   hath    found — may     find   a 

place ; 
But  open  speech,  and  ready  hand, 
Obedience  to  their  chief's  command  ; 
A  soul  for  every  enterprise, 
That  never  sees  with  terror's  eyes  ; 
Friendship  for  each,  and  faith  to  all, 
And  vengeance  vow'd  for  those  who  fall, 
Have  made  them  fitting  instruments 
For  more  than  ev'n  my  own  intents. 
And  some — and  I  have  studied  all 

Distinguish'd  from  the  vulgar  rank, 
But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 
.The  wisdom   of  the   cautious  Frank— 
And  some  to  higher  thoughts  aspire, 

The  last  of  Lambro's  patriots  there 

Anticipated  freedom  shares 
And  oft  around  the  cavern  fire 


BYRON 


On  visionary  schemes  debate, 
To  snatcli  the  Rayahs  from  their  fate. 
So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  man  ne'er  knew  ; 
I  have  a  love  for  freedom  too. 
Ay  1  let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriarch  roam 
Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home  ! 
My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea, 
Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  tome  : 
Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail, 
Across  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale. 
Bound  where   thou    wilt,  my  barb !  or 

glide,  my  prow  ! 
But  be  the  star  that  guides  the*wanderer, 

Thou  ! 
Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my 

bark ; 
The  Dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine 

ark  ! 
Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of 

strife, 
Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms   of 

life! 
The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds 

away, 
And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray  ! 
Blest — as  the  Muezzin's  strain  from  Mec- 
ca's wall 
To  pilgrims  pure    and   prostrate  at  his 

call  ; 
Soft — as  the  melody  of  youthful  days, 
That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speech- 
less praise  ; 
Dear — as  his  native  song  to  Exile's  ears, 
Shall  sound  each  tone    thy  long-loved 

voice  endears. 
For  thee  in  those  bi'ight  isles  is  built  a 

bower 
Blooming  as  Aden  in  its  earliest  hour. 
A  thousand  swords,  with  Selim's  heart 

and  hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at     thy 

command ! 
Girt  by  my  band,  Zuleika  at  my  side, 
The   spoil  of  nations    shall  bedeck  my 

bride. 
The  Haram's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 
Are  well  resign'd  for  cares — for  joys  like 

these  : 
Not  blind  to  fate,  I  see,  where'er  I  rove, 
Unnumber'd  perils — but  one  only  love  ! 
Yet  well  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast 

repay, 
Though  fortune  frown,  or  falser  friends 

betray, 
Howr  dear   the  dream  in   darkest  hours 

of  ill, 
Should  all  be  changed,  to  find  thee  faith- 
ful still ! 


Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly 
shown  ; 

To  thee  be  Selim's  tender  as  thine  own  ; 

To  soothe  each  sorrow:  share  in  each  de- 
light, 

Blend  every  thought,  do  all — but  dis- 
unite ! 

Once  free,  'tis  mine  our  horde  again  to 
guide  ; 

Friends  to  each  other,  foes  to  aught  be- 
side : 

Yet  there  we  follow  but  the  bent  assign'd 

By  fatal  Nature  to  man's  warring  kind  : 

Mark  !  where  his  carnage  and  his  con- 
quests cease ! 

He  makes  a  solitude,  and  calls  it — peace  ! 

I,  like  the  rest,  must  use  my  skill  or 
strength, 

But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre's 
length : 

Power  sways  but  by  division — her  re- 
source 

The  blest  alternative  of  fraud  or  force ! 

Ours  be  the  last  ;  in  time  deceit  may 
come 

When  cities  cage   us  in  a  social   home : 

There  ev'n  thy  soul  might  err — how  oft 
the  heai-t 

Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not 
part ! 

And  woman,  more  than  man,  when 
death  or  woe, 

Or  even  Disgrace,  would  lay  her  lover 
low, 

Sunk  in  the  lap  of  Luxury  will  shame — ■ 

Away  suspicion  ! — not  Zuleika's   name  ! 

But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best  ;  and   here 

No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to 
fear  : 

Yes,  fear  !  the  doubt,  the  dread  of  los- 
ing thee. 

By  Osman's  power,  and  Giamr's  stern 
decree. 

That  dread  shall  vanish  with  the  favour- 
ing gale, 

Which  Love  to-night  hath  promised  to 
my  sail  : 

No  danger  daunts  the  pair  his  smile  hath 
blest, 

Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts 
at  rest. 

With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet,  each  clime 
hath  charms  ; 

Earth — sea  alike — our  world  within  our 
arms  ! 

Ay — let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o'er  the 
deck, 

So  that  those  arms  cling  closer  round 
my  neck  : 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be. 
No  sigh  for  safety,  but  a  prayer  for  thee  ! 
The  war  of  elements  no  fears  impart 
To  Love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human 

Art  : 
TJiere  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course   can 

check  ; 
Here  moments  menace — there  are  years 

of  wivck  ! 
But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  Hor- 

r<>r'-  shape  ! 
This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars,  escape. 
Few  won  Is  remain  of   mine   my   tale  to 

close  ; 
Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from   our 

foes ; 
Yea — foes — to  me  will  Giaffir's  hate  de- 
cline ? 
And  is  not  Osman,  who  would  part  us, 

thine? 

"  His  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and 

death 
Return'd  in  time  my  guard  to  save  ; 
Few  heard,  none  told,  that  o'er  the  wave 
From  isle  to  isle  I  roved  the  while  ; 
And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band, 
Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land, 
No  deed  they've  done,  nor  deed  shall  do, 
Ere  I  have  heard  and  doom'd  it  too  : 
I  form  the  plan,  decree  the  spoil, 
'Tis  fit  1  oftener  share  the  toil. 
But  now   too  long  I've  held  thine  ear  ; 
Time  presses,  floats  my  bark,  and  here 
We  leave  behind  but  hate  and  fear. 
To-morrow  Osman  with  his  train 
Arrives— to-night  must  break  thy  chain  : 
And  wouldst   thou  save  that   haughty 

Bey, — 
Perchance  his    life    who    gave    thee 

thine. — 
With  me  this  hour  away — away  ! 

But    yet,   though   thou   art    plighted 

mine, 
Wouldst    thou   recall  thy  willing  vow, 
AppallM  by  truths  imparted  now, 
Here  rest  i  —  not  to  see  thee  wed  : 
But  be  that  peril  on  my  head  !  " 

Zuleika.  mute  and  motionless, 
Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress, 
When,  her  last  hope  for  ever  gone, 
The  mother  harden'd  into  stone  : 
All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 
Was  but  a  younger  Niobe. 
But  ere  her  lip,  or  even  her  eye, 
Essay'd  to  speak,  or  look  reply, 
Beneath  the  garden's  wicket  porch 
Far  flash'd  on  high  a  blazing  torch  ! 


Another — and   another — and    another — 
"Oh!  fly — no   more — yet  now  my  more 

than  brother  !  " 
Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread 
The    fearful    lights  are    gleaming    red ; 
Nor  these  alone — for    each    right   hand 
Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand. 
They    part,   pursue,  return,    and  wheel 
With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel ; 
And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 
Stern  Giaffir  in  his  fury  raving  : 
And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave — 
Oh!  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave? 

Dauntless  he  stood — "'Tis  come — soon 

past — 
One  kiss.  Zuleika — "tis  my  last  : 

But  yet  my  band  not   far  from   shore 
May  hear  this  signal,  see  the  flash  ; 
Yet    now   too    few — the    attempt  were 
rash  : 

No  matter — yet  one  effort  more." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  stept ; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high, 
Zuleika  started  not.  nor  wept, 

Despair     benumb'd    her    breast    and 
eye ! — 
"They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars   'tis  but  to  see  me  die  ; 
That  sound  hath  drawn  my   foes  more 

nigh. 
Then  forth  my  father's  scimitar, 
Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  less  equal  war  ! 
Farewell,  Zuleika  ! — sweet  !  retire  : 

Yet  stay  within — here  linger  safe, 

At  thee  his  rage  will  onl\  chafe. 
Stir  not — lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance. 
Fear'st  thou  for  him? — maj  I  expire 
If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire  ! 
No — though  by  him  that  poison  pour'd  ; 
No — though  again  he  call  me  coward  ! 
But  tamely  shall  I  meet  their  steel ': 
No — as  each  crest  save  his  may  feel !  " 

One  bound   he    made,   and   gain'd    the 
sand  : 

Already  at  his  feet  hath  sunk 
The  foremost  of  the  prying  band, 

A  gasping  head,  a  quivering  trunk  : 
Another  falls — but  round  him  close 
A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes  ; 
From  right  to  left  his  path  he  cleft, 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave  : 
His  boat  appears — net  five  oars'  length— 
His    comrades    strain    with    desperate 
strength — 

Oh  !  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save  ? 

His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave  ; 


BYRON 


'»3 


Bis  :j&nd  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 

Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray  ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle — now  they  touch  the  land  ! 
They  come — 'tis  but  to  add  to  slaughter — 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water. 

Escaped  from  shot,  unharm'd  by  steel, 
Or  scarcely  grazed  it*  force  to  feel, 
Had  Selim  won,  betray 'd,  beset, 
To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met ; 
There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land — 
And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand — 
Ah  !  wherefore  did  lie  turn  to  look 

For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain  ? 
That  pause,  that  fatal  gaze  he  took. 
Hath   doom'd    his   death,   or  fix'd   his 
chain. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain. 
How  late  will  Lover's  hope  remain} 
His  back  was  to  the  dashing  spray  : 
Behind,  but  close,  his  comrades  lay, 
When,  at  the  instant,  hiss'd  the  ball— 
'•  So  may  the  foes  of  Giaffir  fall !  " 
Whose  voice   is    heard?  whose   carbine 

rang? 
Whose  bullet  througli  the  night-air  sang, 
Too  nearly,  deadly  aim'd  to  err? 
'Tis  thine — Abdallah's  Murderer! 
The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate, 
The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fate: 
Fast  from  his  breast  the   blood  is  bub- 
bling, 
The  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troub- 
ling— 
If  aught  his  lips  essay'd  to  groan. 
The  rushing  billows  choked  the  tone  1 

Morn  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away  ; 

Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are-  there  : 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight-bay 
Are  silent;  but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear, 
And  fragments  of  each  shiver'd  brand 

-  -tamp'd  ;  and  dash'd  into  thi 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand 

May  there  be  mark'd  :  nor  far  remote 

A  bioken  torch,  an  oarh 
And  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 

There  lies  a  white  capote  ! 
T  is  rent  in  twain — one  dark-red  stain 
The  ware  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain  ; 
But  where  is  lie  who  wore? 
Ye  !  who  would  o'er  his  relics  we^p, 

eek  them  where  the  ~ep 

Their  burthen  round  Si<r*urn's  steep 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore  : 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey, 


O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 

As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 

His    head    heaves    with    the    heaving 

billow  ; 
That  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life, 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife. 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 

Then  levell'd  with  the  wave — 
What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shall 
lie 

Within  a  living  grave? 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robb'd  the  meaner  worm; 
The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 
Had  seen  those  scatter'd  limbs  composed, 

And  mourn'd  above  his  turban-stone, 
That   heart   hath    burst — that   eye   was 
closed — 

Yea — closed  before  his  own  ! 

By  Helle's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  wail ! 
And  woman's   eye  is  wet — man's   cneek 

is  pale  : 
Zuleika  !  last  of  Giaffir's  race, 
Thy  destined  lord  is  come  too  late  : 
He  sees  not — ne'er  sball  see  thy  face  ! 

Can  lie  not  bear 
The  loud  Wul-wulleh  warn  his  distant 

ear? 
Thy  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate, 
The  Koran-chanters  of  the  hymn  of  fate, 
The  silent  slaves  with  folded  arms  that 

wait. 
Sighs  in  the  hall,  and  shrieks  upon  the 

gale, 

Tell  him  thy  I 
Thou  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  fall! 
That  fearful  moment  when  he  left  the 

cave 

Thy  heart  grew  chill: 
He    was   thy  hope — thy  joy— thy  love — 

thine  all. 
And    that    last  thought  on    him    thou 
ldst  not  save 
Sufficed  to  kill ; 
Burst  forth  in  one  wild  cry — and  all  was 

still. 
Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin 

gra 
Ah  !  happy  !  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst  | 
That  grief — though  deep — though  fatal — 

was  thy  fir.-t ! 
Thrice  happy  ne'er  to  feel  nor    fear  the 

force 
Of  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge, 

rem 
And,  oh  !    that  pang  where  more  thai 

madness  ]je,  \ 


1S4 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  worm  that  will  not  sleep — and  never 

dies  ; 
Thought  of  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly 

night, 
That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes 

the  light, 
That  winds  around,  and  tears  the  quiver- 
ing heart ! 
Ah !    wherefore    not    consume  it — and 

depart ! 
Woe  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief  ! 
Vainly  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy 

head, 
Vainly  the  sackcloth   o'er  thy    limbs 

dost  spread : 
By  that  same  hand  Abdallah — Selim  : 

bled. 
Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief . 
Thy  pride  of  heart,  thy  bride  for  Osman's 

bed, 
She,  whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to 

wed, 
Thy  Daughter's  dead ! 
Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight's  lonely 

beam, 
The  Star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Helle's 

stream. 
What  quench'd  its  ray  ? — the  blood  that 

thou  hast  shed  ! 
Hark !  to  the  hurried  question  of  Despair  : 
"Where    is  my    child?" — an  Echo  an- 
swers— "  Where  ?  " 

Within  the  place  of  thousand  tombs 

That  shine  beneath,  while  dark  above 
The  sad  but  living  cypress  glooms 

And  withers  not,  though   branch   and 
leaf 
Are  stamp'd  with  an  eternal  grief, 

Like  early  unrequited  Love, 
One  spot  exists,  which  ever  blooms, 

Ev'n  in  that  deadly  grove — 
A  single  rose  is  shedding  there 

Its  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale  : 
It  looks  as  planted  by  Despair — 

So  white — so  faint — the  slightest  gale 
Might  whirl  the  leaves  on  high  : 

And  yet,  though    storms    and    blight 
assail, 
And  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 

May  wring  it  from  the  stem — in  vain — 

To-morrow  sees  it  bloom  again  : 
The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears, 
And  waters  with  celestial  tears, 

For  well  may  maids  of  Helle  deem 
That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower, 
Which  mocks  the    tempest's    withering 

hour, 
And  buds  unshelter'd  by  a  bower ; 


Nor  droops  though    Spring    refuse    hei 
shower, 

Nor  woos  the  summer  beam  : 
To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 

A  bird  unseen — but  not  remote  : 
Invisible  his  airy  wings, 
But  soft  as  harp  that  Houri  strings 

His  long  entrancing  note  ! 
It  were  the  Bulbul ;  but  his  throat, 

Though  mournful,  pours    not  such    a 
strain  : 
For  they  who  listen  cannot  leave 
The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  grieve, 

As  if  they  loved  in  vain  ! 
And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 
'Tis  sorrow  so  unmix'd  with  dread, 
They  scarce  can  bear  the  morn  to  break 

That  melancholy  spell, 
And  longer  yet  would  weep  and    wake, 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 
But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high 

Expires  that  magic  melody. 
And  some  have  been  who  could  believe, 
(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 

Yet  harsh  be  they  that  blame,) 
That  note  so  piercing  and  profound 
Will  shape  and  syllable  its  sound 

Into  Zuleika's  name. 
'Tis  from  her  cypress  summit  heard, 
That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word  : 
'  T  is  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 
That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 
There  late  was  laid  a  marble  stone  ; 
Eve  saw  it  placed — the  Morrow  gone  ! 
It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 
That  deep-fix'd  pillar  to  the  shore  ; 
For  there,  as  Helle's  legends  tell,  _ 
Next  morn '  twas  found  where  Selim  fell ; 
Lash'd  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 
Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave  ; 
And  there  by  night,  reclined,  '  t  is  said, 
Is  seen  a  ghastly  turban 'd  head  : 

And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 

'  Tis  named  the  "  Pirate-phantom's  pil- 
low ! " 

Where  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 

Hath  flourish 'd  ;  rlourisheth  this  hour, 
Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale  ; 
As  weeping  Beauty's  cheek  at  Sorrow's 
tale  ! 

November,  1813.     November  29,  1813. 

ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE 

"  Expende    Annibalem  :— quot    libras    in  dues 

sumrno 
Invenies  ?  " — Juvenal,  Sat.  x. 

'T  is  done — but  yesterday  a  King ! 
And  arm'd  with  Kings  to  strive— 


BYRON 


And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing  : 

So  abject — yet  alive  ! 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
Who    strew'd    our  earth   with   hostile 
bones, 

And  can  he  thus  survive? 
Since  he,  miscalled  the  Morning  Star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 

Ill-minded  man  !    why  scourge  thy  kind 

Who  bow'd  so  low  the  knee  ? 
By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 

Thou  taught'st  the  rest  to  see. 
With    might    unquestion'd, — power     to 

save, — 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave, 

To  those  that  worshipp'd  thee  ; 

Nor  till  thy  fall  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition's  less  than  littleness  ! 

Thanks  for  that  lesson — It  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more, 
Than  high  Philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preach'd  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  triumph  and  the  vanity, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife — 
The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life  ; 
The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seem'd  made  but  to  obey, 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife — 
All  quell'd  ! — Dark  Spirit !  what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  t 

The  Desolator  desolate ! 

The  Victor  overthrown! 
The  Arbiter  of  others'  fate 

A  Suppliant  for  his  own  ! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope  ? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone  ? 
To  die  a  prince — or  live  a  slave — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave  ! 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak, 
Dream'd  not  of  the  rebouml  : 

Chain'd  by  the  trunk  lie  vainly  broke — 
Alone — how  look'd  he  round  ? 

Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength, 

An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length, 
And  darker  fate  hast  found  : 

He  fell,  the  forest  prowlers'  prey  ; 

But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away  I 


The  Roman,  when  his  burning  heart 

Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 
Threw  down  the  dagger — dared  depart, 

In  savage  grandeur,  home — 
He  dared  depart  in  utter  scorn 
Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom  ! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandon'd  power. 

The  Spaniard,1  when  the  lust  of  sway 
Had  lost  its  quickening  spell, 

Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 
An  empire  for  a  cell ; 

A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 

A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds, 
His  dotage  trifled  well : 

Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 

A  bigot's  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 

But  thou — from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung— 
Too  late  thou  leav'st  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung  ; 
All  Evil  Spirit  as  thou  art, 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung  ; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  tiling  so  mean  ; 

And  Earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 
Who  thus  can  hoard  his  own  ! 

And     Monarchs    bow'd    the    trembling 
limb, 
And  thank'd  him  for  a  throne  ! 

Fair  Freedom  !  we  may  hold  thee  dear. 

When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  feal 
In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 

Oh  !  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 

A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind  ! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain — 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more, 

Or  deepen  every  stain  : 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honor  die? 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise, 

To  shame  the  world  again — 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height, 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night  ? 

Weigh'd  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay  ; 
Thy  scales,  Mortality  !  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away  : 
But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate 

To  dazzle  and  dismay  : 

1  The  Emperor  Charles  V 


iS6 


BRITISH    POETS 


Nor  deem'd  Contempt  could  thus  make 

mirth 
Of  these,  the  Conquerors  of  the  earth. 

And    she,    proud    Austria's    mournful 
flower, 

Thy  still  imperial  bride  ; 
How    bears   her    breast   the    torturing 
hour? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  ? 
Must  she  too  bend,  must  she  too  share 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despair, 

Thou  throneless  Homicide  ? 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem, — 
T  is  worth  thy  vanished  diadem  1 

Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  Isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea ; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile — 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee  I 
Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand 
In  loitering  mood  upon  the  sand 

That  Earth  is  now  as  free  ! 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue  1  hath  now 
Transferr'd  his  by-word  to  thy  brow. 

Thou  Timour  I  in  his  captive's  cage 

What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine, 
While  brooding  in  thy  prison'd  rage  ? 

But  one — "  The  world  was  mine  I" 
Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 
All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone, 

Life  will  not  long  confine 
That  spirit  pour'd  so  widely  forth — 
So  long  obey'd — so  little  worth  1 

Or,  like  the  thief  of  fii-e  from  heaven, 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock  ? 
And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven, 

His  vulture  and  his  rock  J 
Foredoom'd  by  God — by  man  accurst, 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  worst, 

The  very  Fiend's  arch  mock  ; 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died  ! 

There  was  a  day — there  was  an  hour, 

While  earth  was  Gaul's — Gaul  thine — 
When  that  immeasurable  power 

Unsated  to  resign 
Had  been  an  act  of  purer  fame 
Than  gathers  round  Marengo's  name, 

And  gilded  thy  decline, 
Through  the  long  twilight  of  all  time, 
Despite  some  passing  clouds  of  crime. 


1  Dionysius  the  younger,  tyrant  of  Syracuse, 
who  after  his  second  banishment  earned  his 
living  by  teaching,  in  Corinth. 


But  thou  forsooth  must  be  a  king, 

And  don  the  purple  vest, 
As  if  that  foolish  robe  could  wring 

Remembrance  from  thy  breast. 
Where  is  that  faded  garment  ?  where 
The  gewgaws  thou  wert  fond  to  wear, 

The  star,  the  string,  the  crest? 
Vain  froward  child  of  empire  !  say, 
Are  all  thy  playthings  snatched  away  ? 

Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose 

When  gazing  on  the  Great ; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows, 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 
Yes — one — the  first — the  last — the  best— 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeath'd  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  man  blush  there  was  but  one  ! 
April  9-10,  18 14.     April  16,  1814, 

SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies  ; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face  ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling- 
place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The   smiles  that    win,   the    tints  that 
glow. 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent  ! 

June  12,  18 14.     1815. 

OH!  SNATCH'D  AWAY  IN 
BEAUTY'S  BLOOM 

Oh  !  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom, 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb  ; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year  ; 
And  the  wild  cypi'ess  wave  in  tender 
gloom : 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head. 


BYRON 


187 


And   feed  deep  thought    with   many   a 

dream, 
And     lingering     pause     and     lightly 

tread  : 
Fond  wretch  !  as  if  her  step  disturb'd 

the  dead  ! 

Away  !  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 
That  death  nor   heeds  nor  hears  dis- 
tress : 
Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  ? 

Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less? 
And  thou — who  tell'st  me  to  forget. 
Thy  looks  are  wan.  thine  eves  are  wet. 
1814  or  1815.     April  23,  1815. 

THE  DESTRUCTION  OF 
SENNACHERIB 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf 
on  the  fold. 

And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  pur- 
ple and  gold  ; 

And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like 
stars  on  the  sea, 

When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on 
deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Sum- 
mer is  green , 

That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset 
were  seen  : 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Au- 
tumn hath  blown, 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd 
and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings 

on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as 

he  pass'd ; 
And   the    eyes   of    the    sleepers   wax'd 

deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and 

for  ever  grew  still  ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril 
all  wide. 

But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath 
of  li is  pride  ; 

And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white 
on  the  turf, 

And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beat- 
ing surf. 

And   there  lay  the   rider  distorted  and 

pale. 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust 

on  his  mail : 


And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  ban- 
ners alone, 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  un- 
blown. 

And   the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in 

their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of 

Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote 

by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of 

the  Lord ! 

February  17,  1815.     1815. 

SONG   OF  SAUL  BEFORE  HIS  LAST 
BATTLE 

Warriors  and  chiefs  !  should  the  shaft 

or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host   of  the 

Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's,  in 

your  path  : 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath  ! 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and 

bow. 
Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away 

from  the  foe, 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy 

feet! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not 

to  meet. 

Farewell  to  others,  but  never  we  part, 

Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart ! 

Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the 
sway, 

Or  kingly  the  death,  which  awaits  us  to- 
day !  1815.     1815. 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC 

"  O  Lachrymarum  fons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo  :  quater 
Felix  !  in  iino  qui  scatentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit." 

Gray's  Poemata. 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like 

that  it  takes  away, 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines 

in  feeling's  dull  decay  ; 
'T  is  not  on  youth's  smooth   cheek   the 

blush  alone,  which  fades  so  fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere 

youth  itself  be  past. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the 
wreck  of  happiness 


1 88 


BRITISH    POETS 


Are  driven  o"er  the  shoals    of  guilt  or 

ocean  of  excess : 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or 

only  points  in  vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shiver'd  sail  shall 

never  stretch  again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  sovil  like 
deatli  itself  comes  down  ; 

It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not 
dream  its  own ; 

That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  foun- 
tain of  our  tears, 

And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  't  is 
where  the  ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips, 

and  mirth  distract  the  breast, 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no 

more  their  former  hope  of  rest ; 
'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd 

turret  wreath, 
All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but 

worn  and  gray  beneath. 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt, — or  be  what 

I  have  been, 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept  o'er 

many  a  vanish'd  scene  ; 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet, 

all  brackish  though  they  be, 
So,  midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those 

tears  would  flow  to  me. 

March,  1815.     1816. 

FARE   THEE   WELL 

"Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 
And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain  ; 

But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining— 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder  ; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between, 
But  neither  heat,  not  frost,  nor  thunder, 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been." 
Coleridge's  Christabel. 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  for  ever, 
Still  for  ever,  fare  thee  well : 

Even  though  unforgiving,  never 
'  Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 

Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 

While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again  : 


Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show  ! 

Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 
'T  was  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 

Though    the    world    for   this   commend 
tliee — 

Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 
Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 

Founded  on  another's  woe  : 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 
Could  no  other  arm  be  found, 

Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 
To  inflict  a  cureless  wound  ? 

Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not ; 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay, 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away  : 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth, 

Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat ; 

And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is — that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 
Than  the  wail  above  the  dead  ; 

Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 
Wake  us  from  a  widow'd  bed. 

And  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather, 
When  our  child's  first  accents  flow, 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Father  !  " 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  press'd, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless 
thee, 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  bless'd ! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 

Those  thou  never  more  may'st  see, 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 
All  my  madness  none  can  know  ; 

All  my  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest, 
Wither,  yet  with  thee  they  go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken  ; 

Pride,  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  to  thee — by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now  : 

But 't  is  done — all  wrords  are  idle — 
Words  from  me  are  vainer  still  ; 

But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 
Force  their  way  without  the  will. 


BYRON 


189 


Fare  thee  well !  thus  disunited, 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 
Sear'd  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted, 

More  than  this  1  scarce  can  die. 

March  18,  1816.     April  4,  1816. 

STANZAS  FOR    MUSIC 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee  ; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me  : 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming  ; 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep  ; 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 
As  an  infant's  asleep  : 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee  ; 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 

March  28,  1816.     1816. 

CHILDE    HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE 
CANTO  THE  THIRD 

"  Afln  que  cette  application  vous  forcat  de 
penser  a  autre  chose  ;  il  n'y  a  en  verke  de  remede 
que  celui-la  et  le  temps."  Lettre  du  Roi  de 
Prusse  a  D'Alembert,  Sept.  7,  1776. 

Is  thy  face   like  thy  mother's,  my  fair 

child  ! 
Ada  !   sole  daughter  of  my  house  and 

heart  ? 
When  last  I  saw  thy  young  blue  eyes 

they  smiled, 
And  then  we  parted, — not  as  now  we 

part, 
But  with  a  hope. — 

Awaking  with  a  start, 
The   waters  heave   around  me  ;  and  on 

high 
The  winds  lift  up  their  voices  :  I  depart, 
Whither   I   know   not  ;   but  the   hour's 

gone  by, 
W  lien    Albion's   lessening   shores   could 

grieve  or  glad  mine  eye. 

Once  more  upon  the   waters !  yet  once 

more  ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a 

steed 
That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome  to  their 

roar  I 


Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it 
lead! 

Though  the  strain'd  mast  should  quiver 
as  a  reed. 

And  the  rent  canvas  fluttering  strew  the 
gale, 

Still  must  I  on  ;  for  I  am  as  a  weed, 

Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam  to 
sail 

Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tem- 
pest's breath  prevail. 

In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark 

mind  ; 
Again  I  seize  the  theme,  then  but  begun, 
And  bear   it  with   me,  as   the   rushing 

wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards  :  in  that  Tale  I 

find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried- 

up  tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  be- 
hind. 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying 

years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a 

flower  appears. 

Since  my  young  days  of  passion — joy,  or 

pain, 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost 

a  string, 
And  both  may  jar  :  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Yet,  though   a  dreary   strain,  to  this  I 

cling ; 
So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness — so  it  fling 
Forgetfulness  around  me — it  shall  seem 
To  me.  though  to  none  else,  a  not  un- 
grateful theme. 

He,   who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of 

woe, 
In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  the  depths 

of  life.  ' 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him  ;  nor  below 
Can    love   or  sorrow,   fame,    ambition, 

strife, 
Cut   to  his  heart   again  with  the   keen 

knife 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance  :  he  can  tell 
Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves, 

yet  rife 
With   airy   images,   and    shapes   which 

dwell 
Still  un impair 'd,  though  old,  in  the  soul's 

haunted  cell. 


190 


BRITISH   POETS 


T  is  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 
A  being  more  intense  that  we  endow 
Willi  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 
The  life  we  image,  even  as  I  do  now. 
What  am  I  ?     Nothing  :  but  not  so  art 

thou, 
Soul  of  my  thought !  with  whom  I  tra- 
verse earth. 
Invisible  but  gazing,  as  I  glow 
Mix'd  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy 

birth. 
And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crush'd 
feelings'  dearth. 

Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly  ; — I  have 
thought 

Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  be- 
came, 

In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 

A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame  : 

And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart 
to  tame, 

My  springs  of  life  were  poison'd.  'T  is 
too  late ! 

Yet  am  I  changed  ;  though  still  enough 
the  same 

In  strength  to  bear  what  time  cannot 
abate, 

And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  ac- 
cusing Fate. 

Something  too  much  of  this  : — but  now 

't  is  past. 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal. 
Long  absent  Harold  re-appears  at  last ; 
He   of   the  breast  which   fain  no   more 

would  feel, 
Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not 

but  ne'er  heal ; 
Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  alter'd 

him 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age  :  years  steal 
Fire   from  the  mind  as  vigorv  from  the 

limb  ; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles 

near  the  brim. 

His  had  been  quaff'd  too  quickly,  and  he 

found 
The    dregs    were    wormwood, — but    he 

fill'd  again. 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  on  holier  ground 
And  deem'd  its  spring  perpetual ;  but  in 

vain  ! 
Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a  chain 
Which  gall'd  for  ever,  fettering  though 

unseen, 
And  heavy  though  it  clank'd  not  ;  worn 

with  pain, 


Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and 

grew  keen, 
Entering  with  every  step  he  took  through 

many  a  scene. 

Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mix'd 
Again  in  fancied  safety  with  his  kind, 
And  deem'd  his  spirit  now  so  firmly  fix'd 
And  sheath'd  with  an  invulnerable  mind, 
That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurk'd  behind  ; 
And  he,  as  one,  might  'midst  the  many 

stand 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd 

to  find 
Fit  speculation  ;  such  as  in  strange  land 
He  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and 

Nature's  hand. 

But  who  can  view  the  ripen'd  rose,  nor 

seek 
To  wear  it  ?  who  can  curiously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's 

cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow 

old? 
Who    can    contemplate  Fame  through 

clouds  unfold 
The  star  which  rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor 

climb  ? 
Harold,  once   more  within  the    vortex, 

roll'd 
On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time, 
Yet  withahobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's 

fond  prime. 

But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man  ;   with  whom  he 

held 
Little  in  common  ;  untaught  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul 

was  quell'd 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts  ;  still  un- 

compell'd, 
He  would  not    yield    dominion    of  his 

mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebell'd  ; 
Proud     though    in    desolation;     which 

could  find 
A  life  within  itself,  to  breathe   without 

mankind. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him 

were  friends  ; 
Where  roll'd  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his 

home  ; 
Where  a   blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime, 

extends, 
He  had   the  passion  and  the  power   to 

roam : 


BYRON 


191 


The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam, 
Were   unto  him   companionship ;   they 

spake 
A   mutual    language,    clearer  than  the 

tome 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft 

forsake 
For  Nature's  pages  glass'd  by  sunbeams 

on  the  lake. 

Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the 

stars. 
Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings 

bright 
As  their  own  beams  ;    and    earth,   and 

earth  born  jars, 
And  human    frailties,    were    forgotten 

quite  : 
Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 
He  had  been  happy  ;  but  this  clay  will 

sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the 

link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which 

woos  us  to  its  brink. 

But   in   Man's   dwellings    he  became  a 

thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  weari- 
some,   . 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  dipt 

wing, 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were 

home  : 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'er- 

corae, 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His    breast   and  beak  against  his  wiry 

dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the 

heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his 

bosom  eat. 

Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again, 
With  nought  of  hope  left,  but  with   less 

of  gloom  ; 
The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain, 
That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb, 
Had  made  Despair  a  smilinj;'ness  assume, 
Which,  though  't  were  wild, — as  on   the 

plunder'd  wreck 
When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their 

doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sink- 
ing deck, — 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore 
to  check. 


Stop  ! — for  thy  tread  is  on  an  Empire's 

dust  ! 
An    Earthquake's    spoil    is   sepulchred 

below ! 
Is  the  spot  mark'd  with  no  colossal  bust  ? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show  ? 
None  ;  but  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler 

so, 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it 

be  ;— 
How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest 

grow  ! 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gain'd  by 

thee, 
Thou  first  and  last  of  fields  !  king-making 

Victory  ? 

And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of 

skulls, 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Water- 
loo ! 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave 

annuls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fame   as  fleeting 

too  ; 
In  •'  pride  of  place  "  here    last  the  eagle 

flew, 
Then  tore   with    bloody  talon  the   rent 

plain, 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations 

through ; 
Ambition's  life  and  labors  all  were  vain  ; 
He    wears    the    shatter'd    links  of    the 

world's  broken  chain. 

Fit  retribution  !  Gaul  may  champ  the 
bit 

And  foam  in  fetters  ; — but  is  Earth  more 
free  ? 

Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  sub- 
mit ; 

Or  league  to  teach  all  kings  true  sov- 
ereignty ? 

What !  shall  reviving  Thraldom  again 
be 

The  patch'd-up  idol  of  enlighten'd  days  ? 

Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down, 
shall  we 

Pay  the  Wolf  homage  ?  proffering  lowly 
gaze 

And  servile  knees  to  thrones  ?  No ; 
prove  before  ye  praise  ! 

If  not,  o'er  one   fallen  despot  boast  no 

more  ! 
In  vain  fair  cheeks  were  furrow'd  with 

hot  tears 
For    Europe's    flowers    long  rooted  up 

before 


192 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  trampler  of  her  vineyards  ;  in  vain 

years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  bondage,  fears, 
Have  all  been  borne,  and  broken  by  the 

accord 
Of  roused-up    millions  ;  all  that   most 

endears 
Glory,  is  when  the   myrtle  wreathes  a 

sword 
Such  as    Harmodius    drew  on   Athens' 

tyrant  lord. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 
And   Belgium's     capital   had     gather'd 

then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er   fair   women  and 

brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;    and 

when 
Music  arose  with   its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love    to    eyes  which 

spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But   hush  !  hark  !  a  deep   sound  strikes 

like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ? — No  ;  'twas  but  the 

wind, 
Or  the     car     rattling    o'er   the     stony 

street ; 
On  with   the  dance  !  let  joy  be   uncon- 

fined  ; 
No  sleep   till   morn,  when  Youth   and 

Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying 

feet — 
But  hark  ! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in 

once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than   be- 
fore ! 
Arm  !   Arm  I  it  is — it    is — the  cannon's 

opening  roar ! 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high 
hall 

Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he 
did  hear 

That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  fes- 
tival, 

And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  pro- 
phetic ear  ; 

And  when  they  smiled  because  he 
deem'd  it  near, 

His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal 
too  well 

Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody 
bier, 


And   roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone 

could  quell  ; 
He  rush'd   into  the   field,  and,  foremost 

fighting,  fell. 

Ah !  then   and   there    was   hurrying  to 

and  fro, 
And   gathering   tears,   and    tremblings 

of  distress, 
And   cheeks    all    pale,    which  but    an 

hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  love- 
liness ; 
And  there  were  sudden   partings,  such 

as  press 
The   life  from   out    young  hearts,  and 

choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er   might   be    repeated ;  who 

could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual 

eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful 

morn  could  rise  ! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  : 
the  steed, 

The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clat- 
tering car, 

Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous 
speed, 

And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of 
war  ; 

And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar  ; 

And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming 
drum 

Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning 
star  ; 

While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  ter- 
ror dumb, 

Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "The 
foe,  they  com6  !  they  come  !  " 

And  wild   and     high    the  "   Cameron's 

gathering  "  rose ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's 

hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her 

Saxon  foes : — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch 

thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill  !     But  with  the  breath 

which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  moun- 
taineers 
With   the    fierce   native   daring   which 

instils 
The    stirring    memory    of   a    thousand 

years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each 

clansman's  ears  5 


BYRON 


l93 


And   Ardennes  waves  above  them  her 

green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops  as  they 

pass. 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now   beneath   them,    but   above 

shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass. 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And    burning    with    high     hope     shall 

moulder  cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound 

of  strife. 
The   morn  the   marshalling  in  arms, — 

the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which 

when  rent 
The  earth  is  cover "d  thick  with  other 

clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd 

and  pent, 
Rider  and   horse. — friend,  foe, — in  one 

red  burial  blent ! 

Their  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps 

than  mine : 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud 

throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his 

line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong, 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  liallovv 

song  ; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when 

shower'd 
The  death-bolts   deadliest    the    thinn'd 

files  along, 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tem- 
pest lo\ver*d, 
They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine, 

young  gallant  Howard  ! 

There    have   been    tears  and  breaking 

hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing  had  I  such  to 

give; 
But  when   I    stood   beneath  the   fresh 

green  tree, 
Which  living  waves  where   thou  didst 

cease  to  live, 
A  nd  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the 

Spring 

*3 


Came  forth   her    work  of   gladness   to 

contrive, 
With  all  her   reckless  birds  upon  the 

wing, 
I  turn'd  from  all  she  brought  to  those 

she  could  not  bring. 

I  turn'd  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom 

each 
And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to 

teach 
Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake  ; 
The    Archangel's   trump,   not    Glory's, 

must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for  ;  though  the 

sound  of  Fame 
May  for   a  moment  soothe,   it  cannot 

slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So    honor'd    but    assumes  a    stronger, 

bitterer  claim. 

They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length  ;  and, 

smiling,  mourn  : 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall  ; 
The  hull   drives  on,    though   mast  and 

sail  be  torn  ; 
The    roof-tree  sinks,   but    moulders  on 

the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness  ;  the  ruin'd  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements 

are  gone  ; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  en- 
thral ; 
The  day  drags  through,   though  storms 

keep  out  the  sun  ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brc 

kenly  live  on  : 

Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glas? 
In  every  fragment  multiplies  ;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more 

it  breaks  ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not 

forsakes, 
Living  in  shatter'd  guise  ;  and  still,  and 

cold, 
And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow 

aches, 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 
Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things 

are  untold. 

There  is  a  very  life  in  our  despair, 
Vitality  of  poison, — a  quick  root 
Which  feeds  these  deadly  branches ;  for 
it  were 


'94 


BRITISH    POETS 


As  nothing  did  we  die  ;  hut  Life  will  suit 
Itself  to  Sorrow's  most  detested  fruit, 
Like  to  the  apples  on  the  Dead  Sea's 

shore, 
All  ashes  to  the  taste  :  Did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o'er 
Such   hours  'gainst    years  of  life, — say, 

would  he  name  threescore  ? 

The  Psalmist  number'd  out  the  years  of 

man  : 
They  are   enough  ;   and   if   thy  tale   be 

true, 
Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  even   that 

fleeting  span. 
More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Waterloo  ! 
Millions  of    tongues    record   thee,    and 

anew 
Their  children's  lips   shall   echo  them, 

and  say — 
"  Here,  where  the  sword  united  nations 

drew, 
Our  countrymen  were  warring  on  that 

day  !  " 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not 

pass  away. 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst 
of  men, 

Whose  spirit,  antithetically  mixt, 

One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 

On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fixt ; 

Extreme  in  all  things  !  hadst  thou  been 
betwixt, 

Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never 
been  ; 

For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall :  thou 
seek'st 

Even  now  to  re-assume  the  imperial 
mien, 

And  shake  again  the  world,  the  Thun- 
derer of  the  scene  ! 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art 

thou  ! 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild 

name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's   minds 

than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of 

Fame, 
Who  woo'd  thee  once,  thy  vassal,   and 

became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till   thou 

wert 
A  god  unto  thyself  ;  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  all  inert, 
Who    deem'd  thee  for  a  time  whate'er 

thou  didst  assert. 


Oh,  more  or  less  than  man — in  high   or 

low, 
Battling  with  nations,  flying    from    the 

field; 
Now  making  monarchs '  necks  thy  foot- 
stool, now 
More  than    thy  meanest  soldier  taught 

to  yield  ; 
An  empire  thou  couldst crush,  command, 

rebuild, 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion ,  nor, 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skill'd, 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the 

lust  of  war, 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  Fate  will  leave 

the  loftiest  star. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brook'd  the  turn- 

ing  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy, 
Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep 

pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the    whole    host  of  hatred  stood 

hard  by, 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou 

hast  smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ; — 
When    Fortune    fled    her    spoil'd     and 

favorite  child, 
He  stood  unbow'd  beneath  the  ills  upon 

him  piled. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes  ;  for  in  them 
Ambition  steel'd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That   just  habitual  scorn,  which  could 

contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts  ;  '  twas  wise  to 

feel,  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow, 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to 

use 
Till  they  were  turn'd  unto    thine    over- 
throw : 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose  ; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such 
lot  who  choose. 

If,  like  a  tower  upon  a  headland  rock, 
Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  fall 

alone, 
Such  scorn  of  man  had  help'd  to  brave 

the  shock  ; 
But  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which 

paved  thy  throne, 
Their  admiration  tliy  best  weapon  shone  ; 
The  part  of  Philip's  son  was  thine,  not 

then 
(Unless    aside    thy    purple     had    been 

thrown) 


BYRON 


*9S 


Like  stern  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men  ; 
For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too 
wide  a  den. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell, 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane  ;  there  is  a 

fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not 

dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire  ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  ever- 
more, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest  ;  a  fever  at  the  core, 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever 
bore. 

This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made 

men  mad 
By   their    contagion  ;    Conquerors   and 

Kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom 

add 
Sophists,   Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet 

things 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret 

springs. 
And  are  themselves   the  fools  to  those 

they  fool  ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable  !  what  stings 
Are  theirs  !     One  breast  laid  open  were  a 

school 
Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust 

to  shine  or  rule  : 

Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  life 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at 

last, 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigoted  to  strife, 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils 

past, 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineuess,  and  so  die  ; 
Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  to 

waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid 

by, 

Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  inglori- 
ously. 

He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops,  shall 

find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds 

and  snow  ; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind 
Must  look  down   on  the  hate  of   those 

below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow, 


And    far  beneath  the  earth    and  ocean 

spread, 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head, 
And  thus  reward  the  toils,  which  to  those 

summits  led. 

Away  with  these !  true  Wisdom's  world 

will  be 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine, 
Maternal  Nature  !  for   who  teems  like 

thee, 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhine  ? 
There  Harold  gazes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all  beauties  ;  streams  and 

dells, 
Fruit,    foliage,    crag,    wood,    cornfield, 

mountain,  vine, 
And  chiefless    castles  breathing    stern 

farewells 
From  gray  but  leafy  walls,  where  Ruin 

greenly  dwells. 

And  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty 

mind, 
Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd, 
All   tenantless,    save  to   the  crannying 

wind, 
Or   holding   dark  communion  with  the 

cloud. 
There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young 

and  proud ; 
Banners    on    high,    and    battles    pass'd 

below  ; 
But  they    who  fought  are   in  a   bloody 

shroud, 
And  those  which  waved  are  shredless 

dust  ere  now, 
And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no 

future  blow. 

Beneath  those  battlements,  within  those 

walls, 
Power  dwelt   amidst    her   passions ;    in 

proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls, 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What   want    these   outlaws   conquerors 

should  have 
But  history's  purchased  page  to  call  them 

great  ? 
A  wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  ? 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their 

souls  were  full  as  brave. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields, 
What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died ! 
And  Love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  thei* 
shields. 


196 


BRITISH    POETS 


With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous 
pride, 

Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts 
would  glide  ; 

But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and 
drew  on 

Keen  contest  and  •destruction  near  allied, 

And  many  a  tower  for  some  fair  mis- 
chief won, 

Saw  the  discolor'd  Rhine  beneath  its 
ruin  run. 

But    Thou,     exulting    and    abounding 

river  ! 
Making    thy  waves  a  blessing  as   they 

flow 
Through    banks   whose    beauty    would 

endure  for  ever 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  crea- 
tion so, 
Nor  its  fair  promise  from   the   surface 

mow 
With   the   sharp  scythe    of   conflict, — 

then  to  see 
Thy    valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to 

know 
Earth  paved  like  Heaven  ;  and  to  seem 

such  to  me, 
Even  now   what   wants  thy  stream  ? — 

that  it  should  Lethe  be. 

A    thousand   battles  have   assail'd  thy 

banks. 
But    these    and   half   their   fame    have 

pass'd  away, 
And  Slaughter  heap'd  on  high  his  weltei*- 

ing  ranks  ; 
Their  very  graves   are  gone,  and  what 

are  they  ? 
Thy  tide    wash'd    down   the    blood   of 

yesterday, 
And  all  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear 

stream 
Glass'd,    with  .  its    dam   '.he  e-L'iht,    the 

sunny  ray  ; 
But  o'er  the  blacken'd  memory's  bngfl'wl 

ing  dream 
Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweep- 
ing as  they  seem. 

Thus  Harold  inly  said,  and  pass'd  along, 
Yet  not  insensible  to  all  which  here 
Awoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song 
In  glens  which  might  have  made  even 

exile  dear : 
Though  on  his  brow  were  graven  lines 

austere, 
And  tranquil  sternness,  which  had  ta'en 

the  place 


Of  feelings  fierier  far  but  less  severe, 
Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  his  face, 
But  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  would  steal 
with  transient  trace. 

Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  though 

his  days 
Of  "passion  had  consumed  themselves  to 

dust. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 
On   such  as  smile  upon  us ;  the   heart 

must 
Leap    kindly  back  to  kindness,  though 

disgust 
Hath  wean'd  it  from  all  worldlings  :  thus 

■he  felt, 
For  there   was  soft  remembrance,  and 

sweet  trust 
In  one   fond  breast,  to  which  his   own 

would  melt, 
And   in   its  tenderer  hour  on   that   his 

bosom  dwelt. 

And  he  had  learn'd  to  love, — I  know  not 
why, 

For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  strange  of 
mood, — ■ 

The  helpless  looks  of  blooming  infancy, 

Even  in  its  earliest  nurture  ;  what  sub- 
dued, 

To  change  like  this,  a  mind  so  far  im- 
bued 

With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to 
know  ; 

But  thus  it  was  :  and  though  in  solitude 

Small  power  the  nipp'd  affections  have 
to  grow, 

In  him  this  glow'd  when  all  beside  had 
ceased  to  glow. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath 
been  said, 

Which  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger 
ties 

Than  the  church  links  withal  ;  and, 
though  unwed, 

luu,^  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  dis- 
guise, 

Had  stood  the  test  of  mortal  enmities 

Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 

By  peril,  dreaded  most  in  female  eyes  ; 

But  this  was  firm,  and  from  a  foreign 
shore 

Well  to  that  heart  might  his  these  ab- 
sent greetings  pour  ! 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide    and   winding 
Rhine, 


BYRON 


197 


Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the   banks  which  bear  the 

vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 
And  fields  which   promise  corn  and 

wine, 
And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far   white    walls  along  them 

shine, 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should 

see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

And  peasant  girls,    with    deep    blue 

eyes, 
And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise  ; 
Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls 

of  gray  ; 
And    many    a    rock    which    steeply 

lowers, 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 
Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of 

Rhine, — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine  ! 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me  ; 
Though    long  before  thy  hand  they 

touch, 
I  know  that  they  must  wither'd  be, 
But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such  ; 
For  I  have  cherish'd  them  as  dear, 
Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 
When  thou   behold'st  them  drooping' 

nigh, 
And   know'st   them   gather'd   by   the 

Rhine, 
And  offer'd  from  my  heart  to  thine  ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 
The  charm  of   this  enchanted  ground, 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 
Some  fresher  beauty  varying  roy; 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might 

bound 
Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here  ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten    more    these    banks  of 

Rhine  ! 

By  Coblentz.  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground, 
There  is  a,  small  and  simple  pyramid. 
Crowning   the  summit   of   the  verdant 
mound  ; 


Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid, 
Our  enemy's — but  let  not  that  forbid 
Honor  to   Marceau !    o'er   whose  early 

tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  rough 

soldier's  lid, 
Lamenting  and    yet  envying    such  a 

doom, 
Falling    for    France,   whose    rights  he 

battled  to  resume. 

Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young 

career, — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends 

and  foes ; 
And  fitly  may   the  stranger  lingering 

here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose  ; 
For  he  was  Freedom's  champion,  one  of 

those, 
The     few   in    number,    who    had    not 

o'erstept 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  be- 
stows 
On  such  as  wield  her  -weapons ;  he  had 

kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men 

o'er  him  wept. 

Here  Ehrenbreitstein,  with  her  shatter'd 

wall 
Black  with  the  miner's  blast,  upon  her 

height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell 

and  ball 
Rebounding   idly   on   her   strength   did 

light : 
A  tower   of  victory  !  from  whence   the 

flight 
Of  baffled  foes  was  watch'd  along   the 

plain  : 
But   Peace   destroy'd   what   War  could 

never  '    '-''it . 
And  byi'oud  si  j«x>ud  roofs  bare  to  Sura- 
ja,cn  rphk  s  rain — 
I  Sn'which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had 

pour'd  in  vain. 

Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine  !    How  long 

delighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his 

way  ! 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or    lonely    Contemplation  thus    might 

stray  : 
And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease 

to  prey 
On    self-condemning    bosoms,   it  were 

here, 


198 


BRITISH    POETS 


Where   Nature,  nor   too  sombre  nor  too 

gay. 
Wild  but  not  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere, 
Is  to  the  mellow  Earth  as  Autumn  to 

the  year. 

Adieu  to  thee  again  !  a  vain  adieu  ! 

There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like 
thine  ; 

The  mind  is  color'd  by  thy  every  hue  ; 

And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign' 

Their  cherish'd  gaze  upon  thee,  lovely 
Rhine ! 

'T  is  with  the  thankful  heart  of  parting 
praise ; 

More  mighty  spots  may  rise,  more  glar- 
ing shine, 

But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 

The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft, — the  glories 
of  old  days, 

The    negligently    grand,    the     fruitful 

bloom 
Of   coming  ripeness,   the  white  city's 

sheen, 
The     rolling     stream,     the     precipice's 

gloom, 
The  forest's   growth,  and   Gothic  walls 

between, 
The    wild   rocks    shaped    as    they  had 

turrets  been, 
In   mockery   of   man's   art  ;   and   these 

withal 
A  race  of  faces  happy  as  the  scene, 
Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all, 
Still   springing   o'er  thy  banks,  though 

Empires  near  them  fall. 

But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the 

Alps, 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy 

scalps, 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The     avalanche  —  the     thunderbolt    of 

snow  ! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appalls, 
Gather  around    these    summits,   as   to 

show 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet 

leave  vain  man  below. 

But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dare 

to  scan, 
There  is  a  spot  should  not  be  pass'd  in 

vain, — 
Morat !    the  proud,    the    patriot  field  ! 

where  man 


May  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slain, 
Nor  blush  for  those  who  conquer'd  on 

that  plain  ; 
Here    Burgundy   bequeath'd    his  tomb- 
less  host, 
A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain, 
Themselves      their      monument;  —  the 

Stygian  coast 
Unsepulclired  they  roam'd,  and  shriek'd 
each  wandering  ghost. 

While  Waterloo  with  Cannae's  carnage 

vies, 
Morat  and  Marathon  twin  names  shall 

stand  ; 
They  were  true  Glory's    stainless  vic- 
tories, 
Won    by    the   unambitious    heart    and 

hand 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  band, 
All  unbought  champions  in  no  princely 

cause 
Of  vice-entail'd    Corruption ;    they    no 

land 
Doom'd    to  bewail    the    blasphemy    of 

laws 
Making   kings'  rights   divine,    by  some 

Draconic  clause. 

By  a  lone  wall  a  lonelier  column  rears 
A  gray  and  grief-worn   aspect   of   old 

days ; 
'T  is  the  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of 

years, 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild-bewilder'd 

gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze, 
Yet  still  with  consciousness  ;  and  there 

it  stands 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 
Levell'd  Adventicum,1  hath  strew'd  her 

subject  lands. 

And  there — oh !  sweet  and  sacred  be 
the  name  ! — 

Julia — the  daughter,  the  devoted — gave 

Her  youth  to  Heaven ;  her  heart,  be- 
neath a  claim 

Nearest  to  Heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's 
grave. 

Justice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers 
would  crave 

The  life  she  lived  in  ;  but  the  judge  was 
just, 

And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could 
not  save. 

1  The  Roman  capital  of  Helvetia  ;  now  Aven- 
ches. 


BYRON 


199 


Their   tomb   was   simple,   and    without 

a  bust, 
And   held  within   their  urn  one  mind, 

one  heart,  one  dust. 

But  these  are  deeds   which   should  not 

pass  away, 
And    names    that    must    not    wither, 

though  the  earth 
Forgets  her  empires  with  a  just  decay, 
The   enslavers  and   the  enslaved,    their 

death  and  birth  ; 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be.  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe, 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,   like  yonder   Alpine 

snow, 
Imperishably  pure    beyond    all    things 

below. 

Lake   Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal 

face, 
The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  moun- 
tains view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 
Its    clear    depth    yields    of    their    far 

height  and  hue  ; 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look 

through 
With  a  fit  mind  the  might    which    I 

behold  ; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 
Thoughts    hid,    but    not  less    cherish'd 

than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penn'd 

me  in  their  fold. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  man- 
kind : 
All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 
In   the  hot   throng,  where    we  become 

the  spoil 
Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the 

coil, 
In    wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for 

wrong 
Midst    a     contentious     world,    striving 
where  none  are  strong. 

There,  in  a  moment  we  may  plunge  our 

years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul  turn  all  our  blood  to 

tears, 
And   color  things  to  come   with   hues 

of  Night  ; 


The    race    of  life    becomes  a    hopeless 

flight 
To  those  who  walk  in  darkness  :  on  the 

sea 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports 

invite  ; 
But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 
Whose    bark    drives    on    and    on,    and 

anchor'd  ne'er  shall  be. 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  1  hone, 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 
Which  feeds   it   as  a  mother  who  doth 

make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care, 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake  ; — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear, 
Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom'd 

to  inflict  or  bear  ? 

I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me  ;  and  to  me 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,  but  the 

hum 
Of  human  cities  torture  :  I  can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  chain, 
Class'd  among  creatures,  when  the  soul 

can  flee, 
And  witli  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving 

plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not 

in  vain. 

And  thus  I  am  absorb'd,  and  this  is  life  : 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past, 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife, 
Where,    for  some  sin,  to  sorrow  I  was 

cast, 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With   a   fresh   pinion  ;  which   I  feel  to 

spring, 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous  as 

the  blast 
Which    it     would    cope     with,    on    de- 
lighted wing, 
Spui'ning    the    clay-cold    bonds    which 
round  our  being  cling. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be 

all  free 
From    what   it  hates  in   this    degraded 

form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform. 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 


BRITISH    POETS 


Feel  all    1  see,    less  dazzling,  but  more 

warm  ? 
The  bodiless  thought  ?  the  Spirit  of  each 

spot  ? 
Of  which,    even  now.   I  share  at  times 

the  immortal  lot? 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies, 
a  part 

Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them  ? 

Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 

With  a  pure  passion?  should  I  not  con- 
temn 

All  objects,  if  compared  with  these?  and 
stem 

A  tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 

Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worldly 
phlegm 

Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turn'd 
below, 

Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts 
which  dare  not  glow  ? 

But  this  is  not  my  theme  ;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  wdio  find  contemplation  in  the  urn, 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all 

fire, 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while — a  passing  guest 
Where  he  became  a  being, — whose  desire 
Was    to    be  glorious ;  't    was  a  foolish 

quest. 
The  which  to  gain  and  keep,  he  sacrificed 

all  rest. 

Here    the    self-torturing    sophist,    wild 

Rousseau, 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung    overwhelming  eloquence,    first 

drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched  ; 

yet  he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heav- 
enly hue 
Of   words,    like  sunbeams,  dazzling   as 

they  past 
The  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feel- 
ingly and  fast. 

His  love  was  passion's  essence  : — as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning,  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted  ;  for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamor'd,  were  in   him  the 

same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of    the    dead   who  rise  upon  our 

dreams, 


But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing   teems 
Along    his   burning   page,     distemper'd 
though  it  seems. 

This  breathed  itself  to  life  in  Julie,  this 
Invested  her   with  all  that's    wild  and 

sweet ; 
This  hallow'd,  too,  the  memorable  kiss 
Which  every  morn  his  fever'd  lip  woul  I 

greet, 
From  hers,  who  but  with  friendship  his 

would  meet ; 
But  to  that  gentle  touch  through  brain 

and  breast 
Flash'd  the  thrill'd  spirit's  love-devour- 
ing heat ; 
In  that  absorbing  sigh  perchance  more 

blest 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they 

seek  possest. 

His  life  was    one  long  war  with  self- 
sought  foes, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banish'd  ;  for  his 

mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sanctuary,  and 

chose, 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice,  the  kind, 
'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange 

and  blind. 
But  he  was  phrensied, — wherefore,  who 

may  know  ? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could 

never  find  ; 
But  he  was  phrensied  by  disease  or  woe, 
To  that  worst  pitch  of  all,  which  wears 

a  reasoning  show. 

For  then  he  was  inspired,  and  from  him 

came, 
As  from   the   Pythian's  mystic  cave   of 

yore, 
Those   oracles    which   set  the  world  in 

flame, 
Nor   ceased  to  burn  till  kingdoms  were 

no  more  : 
Did  he  not  this  for  France  ?  which  lay 

before 
Bow'd  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years? 
Broken   and   trembling   to  the  yoke  she 

bore, 
Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  bis  compeers 
Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath,  which  fol- 
lows o'ergrown  fears  ? 

They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monu- 
ment ! 

The  wreck  of  old  opinions  —  things 
which  grew, 


BYRON 


20I 


Breathed   from  the   birth  of  time :  the 

veil  they  rent, 
And  what  behind  it  lay,  all  earth  shall 

view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  also  overthrew. 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 
Upon  the  sams  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  same 

hour  refill'd, 
As  heretofore,  because  ambition  wasself- 

will'd. 

But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured  ! 
Mankind   have   felt   their  strength,  and 

made  it  felt. 
They   might   have   used  it  better,  but, 

allured 
By  their  new  vigor,  sternly  have  they 

dealt 
On  one  another ;  pity  ceased  to  melt 
With    her  once   natural  charities.     But 

they, 
Who   in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had 

dwelt, 
They   were  not    eagles,  nourish'd   with 

the  day  : 
What    marvel   then,   at   times,   if  they 

mistook  their  prey  ? 

What   deep   wounds  ever  closed    with- 
out a  scar ? 
The  heart's  bleed    longest,  and  but  heal 

to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it ;  and  they  who 

war 
With   their  own  hopes,  and   have  been 

vanquish'd,  bear 
Silence,   but    not     submission  :  in    his 

lair 
Fix'd   Passion   holds    his   breath,    until 

the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  years  ;  none  need 

despair  : 
It  came,   it   cometh,   and   will   come, — 

the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive — in  one  we  shall  be 

slower. 

Clear,    placid    Leman  !   thy    contrasted 

lake, 
With  the    wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a 

thing 
Which    warns  me,  with  its    stillness,  to 

forsake 
Earth's     troubled    waters    for  a  purer 

spring. 
Thisquiel  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me    from   distraction  ;  once  I 

loved 


Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  mur- 
muring 

Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sister's  voice  re 
proved, 

That  1  with  stern  delights  should  e'er 
have  been  so  moved. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin   and   the   mountains,  dusk, 

yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly 

seen, 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights 

appear 
Precipitously  steep;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from 

the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on 

t  he  ear 
Drops  the   light  drip   of   the   suspended 

oar, 
Or    chirps    the    grasshopper  one  good- 
night carol  more ; 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  lill  ; 
At  intervals,    some  bird  from    out   the 

brakes 
Starts     into     voice   a  moment,   then  is 

still. 
There   seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the 

hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping    themselves  away,    till    they 

infuse 
Deep  into  nature's  breast  the  spirit   of 

her  hues. 

Ye    stars!  which    are     the     poetry    of 

heaven  I 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read 

the  fate 
Of  men  and    empires, — 'tis   to  be   for- 
given. 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you;  for  ye 

are 
A   beauty  and  a  mystery,  and   creat< 
In    us   such     love    and    reverence    from 

afar, 
That   fortune,  fame,  power,   life,  have 
named  t  hemselves  a  Bta  r. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though 

not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling 
most : 


BRITISH  POETS 


Aud  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too 

deep : — 
All  liea  ven  and  earth  are  still :  From  the 

high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  moun- 
tain coast, 
All  is  concenter'd  in  a  life  intense, 
vVherenota  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  de- 
fence. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone  ; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then 

doth  melt, 
And  purifies  from  self  :  it  is  a  tone, 
The   soul  and  source   of  music,   which 

makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding    all      things     with     beauty  : — 

't  would  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,   had  he  substantial 

power  to  harm. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places,  and  the  peak 
Of    earth-o'ergazing     mountains,     and 

thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwall'd  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  honor  shrines  are 

weak, 
Uprear'd  of  human    hands.   Come,  and 

compare 
Columns    and    idol-dwellings,    Goth  or 

Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of   worship,  earth 

and  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe 
thy  prayer ! 

The  sky  is  changed  ! — and  such  a  change  ! 

Oh  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  won- 
drous strong, 
Yet   lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the 

light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,   the  rattling  crags 

among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  I     Not  from  one 

lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found 

a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,   through   her  misty 

shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her 

aloud ! 


And  this  is  in  the  night : — Most  glorious 
night ! 

Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !  let 
me  be 

A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight,— 

A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 

How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric 
sea, 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the 
earth  ! 

And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now,  the 
glee 

Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  moun- 
tain-mirth, 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earth- 
quake's birth. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves 
his  way  between 

Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who 
have  parted 

In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  inter- 
vene, 

That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though 
broken-hearted ; 

Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each 
other  thwarted, 

Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 

Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and 
then  departed  : 

Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 

Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  them- 
selves to  wage : 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath 

cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en 

his  stand  : 
For  here,    not  one,   but    many,    make 

their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunder-bolts  f rom  hand 

to  hand, 
Flashing   and  cast  around  ;    of  all   the 

band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills 

hath  fork"d 
His  lightnings, — as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd, 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  what 

ever  therein  lurk'd. 

Sky,    mountains,   river,     winds,     lake, 

lightnings  !  ye ! 
With   night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder, 

and  a  soul 
To   make  these  felt  and    feeling,  well 

may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful  ; 

the  far  roll 


BYRON 


203 


Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,   O  tempests !  is  the 

goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those   within  the    human 

breast  ? 
Or  do  ye   find,  at    length,  like  eagles, 

some  high  nest  ? 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which   is  most  within  me, — could 

I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus 

throw 
Soul,    heart,   mind,    passions,  feelings, 

strong  or  weak, 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I 

seek, 
Bear,   know,    feel,   and    yet   breathe — 

into  one  word, 
And  that   one   word  were  Lightning,  I 

would  speak  ; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheath- 
ing it  as  a  sword. 

The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn, 
With    breath    all    incense,    and    with 

cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful 

scorn, 
And  living  as  if    earth    contain'd    no 

tomb, — 
And  glowing  into  day  :  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence  :  and  thus  I, 
Still  on   thy   shores,  fair   Leman  !   may 

find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pon- 

der'd  fittingly. 

Clarens  !    sweet    Clarens,   birthplace  of 

deep  Love  ! 
Thine   air  is  the   young  breath   of  pas- 
sionate thought ; 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love  ;  the  snows 

above 
The    very    Glaciers    have    his     colors 

caught, 
And  sunset  into    rose-hues    sees  them 

wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly  ;  the 

rocks, 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  Love, 

who  sought 
In    them   a  refuge    from    the    worldly 

shocks, 
Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope 

that  woos,  then  mocks. 


Clarens  !  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are 

tx-od, — 
Undying  Love's,  who    here    ascends  a 

throne 
To  which    the    steps  are     mountains  ; 

where  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  and  light, — so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In   the   still   cave  and  forest  ;    o'er  the 

flower 
His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath 

blown, 
His   soft   and    summer    breath,    whose 

tender  power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in   their 

most  desolate  hour. 

All   things  are  here  of  him  ;  from  the 

black  pines, 
Which  are   his  shade   on  high,  and  the 

loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  the 

vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward 

to  the  shore, 
Where  the  bow'd  waters  meet  him,  and 

adore, 
Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs  ;  and  the 

wood, 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all 

hoar . 
But  light  leaves,   young  as  joy,  stands 

where  it  stood, 
Offering  to   him,    and   his,   a   populous 

solitude  ; 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds, 
And    fairy-form'd     and    many    color'd 

things, 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet 

than  words, 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings, 
Fearless  and   full  of  life  :  the  gush  of 

springs, 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which 

brings 
The    swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here 

extend, 
Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one 

mighty  end. 

He  who  hath  loved  not,  here  would  learn 

that  lore, 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit  ;  he  who 

knows 
That  tender  mystery,  will  love  the  more  ; 
For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's 

woes, 


204 


BRITISH  POETS 


And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  him 

far  from  those, 
For  't  is  his  nature  to  advance  or  die  ; 
He  stands  not  still,   but  or  decays,  or 

grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity  ! 

'T  was  not   for  fiction  chose   Rousseau 

this  spot. 
Peopling  it  with  affections  ;  but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  Passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind's  purified  beings  ;  t  was  the 

ground 
Where  early    Love    his    Psyche's  zo?ie 

unbound, 
And  hallow'd  it  with  loveliness  ;  't  is  lone, 
And  wonderful,  and   deep,  and   hath  a 

sound, 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness  ;  here 

the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps 

have  rear'd  a  throne. 

Lausanne  !  and   Ferney  !  ye  have   been 

the  abodes 
Of   names   which   unto  you  bequeath'd 

a  name ; 
Mortals,   who    sought    and    found,    by 

dangerous  roads, 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame  : 
They  were    gigantic    minds,   and   their 

steep  aim 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts     which     should     call      down 

thunder,  and  the  flame 
Of  Heaven  again  assaiFd,  if  Heaven  the 

while 
On  man  and  man's  research  could  deign 

do  more  than  smile. 

The  one1  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child 
Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  in  mind 
A  wit  as  various, — gay,  grave,  sage,  or 

wild  — 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher,  combined  ; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind, 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents  :  But  his  own 
Breathed   most   in   ridicule, — which,  as 

the  wind, 
Blew   where  it   listed,  laying  all  things 

prone, — 
Now  to  o'erthrow  a  fool,  and   now  to 

shake  a  throne. 

The  other,2  deep  and   slow,  exhausting 
thought, 


*  Voltaire. 


*  Gibbon 


And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious 

year, 
In    meditation    dwelt,     with     learning 

wrought, 
And  shaped  his   weapon  with  an  edge 

severe, 
Sapping  a   solemn   creed   with  solemn 

sneer  ; 
The  lord  of  irony, — that  master-spell, 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which 

grew  from  fear, 
And  doom'd  him  to  the  zealot's  ready 

Hell, 
Which  answers    to    all  doubts  so  elo- 
quently well. 

Yet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes, — for  by 

them, 
If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid  ; 
It   is   not  ours  to   judge, — far   less  con- 
demn ; 
The  hour  must  come  when  such  things 

shall  be  made 
Known  unto    all,   or   hope    and   dread 

allay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow,  in  the  dust, 
Which,   thus  much   we  are   sure,  must 

lie  deeay'd  ; 
And   when  it    shall    revive,   as  is  our 

trust, 
'Twill  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what 

is  just. 

But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to ' 

read 
His  Maker's,   spread    around   me,    and 

suspend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps 

tend, 
And  I    must    pierce  them,  and  survey 

whate'er 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region, 

where 
The  earth  to  her  embrace  compels  the 

powers  of  air. 

Italia!  too,  Italia  !  looking  on  thee. 
Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages, 
Since    the    fierce   Carthaginian   almost 

won  thee, 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages 
Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages  ; 
Thou    wert    the   throne   and    grave    of 

empires  ;  still, 
The  fount   at  which  the  panting  mind 

assuages 


BYRON 


205 


Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quaffing  there 

her  fill, 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's 

imperial  hill. 

Thus  far  have  I  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'd  with  no  kind  auspices  :  to  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to 

deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be,  and  to 

steel 
The  heai't  against  itself  ;  and  to  conceal, 
What  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or 

aught. — 
Passion    or    feeling,   purpose,   grief    or 

zeal, — 
Which    is     the     tyrant    spirit    of    our 

thought, 
Is  a  stern  task  of  soul : — No  matter, — it 

is  taught. 

And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into 

song, 
It  may   be    that  they  are  a  harmless 

wile, — 
The  coloring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet 

along, 
Which  I  would  seize,  in  passing,  to  be- 
guile 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth,  but  I  am 

not 
So  young  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or 

smile, 
As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot : 
I  stood  and  stand  alone, — remember'd  or 

forgot. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world 

me ; 
I  have  not  flatter'd  its  rank  breath,  nor 

bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles,  nor  cried 

aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo  ;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such  ;  I 

stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them  ;  in  a 

shroud 
Of    thoughts    which     were    not    their 

thoughts,  and  still  could. 
Had  I  not   filed  my  mind,  which   thus 

itself  subdued. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world 

me, — 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes  ;  I  do  believe. 
Though    I    have   found    them   not,  that 

there  may  be 


Words  which  are  tilings,  hopes  which 
will  not  deceive, 

And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor 
weave 

Snares  for  the  failing;  I  would  also 
deem 

O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely 
grieve  ; 

That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they 
seem, 

That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  hap- 
piness no  dream 

My  daughter !  with  thy  name  this  song 

begun  ; 
My  daughter  !  with  thy  name  thus  much 

shall  end  ; 
I  see  thee  not,  I  hear  thee  not,  but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee ;  thou  art  the 

friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  ex- 
tend ; 
Albeit    my   brow   thou   never  shouldst 

behold, 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions 

blend, 
And  reach  into  thy  heart,  when  mine  is 

cold, 
A  token    and  a  tone,   even   from    thy 

father's  mould. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  development,  to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  joys,  to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth,  to  view  thee 

catch 
Knowledge  of  objects, — wonders  yet  to 

thee! 
To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 
And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's 

kiss, — 
This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved 

for  me  ; 
Yet  this  was  in  my  nature:  as  it  is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something 

like  to  this. 

Yet,  though  dull  Hate  as  duty  should 

be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ;  though 

my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell  still 

fraught 
With  desolation,  and  a  broken  claim  ; 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  us,— 

't  were  the  same, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ;  though 

to  drain 
My  blood  from  out  thy  being  were  an 

aim. 


206 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  an   attainment, — all   would   be   in 

vain, — 
Still   thou  wouldst  love  me,   still  that 

more  than  life  retain. 

The  child  of  love,  though  born  in  bit- 
terness, 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.     Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements,  and  thine  no 

less. 
As  yet  such  are  around  thee,  but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more   temper'd,  and  thy  hope 

far  higher. 
Sweet  be   thy   cradled  slumbers !     O'er 

the  sea 
And  from  the  mountains  where  I  now 

respire, 
Fain  would  I  waft  such  blessing  upon 

thee, 
As  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou   might'st 

have  been  to  me. 
May-June,  1816.    November  18, 1816. 

SONNET  ON  CHILLON. 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind ! 
Brightest  in  dungeons.  Liberty  !  thouarfc, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can 

bind  ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  con- 

sign'd — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless 

gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  mar- 
tyrdom, 
And   Freedom's   fame    finds    Wings  on 

every  wind. 
Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  't  was 

trod. 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard  !     May  none  those  marks 

efface ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 
June,  1816.     December  5,  1816. 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears  : 
Mv  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  not   with 
toil, 
But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 
And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 


To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd,  and  barr'd — forbidden  fare 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
1  suffer'd  chains  and  courted  death ; 
That  father  perish'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake  ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place; 
We  were  seven — who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage  ; 
One  in  fire,  ami  two  in  field 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd, 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast. 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old, 
There  are  seven    columns,   massy  and 

gray, 
Dim  wdth  a  dull  imprison'd  ray, 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left  ; 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp  : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score, 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

They  chain'd  us  each  to  a  column  stone 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone, 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight  : 
And  thus  together — yet  apart, 
Fetter'd  in  hand,  but  join'd  in  heart, 
'T  was  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old 
Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 


BYRON 


A  grating  sound,  not  full  and  free, 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be  ; 
It  might  be  fancy,  but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do — and  did  my  best — 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven — 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved  ; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distress'd 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free)  — 
A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun  : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  fiovv'd  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind  ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which    'gainst  the  world  in   war    had 

stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  : — but  not  in  chains  to  pine  : 
His  spirit  wither'd  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine : 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  follow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf  ; 

To  him  his  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls  : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow  ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  inthrals  : 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day  ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knoek'd  ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 


Wash  though  the  bars  when  winds  were 
high 

And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky  ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd, 
And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshock'd 

Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 

The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food  ; 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care  : 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moisten'd  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow  men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den  ; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb  ; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold. 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side  ; 
But  why  delay  the  truth  ? — he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head. 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead, — - 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died,  and  they  unlock'd  his  chain, 
And  scoop'd  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave, 
I  begg'd  them  as  a  boon  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laugh 'd,  and  laid  him  there  : 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love  ; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 

But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flower, 
Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 
His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 
The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 
His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought 
My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free  ; 
He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 
A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 
He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 
Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 


;o8 


BRITISH    POETS 


Oil,  God  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  : 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread  ; 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 

Unmix'd  with  such — but  sure  and  slow  : 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender,  kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind  ; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockeiy  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray  ; 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur,  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most,; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less : 

I  listen'd,  but  I  could  not  hear ; 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear; 

I  knew  't  was  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished  ; 

I  call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rusli'd  to  him  : — I  found  him  not, 

/only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

J  only  lived,  /only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew  ; 

The  last,  the  sole,  the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe  : 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas!  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope  but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  thei-e 

I  know  not  well — I  never  knew — 

First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 


And  then  of  darkness  too: 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray  ; 
Ic  was  not  night,  it  was  not  day  ; 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 
And  fixedness  without  a  place  ; 
There  were  no  stars,  no  earth,  no  time., 
No  check,  no  change,  no  good,  no  crime. 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless > 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain, — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard, 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  .they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery  ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track  ; 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch'd,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree  ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me  1 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more  : 
It  seem'd  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird  !  I  could  not  wish  for  thine  ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the 

while 
Which    made    me   both    to   weep    and 

smile — 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me  ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 


BYRON 


:oo. 


And  then  'twas  mortal  well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  nie  twice  so  doubly  lone, 
Lone  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone  as  a  solitary  cloud, — 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate  ; 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 
But  so  it  was : — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain, 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  nry  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod  ; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed. 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 
And   my  crush'd  heart  fell   blind  and 
sick. 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape  ; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth 

be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 
No  child,  no  sire,  no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery  ; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad, 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad  ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

I  saw  them,  and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame  ; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow  ; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channel  I'd  rock  and  broken  bush  ; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down  ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 
The  only  one  in  view  ; 
14 


A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor. 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on   it   there     were   young   flowers 
growing, 
Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall. 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly  ; 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain  ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load  ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave. 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save, — 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

It  might  be  months,  or  yeais,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count,  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote  : 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free  ; 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where  : 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learn'd  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appear'd  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home  : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learn'd  to  dwell ; 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  : — even  I 
Regain'd  mv  freedom  with  a  sigh. 

June  27-29- July  10, 1816.  December  5. 

1816. 

STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA 

Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over, 
And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 

Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 
The  faults  which  so  many  could  find. 


BRITISH  POETS 


Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  ac- 
quainted, 
It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And    the    love    which   my   spirit    hath 
painted 
It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine  ; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the 
ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though   the    rock  of   my  last   hope  is 
shiver'd, 
And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in   the 
wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  deliver'd 

To  pain — it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me  : 
They   may  crush,  but   they  shall  not 
contemn  ; 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue 
me; 
'Tis  of  thee  that  I  think — not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive 
me, 
Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve 
me, 
Though  slander'd,  thou  never  couldst 
shake ; 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim 
me, 
Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  defame 
me, 
Nor,  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one  ; 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'Twas  folly  not  sooner  to  shun  : 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath 
perish'd, 
Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me   that   what  I  most 
cherish'd 
Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 


In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 
In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree 

And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 
Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 
July  24,  1816.     December  5,  1816. 

EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTA 

My  sister  !  my  sweet  sister !  if  a  name 
Dearer    and  purer  were,   it    should  be 

thine  ; 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 
No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine: 
Go  where    I   will,  to  me  thou  art  the 

same — 
A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 
There  yet    are  two  things  in  my  des- 
tiny,— 
A  world  tc  roam   through,   and  a  home 
with  thee. 

The  first  were  nothing — had  I  still  the 

last, 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness  ; 
But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast, 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  them 

less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and 

past 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress  ; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire's  fate  of 

yore, — 
He  hail  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 
Of  perils,  overlook'd  or  unforeseen, 
I  have  sustain'd  my  share  of  worldly 

shocks, 
The  fault  was  mine  ;  nor  do  I  seek  to 

screen 
My  errors  with  defensive  paradox  ; 
I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow, 
The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their 

reward. 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since  the 

day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that  which 

marr'd 
The  gift, — a  fate,   or   will, "that  walk'd 

astray  ; 
And  I  at  times  have  found  the  struggle 

hard, 
And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of 

clay  : 
But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  survive, 
If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 


BYRON 


211 


Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outlived,  and  yet  I  am  not  old  ; 
And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  petty  spray 
Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which  have 

roll'd 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away: 
Something — I  know  not  what — does  still 

uphold 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience  ; — not  in  vain, 
Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we   purchase 

pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me — or  perhaps  a  cold  despair, 
Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  recur, — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 
(For  even  to   this  may   change  of   soul 

refer, 
And  with  light  armor  we  may  learn  to 

bear,) 
Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which 

was  not 
The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 


I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I 
In  happy  childhood  ;  trees 

and  brooks, 
"Which  do  remember  me  of 
Ere  my  young  mind  was 

books, 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me, 
My  heart  with  recognition 
And  even  at  moments  I 

see 
Some  living  thing  to  love- 

thee. 


have  felt 

,  and  flowers, 

where  I  dwelt 
sacrificed  to 

and  can  melt 
of  their  looks; 
3ould  think  I 

-but  none  like 


Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which 

create 
A  fund  for  contemplation  ; — to  admire 
Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date  ; 
But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes 

inspire  ; 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate, 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  de- 
sire, 
And,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

Oh  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  ! — but  I 

grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret; 
There  may  be  others  which  I  less  may 

show ! — 
I  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 
And  the  tide  rising  in  my  alter'd  eye, 


I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake 
By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine  no 

more. 
Leman's  is  fair  ;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet    remembrance    of  a  dearer 

shore : 
Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory 

make, 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes 

before  ; 
Though,   like  all  things  which  I  have 

loved,  they  are 
Resign'd  for  ever,  or  divided  far. 

The  world  is  all  before  me  ;  I  but  ask 
Of  Nature    that    with    which    she    will 

comply — 
It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask, 
To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky, 
To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a  mask, 
And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 
She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall 

be 
My  sister — till  I  look  again  on  thee. 

I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one  ; 
And   that  I  would   not ; — for   at  length 

I  see 
Such   scenes  as   those  wherein  my  life 

begun. 
The  earliest — even  the  only  paths  for 

me— 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to 

shun, 
I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be ; 
The  passions  which  have  torn  me  would 

have  slept  ; 
I  had  not  suffer'd  and   thou  hadst  not 

wept. 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  I  to  do  ? 
Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with 

Fame  ; 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with 

me  grew, 
And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make 

— a  name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue  ; 
Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over — I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which    have  gone 

before. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future 

may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care  ; 
I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day  ; 
Having   survived   so   many   things  that 

were ; 


212 


BRITISH    POETS 


My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but  the 

prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils  ;  for  I  had  the  share 
Of  life  which  might  have  fill'd  a  century, 
Before   its   fourth   in   time    had  pass'd 

me  by. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to 

come 
I  am  content ;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 
Not  thankless, — for  within  the  crowded 

sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would 

steal, 
And  for  the  present,  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  further. — Nor  shall  I  conceal 
That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look  around, 
And  worship    Nature   with  a  thought 

profound. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy 

heart 
I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine  ; 
We  were  and   are — I  am,  even  as  thou 

art — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign  : 
It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart, 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow 

decline 
We  are  entwined — let  death  come  slow 

or  fast, 
The  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures 

the  last !  July,  IS  16.     1830. 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC 

They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness  ; 

But  genuine  Love  must  prize  the  past, 
And  Memory  wakes  the  thoughts  that 
bless : 

They  rose  the  first — they  set  the  last ; 

And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 
Was  once  our  only  Hope  to  be, 

And  all  that  Hope  adored  and  lost 
Hath  melted  into  Memory. 

Alas  !  it  is  delusion  all  ; 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afar, 
Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall, 

Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 
?.  .  .  1829. 

DARKNESS 

I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a 

dream. 
The   bright   sun  was   extinguish'd,  and 

the  stars 


Did  wander    darkling    in    the    eternal 

space, 
Ray  less,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 
Swung   blind    and    blackening    in    the 

moonless  air ; 
Morn  came  and  went — and  came,  and 

brought  no  day, 
And   men   forgot  their  passions  in  th* 

dread 
Of  this  their  desolation  :  and  all  hearts 
Were  chill'd   into  a  selfish  prayer  for 

light ; 
And  they  did  live  b}r  watchfires— and 

the  thrones, 
The  palaces  of  crowned  kings — the  huts. 
The    habitations    of    all    things   which 

dwell, 
Were    burnt   for  beacons  ;   cities  were 

consumed, 
And    men   were    gather'd   round    their 

blazing  homes 
To  look  once  more    into  each   other's 

face  ; 
Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the 

eye 
Of  the   volcanos,  and   their   mountain- 
torch  ; 
A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  con- 

tain'd  ; 
Forests  were  set   on  fire — but   hour  by 

hour 
They  fell  and  faded — and  the  crackling 

trunks 
Extinguish'd  with  a  crash — and  all  was 

black. 
The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 
Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 
The  flashes  fell   upon  them  ;  some  lay 

down 
And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept ;  and  some 

did  rest 
Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands, 

and  smiled  ; 
And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 
Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd 

up 
With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 
The  pall  of  a  past  world  ;  and  then  again 
With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the 

dust, 
And  gnash'd  their  teeth  and  howl'd  :  the 

wild  birds  shriek'd 
And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 
And  flap  their  useless  wings  ;  the  wild- 
est brutes 
Came  tame  and  tremulous ;  and  vipers 

crawl'd 
And  twined  themselves  among  the  mul- 
titude, 


BYRON 


213 


Hissing,   but  stingless — they  were  slain 

for  food  ! 
And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no 

more, 
Did   glut   himself    again  : — a   meal  was 

bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom  :  no  love  was 

left; 
All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that 

was  death 
Immediate  and  inglorious  ;  and  the  pang 
Of  famine  fed  upon  all  enti-ails — men 
Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as 

their  flesh  ; 
The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  de- 

vour'd, 
Even  dogs  assail'd  their  masters,  all  save 

one, 
And  he   was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and 

kept 
The  birds  and  beasts  and  famish'd  men 

at  bay, 
Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping 

dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws  ;  himself  sought 

out  no  food, 
But  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan, 
And  a  quick  desolate  cry,  licking  the 

hand 
Which  answer'd  not  with  a  caress — he 

died. 
The  crowd  was  famish'd  by  degrees  ;  but 

two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive, 
And  they  were  enemies  :  they  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place 
Where  had  been  heap'd  a  mass  of  holy 

things 
For  an  unholy  usage  ;  they  raked  up, 
And  shivering  scraped  with  their  cold 

skeleton  hands 
The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 
Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 
Which  was  a  mockery  ;  then  they  lifted 

up 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  other's  aspects — saw,  and shriek'd, 

and  died — 
Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  tliev 

died. 
Unknowing   who   he   was   upon   whose 

brow 
Famine  had  written  Fiend.     The  world 

was  void, 
The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a 

lump, 
Seasonless,   herbless,  treeless,   manless, 

lifeless, 


A  lump  of  death — a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 
The  rivers,   lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood 

still, 
And  nothing  stirr'd  within  their  silent 

depths ; 
Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea, 
And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal : 

as  they  dropp'd 
They    slept    on    the    abyss    without    a 

surge — 
The  waves  were  dead  ;  the  tides  were  in 

their  grave, 
The  moon,  their  mistress,  had  expired 

before  ; 
The  winds  were  wither'd  in  the  stagnant 

air, 
And  the  clouds  perish'd  ;  Darkness  had 

no  need 
Of  aid  from  them — She  was  the  Uni- 
verse. 
July,  1816.     December  5,  1816. 

PROMETHEUS 

Titan*  !  to  whose  immortal  eyes 

The  sufferings  of  mortality, 

Seen  in  their  sad  reality, 
Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise  ; 
What  was  thy  pity's  recompense  ? 
A  silent  suffering,  and  intense  ; 
The  rock,  the  vulture,  and  the  chain, 
All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain, 
The  agony  they  do  not  show, 
The  suffocating  sense  of  woe, 

Which  speaks  but  in  its  loneliness, 
And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 
Should  have  a  listener,  nor  will  sigh 

Until  its  voice  is  echoless. 

Titan  !  to  thee  the  strife  was  given 
Between  the  suffering  and  the  will, 
Which    torture    where    they    cannot 
kill; 

And  the  inexorable  Heaven, 

And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  Fate, 

The  ruling  principle  of  Hate, 

Which  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 

The  things  it  may  annihilate, 

Refused  thee  even  the  boon  to  die  ; 

The  wretched  gift  eternity 

Was  thine— and  thou  hast  borne  it  well. 

All    that    the    Thunderer   wrung   from 
thee 
Was  but  the  menace  which  flung  back 
On  him  the  torments  of  thy  rack  ; 
The  fate  thou  didst  so  well  foresee, 
But  would  not  to  appease  him  tell  ; 
And  in  thy  Silence  was  his  Sentence. 
And  in  his  Soul  a  vain  repentance, 


214 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissembled, 
That    in    his    hand    the     lightnings 
trembled. 

Thy  Godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind, 

To  render  with  thy  precepts  less 

The  sum  of  human  wretchedness, 
And  strengthen  Man  with  his  own  mind  ; 
But  baffled  as  thou  wert  from  high, 
Still  in  thy  patient  energy, 
In  the  endurance,  and  repulse 

Of  thine  impenetrable  Spirit, 
Which    Earth  and  Heaven  could  not 
convulse, 

A  mighty  lesson  we  inherit: 
Thou  art  a  symbol  and  a  sign 

To  Mortals  of  their  fate  and  force  ; 
Like  thee,  Man  is  in  part  divine, 

A  troubled  stream  from  a  pure  source  ; 
And  Man  in  portions  can  foresee 
His  own  funereal  destiny  ; 
His  wretchedness,  and  his  resistance, 
And  his  sad  unallied  existence  : 
To  which  his  Spirit  may  oppose 
Itself — and  equal  to  all  woes, 

And  a  firm  will,  and  a  deep  sense, 
Which  even  in  torture  can  descry 

Its  own  concenter'd  recompense, 
Triumphant  where  it  dare  defy, 
And  making  Death  a  Victory. 

July,  1816.     December,  1816. 

SONNET  TO  LAKE  LEMAN 

Rousseau — Voltaire — our    Gibbon — and 
De  Stael— 
Leman  !  these  names  are  worthy  of  thy 

shore, 
Thy  shore  of  names  like   these  !  wert 
thou  no  more 
Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would 

recall  : 
To   them  thy  banks   were   lovely  as  to 
all, 
But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for 

the  lore 
Of  mighty  minds  doth   hallow  in  the 
core 
Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 
Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondrous  ; 
but  by  thee 
How  much  more,  Lake  of  Beauty  !  do 
we  feel, 
In  sweetly  gliding  o'er  thy  crystal  sea, 
The  wild  glow  of  that  not  ungentle  zeal, 

Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 
Is  proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory 
real ! 
July,  1816.     December  5,  1816. 


MANFRED 


A  DRAMATIC  POEM 


"  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth 
Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy.-' 


dramatis  persons 

Manfred 

Chamois  Hunter 

Abbot  of  St.  Maurice 

Manuel 

Herman 

Witch  of  the  Alps 

Arimanes 

Nemesis 

The  Destinies 

Spirits,  &c. 
Tlie  Scene  of  the  Drama  is  amongst  the 
Higher  Alps — partly  in  the  Castle  of 
Manfred,    and  partly  in  the  Moun- 
tains. 


ACT  I 


Scene    I. — Manfred    alone. — Scene,    u 
Gothic  Gallery. — Time,  Midnight. 

Man.    The  lamp  must  be  replenish'd,  but 

even  then 
It  will  not  burn  so  long  as  I  must  watch  : 
My  slumbers — if  I  slumber — are  not  sleep, 
But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought, 
Which  then  I  can  resist  not :  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within  ;  and  yet  I  live,  and  bear 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men. 
But  grief  should  be  the  instructor  of  the 

wise  ; 
Sorrow  is  knowledge  :  they  who  know  the 

most 
Must   mourn  the  deepest  o'er  the    fatal 

truth, 
The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  not  that   of 

Life. 
Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
I  have  essay'd,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A  power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself — 
But  they  avail  not :  I  have  done  men  good, 
And  I  have  met  with  good   even  among 

men — 
But  this  avail'd  not :  I  have  had  my  foes, 
And  none  have  baffled,  many  fallen  be- 
fore me — 


BYRON 


215 


But  this  avail'd  not : — Good,  or  evil,  life, 
Powers,  passions,  all  I  see  in  other  beings, 
Have  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands, 
Since  that  all-nameless  hour.     I  have  no 

dread, 
And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear, 
Nor  fluttering    throb,   that  beats   with 

hopes  or  wishes, 
Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth. 
Now  to  my  task. — 

Mysterious  agency  ! 
Ye  spirits  of  the  unbounded  Universe  ! 
Whom  I  have  sought  in  darkness  and  in 

light— 
Ye,  who  do  compass  earth   about,  and 

dwell 
In  subtler  essence — ye,  to  whom  the  tops 
Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts, 
And  earth's  and  ocean's  caves  familiar 

things — 
I  call  upon  ye  by  the  written  charm 
Which  gives  me  power  upon  you — Rise  ! 

Appear  !  [A  pause. 

They  come  not  yet. — Now  by  the  voice 

of  him 
Who  is  the  first  among  you — by  this  sign, 
Which  makes  you  tremble — by  the  claims 

of  him 
Who    is    undying, — Eise  !    Appear  ! 

Appear !  [J.  pause. 

If  it  be  so — Spirits  of  earth  and  air, 
Ye  shall  not  thus  elude  me  :  by  a  power, 
Deeper  than  all  yet  urged,  a  tyrant-spell, 
Which  had  its  birthplace  in  a  star  con- 

demn'd, 
The     burning    wreck    of    a    demolish'd 

world, 
A  wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space  ; 
By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my 

soul, 
The    thought  which  is  within  me    and 

around  me, 
I  do  compel  ye  to  my  will — Appear  ! 

[  A  star  is  seen  at  the  darker  end 
of  the  gallery :  it  is  stationary  ;  and  a 
voice  is  heard  singing. 

First  Spirit 

Mortal  !  to  thy  bidding  bow'd, 
From  rery  mansion  in  the  cloud, 
Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds, 
And  the  summer's  sunset  gilds 
With  the  azure  and  vermilion. 
Which  is  mix'd  for  my  pavilion  ; 
Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden, 
On  a  star-beam  I  have  ridden  : 
To  thine  adjuration  bow'd, 
Mortal — be  thy  wish  avow'd  ! 


Second  Spirit 

Mont  Blanc  is  the   monarch   of  moun- 
tains ; 

They  crown'd  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  Avalanche  in  his  hand  ; 
But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 
The  Glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onward  day  by  day  ; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  cavern'd  base — 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  Thou  9 

Third  Spirit 

In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters, 

Where  the  wave  hath  no  strife, 
Where  the  wind  is  a  stranger, 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life, 
Where  the  Mermaid  is  decking 

Her  green  hair  with  shells, 
Like  the  storm  on  the  surface 

Came  the  sound  of  thy  spells  ; 
O'er  my  calm  Hall  of  Coral 

The  deep  echo  roll'd — 
To  the  Spirit  of  Ocean 

Thy  wishes  unfold  ! 

Fourth  Spirit 

Where  the  slumbering  earthquake 

Lies  pillow'd  on  fire, 
And  the  lakes  of  bitumen 

Rise  boilingly  higher  ; 
Where  the  roots  of  the  Andes 

Strike  deep  in  the  earth, 
As  their  summits  to  heaven 

Shoot  soaringly  forth  ; 
I  have  quitted  my  birthplace, 

Thy  bidding  to  bide — 
Thy  spell  hath  subdued  me, 

Thy  will  be  my  guide  ! 

Fifth  Spirit 

I  am  the  Rider  of  the  wind, 

The  stirrer  of  the  storm  ; 
The  hurricane  I  left  behind 

Is  yet  with  lightning  warm  ; 
To  speed  to  thee,  o'er  shore  and  sea 

I  swept  upon  the  blast  : 
The  fleet  I  met  sail'd  well,  and  yet 

'Twill  sink  ere  night  be  past. 


2l6 


BRITISH    POETS 


Sixth  Spirit 

My  dwelling  is  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
Why    doth   thy  magic  torture  me  with 
light? 

Seventh  Spirit 

The  star  which  rules  thy  destiny 
Was  ruled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me  : 
It  was  a  world  as  fresh  and  fair 
As  e'er  revolved  round  sun  in  air  ; 
Its  course  was  free  and  regular, 
Space  bosom'd  not  a  lovelier  star. 
The  hour  arrived — and  it  became 
A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 
A  pathless  comet,  and  a  curse, 
The  menace  of  the  universe  ; 
Still  rolling  on  with  innate  force, 
Without  a  sphere,  without  a  course, 
A  bright  deformity  on  high, 
The  monster  of  the  upper  sky  ! 
And  thou  !  beneath  its  influence  born — 
Thou  worm  !  whom  I  obey  and  scorn — 
Forced  by  a  power  (which  is  not  thine, 
And  lent  thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 
For  this  brief  moment  to  descend, 
Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend 
And  parley  with  a  thing  like  thee — 
What  wouldst  thou,  Child  of  Clay  !  with 
me? 

The  Seven  Spirits 

Earth,    ocean,   air,    night,    mountains, 
winds,  thy  star, 
Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  Child  of 
Clay! 
Before  thee  at  thy  quest  their  spirits 
are — 
What  wouldst   thou  with  us,  son  of 
mortals — say  ? 

Man.     Forgetfulness 

First  Spirit.  Of  what — of  whom — and 

why  ? 
Man.     Of  that  which  is  within  me  ; 
read  it  there  — 
Ye  know  it,  and  I  cannot  utter  it. 
Spirit.     We  can  but  give  thee  that 
which  we  possess : 
Ask  of  us    subjects,    sovereignty,    the 

power 
O'er  earth — the  whole,  or  portion — or  a 

sign 
Which  shall  control  the  elements,  where- 
of 
We  are  the  dominators, — each  and  all, 
These  shall  be  thine. 
Man.  Oblivion,  self-oblivion  ! 


Can  ye  not  wring  from  out  the  hidden 

realms 
Ye  offer  so  profusely  what  I  ask  ? 
Spirit.     It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our 
skill ; 
But — thou  may'st  die. 
Man.        Will  death  bestow  it  on  me \ 
Spirit.     We  are  immortal,  and  do  not 
forget ; 
We  are  eternal ;  and  to  us  the  past 
Is,    as    the    future,    present.     Art  thou 
answer'd  ? 
Man.    Ye  mock   me — but  the   power 
which  brought  ye  here 
Hath  made  you  mine.     Slaves,  scoff,  not 

at  my  will ! 
The  mind,   the  spirit,  the  Promethean 

spark, 
The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  bright, 
Pervading,  and  far  darting  as  your  own, 
And   shall    not   yield  to  yours,   though 

coop'd  in  clay ! 
Answer,  or  I  will  teach  you  what  I  am. 
Spirit.     We  answer  as  we  answer'd  •, 
our  reply 
Is  even  in  thine  own  words. 
Man.  Why  say  ye  so  ? 

Spirit.       If,    as    thou     say'st,    thine 
essence  be  as  ours, 
We  have  replied  in  telling  thee,  the  thing 
Mortals  call  death  hath  nought  to   do 
with  us. 
Man.     I  then  havecall'dye  from  your 
realms  in  vain  ; 
Ye  cannot,  or  ye  wall  not,  aid  me. 

Spirit.  Say, 

What  we  possess  we  offer  ;  it  is  thine  : 
Bethink  ere  thou  dismiss  us  ;  ask  again  ; 
Kingdom,  and  sway,  and  strength,  and 

length  of  days 

Man.     Accursed !  what   have  I  to  do 
with  days  ? 
They  are  too  long  already. — Hence — be- 
gone ! 
Spirit.     Yet  pause :  being  here*   our 
will  would  do  thee  service  ; 
Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  other  gift 
Which  we  can   make  not  worthless  in 
thine  eyes  ? 
Man.     No,  none  :  yet  stay — one   mo- 
ment, ere  we  part, 
I  would  behold  ye  face  to  face.     I  hear 
Your    voices,   sweet     and     melancholy 

sounds, 
As  music  on  the  waters  ;  and  I  see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  large  star  ; 
But  nothing  more.     Approach  me  as  ye 

are, 
Or  one,  or  all,  inyouraccustom'd  forms. 


BYRON 


217 


Spirit.     We   have  no    forms,  beyond 
the  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  principle  : 
But  choose  a  form — in  that  we  will  appear. 
Man.     I  have   no  choice ;  there   is  no 
form  on  earth 
Hideous  or  beautiful  to  me.     Let  him, 
Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such 

aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most   fitting — ■ 
Come ! 
Seventh  Spirit  {appearing  in  the  shape 
of   a    beautiful    female    figure).     Be- 
hold ! 
Man.     Oh  God !  if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 
Art  not  a  madness  and  a  mockery, 
I  yet  might  be  most  happy,  I  will  clasp 
thee, 

And  we  again  will  be 

[The  figure  vanishes. 
My  heart  is  crush' d  ! 

[Manfred  fa  Us  senseless. 

(A  voice  is    heard  in  the  Incantation 
which  follows.) 

When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave, 
And  the  glow-worm  in  the  grass, 

And  the  meteor  on  the  grave, 
And  the  wisp  on  the  morass  ; 

When  the  falling  stars  are  shooting, 

And  the  answer'd  owls  are  hooting, 

And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill, 

Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine, 

With  a  power  and  with  a  sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep 
Yet  thy  spirit  shall  not  sleep  ; 
There  are  shades  which  will  not  vanish, 
There    are    thoughts     thou    canst     not 

banish ; 
By  a  power  to  thee  unknown, 
Thou  canst  never  be  alone  ; 
Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a  shroud, 
Thou  art  gather'd  in  a  cloud  ; 
And  for  ever  shalt  thou  dwell 
In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  seest  me  not  pass  by, 
Thou  shalt  feel  me  with  thine  eye 
As  a  thing  that,  though  unseen, 
Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been  ; 
And  when  in  that  secret  dread 
Thou  hast  turn'd  around  thy  head, 
Thou  shalt  marvel  I  am  not 
As  thy  shadow  on  the  spol . 
And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel 
Shall  be  what  thou  must  conceal. 


And  a  magic  voice  and  verse 

Hath  baptized  thee  with  a  curse  ; 

And  a  spirit  of  the  air 

Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare  ; 

In  the  wind  there  is  a  voice 

Shall  forbid  thee  to  rejoice ; 

And  to  thee  shall  night  deny 

All  the  quiet  of  her  sky  ; 

And  the  day  shall  have  a  sun, 

Which  shall  make  thee  wish  it  done. 

From  thy  false  tears  I  did  distil 
An  essence  which  hath  strength  to  kill  ; 
From  thy  own  heart  I  then  did  wring 
The  black  blood  in  its  blackest  spring  : 
From  thy    own   smile   I    snatch'd    the 

snake, 
For  there  it  coil'd  as  in  a  brake  ; 
From  thy  own  lip  I  drew  the  charm 
Which    gave    all    these   their    chiefest 

harm  ; 
In  proving  every  poison  known, 
I  found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 

By  thy  cold  breast  and  serpent  smile, 
By  thy  unfathom'd  gulfs  of  guile, 
By  that  most  seeming  virtuous  eye, 
By  thy  shut  soul's  hypocrisy  ; 
By  the  perfection  of  thine  art 
Which    pass'd    for    human    thine  own 

heart ; 
By  thy  delight  in  others'  pain, 
And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 
I  call  upon  thee  I  and  compel 
Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  Hell ! 

And  on  thy  head  I  pour  the  vial 

Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial ; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die, 

Shall  be  in  thy  destiny  ; 

Though  thy  death  shall  still  seem  neai 

To  thy  wish,  but  as  a  fear  ; 

Lo  !  the  spell  now  works  around  thee, 

And  the  clankless  chain  hath  bound  thee; 

O'er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 

Hath  the  word  been  pass'd — now  withe:  ! 

Scene  II 

The  Mountain  of  the  Jungfrau. — Time, 
Morning. — Manfred  alone  upon  the 
Cliffs. 
Man.    The  spirits  I  have  raised  aban- 
don me, 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me, 
The  remedy  I  reck'd  of  tortured  me  ; 
I  lean  no  more  on  superhuman  aid  ; 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  ami   1 
The  future,  till  the   past   be  gulf'd 
darkness, 


218 


BRITISH  POETS 


It  is   not  of    my  search.    My    mother 

Earth ! 
And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day,  and  you, 

ye  Mountains, 
Why  are  ye  beautiful?  I  cannot  love  ye. 
Amltluni.  the  In  ght  eye  of  the  universe, 
That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight — thou   shin'st  not  on  my 

heart. 
And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme 

edge 
I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  be- 
neath 
Behold   the  tall  pines  dwindled   as    to 

shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance  ;  when  a  leap, 
A    stir,  a  motion,  even   a  breath,  would 

bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 
To  rest  for  ever — wherefore  do  I  pause  ? 
I  feel  the  impulse — yet  I  do  not  plunge  ; 
I  see  the  peril — yet  do  not  recede  ; 
And  my  brain  reels — and  yet  my  foot  is 

firm  : 
There  is  a  power  upon  me  which  with- 
holds, 
^.nd  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live, — ■ 
if  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 
This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 
My  own  soul's  sepulchre,   for    I  have 

ceased 
To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself — 
The  last  infirmity  of  evil.     Ay, 
Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minis- 
ter, [An  eagle  fiasses. 
Whose    happy    flight  is    highest    into 

heaven, 
Well  may'st  thou  swoop  so  near  me — I 

should  be 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets  ;  thou 

art  gone 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee  ;  but 

thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  on ward.or  above, 
With  a  pervading  vision.— Beautiful ! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world  ! 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself  ! 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sover- 
eigns, we, 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mix'd  essence 

make 
A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 
The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride, 
Contending   with   low  wants   and  lofty 

will, 
Till  our  mortality  predominates, 
And  men   are — what  they  name  not  to 
themselves, 


And  trust  not  to  each  other.     Hark  !  the 

note,  [The  Shepherd's  pipe  in 

the  distance  is  heard. 

The    natural    music    of    the    mountain 

reed ■ 

For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet   bells  of  the  saun- 
tering herd  ; 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes.     Oh, 

that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  boddess  enjoyment — born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me  ! 

Enter  from  below  a  Chamois  Hunter. 

Chamois  Hunter.  Even  so 

This  way  the  chamois  leapt :  her  nimble 

feet 
Have  baffled  me  ;  my  gains  to-day  will 

scarce 
Repay  my  break-neck  travail. — What  is 

here  ? 
Who  seems  not  of  my  trade,   and  yet 

hath  reach'd 
A  height  which  none  even  of  our  moun- 
taineers, 
Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain  :  his 

garb 
Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 
Proud  as  a  free-born  peasant's,  at  this 

distance  : 
I  will  approach  him  nearer. 

Man.  {not  perceiving  the  other).   To  be 

thus— 
Gray-hair'd   with    anguish,    like    these 

blasted  pines, 
Wrecks    of  a  single  winter,    barkless, 

branchless, 
A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root, 
Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay— 
And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus, 
Having  been   otherwise  !  now  furrow'd 

o'er 
With  wrinkles,  plough 'd  by  moments, — 

not  by  years, — 
And  hours,     all    tortured    into  ages — 

hours 
Which  I  outlive  ! — Ye  toppling  crags  of 

ice ! 
Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath   draws 

down 
In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and 

crush  me  ! 
I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath, 
Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict ;   but  ye 

pass, 


BYRON 


219 


And  only  fall  on  things  that  still  would 

live ; 
On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the 

hut 
And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 
C.  Hun.  The  mists  begin  to  rise  from 

up  the  valley  ; 
I'll  warn  him  to  descend,   or  he  may 

chance 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  and  life  together. 
Man.    The  mists  boil  up  around  the 

glaciers  ;  clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and 

sulphury, 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep 

Hell, 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living 

shore, 
Heap'd  with  the  damn  d  like  pebbles. — 

I  am  giddy. 
C.  Hun.    I  must  approach  him  cau- 
tiously ;  if  near, 
A  sudden  step  will  startle  him,  and  he 
Seems  tottering  already. 

Man.  Mountains  have  fallen, 

Leaving  a  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with 

the  shock 
Rocking  their   alpine    brethren  ;  filling 

up 
The  ripe  green  valleys  with  destruction's 

splinters  ; 
Damming  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crush'd  the  waters  into  mist  and 

made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel — 

thus, 
Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Mount  Rosen- 
berg— 
Why  stood  I  not  beneath  it  ? 

C.Hun.  Friend!  have  a  care, 

Your  next  step  may  be  fatal ! — for  the 

love 
Of  him  who  made  you,  stand  not  on  that 

brink  ! 
Man.  (not  hearing  him).    Such  would 

have  been  for  me  a  fitting  tomb  ; 
My  bones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their 

depth  ; 
They  had  not  then  been  strewn  upon  the 

rocks 
For  the   wind's  pastime — as  thus — thus 

they  shall  be — 
In  this  one  plunge. — Farewell,  ye  opin- 
ing heavens ! 
Look  not  upon   me  thus  reproachfully— 
You   were   not    meant   for   me — Earth ! 

take  these  atoms  ! 
[As  Manfred  is  in  act  to  spring  from 

the    cliff,    the    Chamois   Hunter 


seizes  and  retains  him  with  a  sud- 
den grasp. 
C.    Hun.     Hold,     madman  ! — though 

aweary  of  thy  life, 
Stain  not  our  pure  vales  with  thy  guilty 

blood  : 

Away    with  me 1  will   not  quit   my 

"  hold. 
Man.  I  am  most  sick  at  heart — nay, 

grasp  me  not— 
I    am    all    feebleness — the    mountains 

whirl 
Spinning  around  me 1  grow  blind 

What  art  thou  ? 
C.Hun.  I'll  answer  that  anon.     Away 

with  me — 
The  clouds  grow  thicker there — now 

lean  on  me — 
Place  your   foot  here — here,  take  this 

staff,  and  cling 
A  moment  to  that  shrub — now  give  me 

your  hand, 
And  hold   fast     by  my  girdle — softly — 

well— 
The  Chalet  will  be  gain'd  within  an  hour : 
Come  on,  we'll  quickly  find  a  surer  foot- 
ing, 
And  something  like  a  pathway,   which 

the  torrent 
Hath  wash'd  since  winter. — Come,  't  is 

bravely  done — 
You  should  have  been  a  hunter. — Follow 

me. 

[As  they  descend  the  rocks   with 
difficulty,  the  scene  closes. 

ACT  II 

Scene  I.—A  Cottage  amongst  the  Ber- 
nese Alps. 

Manfred  and  the  Chamois  Hunter. 

C.    Hun.      No,    no — yet   pause— thou 

must  not  yet  go  forth  : 
Thy  mind  and  body  are  alike  unfit 
To  trust  each  other,  for  some   hours,  at 

least ; 
When    thou   art   better,    I   will   be   thy 

guide — 
But  whither? 

Man.  It  imports  not :  I  do  know 

My  route  full  well,  and  need  no  further 

guidance 
C.  Hun.  Tliysarb  and  gait  bespeak  thee 

of  high  lineage — 
One  of  the  many  chiefs,  whose  castled 

crags 
Look  o'er  the  lower  valleys — which  of 

these 


BRITISH  POETS 


May  call  thee  lord  ?     I  only  know  their 

portals  ; 
My  way  of  life  leads  me  but  rarely  down 
To  bask  by  the  huge  hearths  of  those  old 

halls, 
Carousing  with  the  vassals  ;  but  the  paths, 
Which  step  from  out  our  mountains  to 

their  doors. 
I  know  from  childhood — which  of  these 

is  thine  ? 
Man.    No  matter. 
C.  Hun.  Well,  sir,  pardon  me  the 

question, 
And  be  of  better  cheer.     Come,  taste  my 

wine  ; 
Tis  of  an  ancient  vintage  ;  many  a  day 
'T   has   thaw'd     my     veins   among    our 

glaciers 
Let  it  do  thus  for  thine — Come,  pledge 

me  fairly. 
Man.  Away,  away  !  there's  blood  upon 

the  brim  ! 
Will  it   then  never — never  sink  in   the 

earth  ? 
C  Hun.     What  dost  thou  mean  ?   thy 

senses  wander  from  thee. 
Man.     I  say  'tis  blood — my  blood  !  the 

pure  warm  stream 
Which  ran  in  the  veins   of  my  fathers, 

and  in  ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had 

one  heart, 
And  loved  each  other  as  we  should  not 

love, 
And  this  was  shed  :   but  still  it  rises  up, 
Coloring  the  clouds,  that  shut  me  out 

from  heaven, 
Where  thou  art  not — and  I  shall  never  be. 
C.  Hun.     Man  of  strange   words,  and 

some  half-maddening  sin, 
Which    makes    thee    people     vacancy, 

whate'er 
Thy    dread  and   sufferance   be,   there's 

comfort  yet — 
The    aid   of  holy  men,    and    heavenly 

patience — 
Man.  Patience    and    patience  ! 

Hence — that  word  was  made 
For  brutes  of  burthen,  not  for  birds   of 

prey  ; 
Preach    it    to   mortals   of    a   dust    like 

thine, — 
I  am  not  of  thine  order. 

C.  Hun.  Thanks  to  heaven  ! 

I  would  not  be  of  thine  for  the  free  fame 
Of  William  Tell ;  but  whatsoe'er  thine 

ill, 
It  must  be  borne,  and  these  wild  starts 

are  useless. 


Man.     Do  I  not  bear  it  ?— Look  on  me — 

I  live. 
C.  Hun.    This  is  convulsion,   and  no 

healthful  life. 
Man.  I   tell  thee,  man !  I  have   lived 
many  years, 

Many  long  years,  but  they  are  nothing 
now 

To  those  which  I  must  number :  ages — 
ages — 

Space  and  etei-nity — and  consciousness. 

With  the  fierce  thirst  of  death — and  still 
unslaked  ! 
C.  Hun.     Why,  on  thy  brow   the  seal 
of  middle  age 

Hath  scarce  been  set ;  I  am  thine  elder 
far. 
Man.     Think'st  thou    existence    doth 
depend  on  time  ? 

It  doth  ;  but  actions  are  our  epochs  :  mine 

Have   made   my    days   and    nights   im- 
perishable, 

Endless,  and  all  alike,  as  sands  on  the 
shore. 

Innumerable  atoms  ;  and  one  desert, 

Barren    and   cold,   on   which   the  wild 
waves  break. 

But  nothing   rests,  save   carcasses   and 
wrecks , 

Rocks  and  the  salt-surf  weeds  of   bitter- 
ness. 
C    Hun.     Alas  !    he's  mad — but  yet 

I  must  not  leave  him. 
Man.     I  would  I  were — for  then  the 
things  I  see' 

Would  be  but  a  distemper' d  dream. 
C.  Hun.  What  is  it 

That  thou  dost  see,  or  think  thou  look'st 
upon  ? 
Man.     Myself,  and  thee — a  peasant  of 
the  Alps — 

Thy   humble    virtues,  hospitable   home. 

And   spirit   patient,    pious,    proud,    and 
free  ; 

Thy  self-respect,   grafted   on   innocent 
thoughts ; 

The  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep  ; 
thy  toils, 

By  danger  dignified,  yet  guiltless  ;  hopes 

Of  cheerful  old  age  and  a  quiet  grave, 

With  cross  and   garland  over  its   green 
turf, 

And    thy    grandchildren's  love  for  epi- 
taph ; 

This  do  I  see — and  then  I   look  within — 

It  matters  not — my  soul  was  scorch'd  al- 
ready ! 
C.    Hun.  And  would  st  thou  then  ex- 
change thy  lot  for  mine  ? 


BYRON 


Man.     No,  friend  !  I  would  not  wrong 

thee,  nor  exchange 
My  lot  with  living  being  :  I  can  bear — 
However  wretchedly,  'tis  still  to  bear — 
In  life  what  others  could  not  brook  to 

dream, 
But  perish  in  their  slumber. 

C  Hun.  And  with  this — 

This  cautious  feeling  for  another's  pain. 
Canst  thou  be  black  with  evil? — say  not 

so. 
Can  one  of  gentle  thoughts  have  wreak'd 

revenge 
Upon  his  enemies  ? 

Man.  Oh !  no,  no.  no  ! 

My  injuries   came  down  on  those  who 

loved  me — 
On  those  whom  I  best  loved  :  I  never 

quelled 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  just  defence — 
But  my  embrace  was  fatal. 

C.  Hun.  Heaven  give  thee  rest ! 

And  penitence  restore  thee  to  thyself  ; 
My  prayers  shall  be  for  thee. 

Man.  I  need  them  not — 

But  can  endure  thy  pity.     I  depart — 
'Tis   time — farewell ! — Here's  gold,  and 

thanks  for  thee — 
No  words — it  is  thy   due. — Follow  me 

not — 
I  know  my  path — the  mountain  peril's 

past: 
And  once  again  I  charge   thee,    follow 

not  !  [Exit  Manfred. 

Scene  II 

A  lower  Valley  in  the  Alps. — A  Cataract. 

Enter  Manfred. 

It  is  not  noon — the  sunbow's  rays  still 

arch 
The    torrent   with   the   many    hues    of 

heaven, 
And    roll   the   sheeted   silver's    waving 

column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular, 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along, 
And  to  and   fro,   like  the  pale  courser's 

tail, 
The  Giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 
As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.     No  eyes 
But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  love- 
liness ; 
I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude, 
And  with  the  Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters. — I  will  call 
her. 


[Manfred  takes  some  of  the  water 
into  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and 
flings  it  into  the  air,  muttering  the 
adjuration.  After  a  pause,  the 
Witch  of  the  Alps  rises  beneath 
the  arch  of  the  sunbow  of  the  tor- 
rent. 

Beautiful  Spirit !  with  thy  hair  of  light, 

And  dazzling  eyes  of   glory,  in  whose 
form 

The    charms    of    earth's    least     mortal 
daughters  grow 

To  an  unearthly  stature,  in  an  essence 

Of   purer  elements;  while  the  hues   of 
youth, — 

Carnation'd    like     a    sleeping    infant's 
cheek, 

Rock'd  by  the  beating  of  her  mother's 
heart, 

Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer's  twi- 
light leaves 

Upon  the  lofty  glacier's  virgin  snow, 

The  blush  of  earth  embracing  with  her 
heaven — 

Tinge  thy  celestial    aspect,  and  make 
tame 

The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends 
o'er  thee. 

Beautiful  Spirit !  in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 

Wherein  is  glass'd  serenity  of  soul, 

Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 

I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  Son 

Of  Earth,  whom  the  abstruser  powers 
permit 

At  times   to   commune   with    them — if 
that  he 

Avail    him   of  his  spells — to  call   thee 
thus, 

And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

Witch.  Son  of  Earth  ! 

I  know  thee,  and  the  powers  which  give 
thee  power  ; 

I  know  thee  for  a  man  of  many  thoughts, 

And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in 
both, 

Fatal  and  fated  in  thy  sufferings. 

I  have  expected  this — what  wouldst  thou 
with  me  ? 
Man.  To  look  upon  thy  beauty — noth- 
ing further. 

The  face  of  the  earth  hath  madden'd  me, 
and  I 

Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 

To  the  abodes  of  those  who  govern  her— 

But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.     I  have 
sought 

From  them  what  they  could  not  bestow, 
and  now 

I  search  no  further. 


222 


BRITISH    POETS 


Witch.  What  could  be  the  quest 

Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most 

powerful, 
The  rulers  of  the  invisible? 

Man.  A  boon  ; 

But  why  should  I  repeat  it?  'twere  in 

vain. 
Witch.  I  know  not  that  ;  let  thy  lips 

utter  it. 
Man.  Well,  though  it  torture  me,  'tis 

but  the  same  ; 
My  pang  shall  find  a  voice.     From  my 

youth  upwards 
My  spirit  walk'd  not  with  the  souls  of 

men, 
Nor  look'd  upon  the  earth  with  human 

eyes; 
The   thirst   of   their   ambition   was  not 

mine, 
The    aim   of   their    existence    was  not 

mine  ; 
My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my 

powers, 
Made  me  a  stranger  ;  though  I  wore  the 

form, 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh, 
Nor  midst  the  creatures  of  clay    that 

girded  me 
Was  there  but  one  who — but  of  her  anon. 
I  said  with  men,  and  with  the  thoughts  of 

men, 
I  held  but  slight  communion;  but  instead 
My    J°y    was    m    the     wilderness, — to 

breathe 
The  difficult  air  of  the   iced  mountain's 

top, 
Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  in- 
sect's wing 
Flit  o'er  the  herbless  granite  ;  or  to  plunge 
Into  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 
On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new  breaking 

wave 
Of  river-stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow. 
In  these  my  early  strength  exulted  ;  or 
To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving 

moon, 
The   stars   and   their   development  ;   or 

catch 
The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew 

dim  ; 
Or  to  look,   list'ning,  on  the  scattered 

leaves, 
While  Autumn  winds  were  at  their  even- 
ing song. 
These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone; 
For  if  the  beings,  of  whom  I  was  one, — 
Hating  to  be  so, — cross'd  me  in  my  path, 
I  felt  myself  degraded  back  to  them, 
And  was  all  clay  again.  And  then  I  dived, 


In  my  lone  wanderings,  to  the  caves  of 

death. 
Searching  its  cause   in  its  effect ;  and 

drew 
From   wither'd  bones,   and  skull,   and 

heap'd  up  dust, 
Conclusions  most    forbidden.      Then   I 

pass'd 
The  nights  of  years  in  sciences  untaught 
Save  in  the  old  time  ;  and  with  time  and 

toil, 
And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance 
As  in  itself  hath  power  upon  the  air, 
And    spirits   that  do  compass  air  and 

earth, 
Space,  and  the  peopled  infinite,  I  made 
Mine  eyes  familiar  with  Eternity, 
Such  as,  before  me,  did  the  Magi,  and 
He  who  from  out  their  fountain  dwell- 
ings raised 
Eros  and  Anteros,  at  Gadara, 
As  I  do  thee  ; — and  with  my  knowledge 

grew 
The  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power 

and  joy 
Of  this  most  bright  intelligence,  until — 
Witch.     Proceed. 
Man.     Oh  1  I  but  thus  prolong'd  my 

words, 
Boasting  these  idle  attributes,  because 
As  I  approach   the  core  of  my  heart's 

grief — 
But  to  my  task,  I  have  not  named  to  thee 
Father  or  mother,  mistress,  friend,   or 

being, 
With  whom  I  wore  the  chain  of  human 

ties  ; 
If  I  had  such,  they  seem'd  not  such  to  me; 
Yet  there  was  one — 

Witch.     Spare  not  thyself — proceed. 
Man.     She  was  like  me  in  lineaments  ; 

her  eyes. 
Her  hair,  her  features,  all,  to  the  very 

tone 
Even  of  her  voice,  they  said  were  like 

to  mine  ; 
But    soften'd    all,    and    temper'd    into 

beauty : 
She   had   the  same   lone   thoughts   and 

wanderings, 
The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a 

mind 
To  comprehend  the  universe  :  nor  these 
Alone,  but  with  them  gentler  powers 

than  mine, 
Pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears — which  I  had 

not  ; 
And  tenderness— but  that  I  had  for  her  ; 
Humility — and  that  I  never  had. 


BYRON 


223 


Her  faults  were  mine — her  virtues  were 

her  own — 
I  loved  her,  and  destroy'd  her  ! 

Witch.  With  thy  hand  ? 

Man.     Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart, 

which  broke  her  heart ; 
It  gazed  on  mine,  and  wither'd.     I  have 

shed 
Blood,  but  not  hers — and  yet  her  blood 

was  shed  ; 
I  saw — and  could  not  stanch  it. 
•  Witch  And  for  this — 

A  being  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise, 
The  order,  which  thine  own   would  rise 

above, 
Mingling  with  us  and  ours, — thou  dost 

forego 
The  gifts  of  our  great  knowledge,  and 

shrink'st  back 

To  recreant  mortality Away  ! 

Man.     Daughter  of  Air  !  I  tell  thee, 

since  that  hour — 
But  words  are  breath — look  on  me  in  my 

sleep, 
Or  watch  my  watchings — Come  and  sit 

by  me  ! 
My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more, 
But  peopled  with  the  Furies  ;— I  have 

gnash'd 
My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn, 
Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset  ; — I  have 

pray'd 
For  madness  as  a  blessing — 'tis  denied 

me. 
I  have  affronted   death — but  in  the  war 
Of  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me, 
And  fatal  things   pass'd  harmless  ;  the 

cold  hand 
Of  an  all-pitiless  demon  held  me  back, 
Back  by  a  single  hair,  which   would  not 

breaK 
In  fantasy,  imagination,  all 
The  affluence  of  my  soul — which  one  day 

was 
A  Croesus  in  creation — I  plunged  deep 
But,  like  an  ebbing  wave,  it  dash'd  me 

back 
Into  the  gulf  of  myunfathom'd  thought. 
I  plunged  amidst  mankind — Forgetful- 

ness 
I  sought  in  all,    save  where  'tis  to    be 

found, 
And  that  I  have  to  learn  ;  my  sciences, 
My  long-pursued  and  superhuman  art, 
Is  mortal  here  :  I  dwell  in  my  despair — 
And  live — and  live  for  ever. 

Witch.  It  may  be 

That  I  can  aid  thee. 
Man.  To  do  this  thy  power 


Must  wake  the  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with 

them. 
Do  so — in  any  shape — in  any  hour— 
With  any  torture — so  it  be  the  last. 
Witch.  That  is  not  in  my  province  ; 

but  if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  my  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may    help  thee  to    thy 

wishes. 
Man.     I    will    not  swear — Obey  !  and 

whom  ?  the  spirits 
Whose  presence  I  command,  and  be  the 

slave 
Of  those  who  served  me — Never  ! 

Witch.  Is  this  all  ? 

Hast  thou  no  gentler  answer  ? — Yet  be- 
think thee, 
And  pause  ere  thou  rejectest. 
Man.  I  have  said  it. 

Witch.   Enough  !  I  may  retire  then — 

say ! 
Man.  Retire ! 

[The  Witch  disappears. 
Man.   (alone) .  We  are  the  fools  of  time 

and  terror :  Days 
Steal  on  us,  and  steal  from  us  ;  yet  we  live, 
Loathing  our  life,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 
In  all  the  days  of  this  detested  yoke — 
This  vital   weight   upon   the   struggling 

heart, 
Which  sinks  with  sorrow,  or  beats  quick 

with  pain, 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  faintness — 
In  all  the  days  of  past  and  future,  for 
In  life  there  is  no  present,  we  can  number 
How  few — how  less  than  few — wherein 

the  soul 
Forbears  to  pant  for  death,  and  yet  draws 

back 
As  from  a  stream  in  winter,  though  the 

chill 
Be  but  a  moment's.  I  have  one  resource 
Still  in  my  science — I  can  call  the  dead, 
And  ask  them  what  it  is  we  dread  to  be  ; 
The  sternest  answer  can  but  be  the  Grave, 
And   that   is   nothing.     If  they  answer 

not 

The  buried  Prophet  answered  to  the  Hag 
Of  Endor  ;   and   the    Spartan    Monarch 

d  re  w 
From  the  Byzantine    maid's   unsleeping 

spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny — he  slew 
Thai  which  he  loved,    unknowing   what 

he  slew, 
And  died  unpardon'd — though  he  oall'd 

in  aid 
The    Phyxian  Jove,    and    in     Phigalia 

roused 


224 


BRITISH  POETS 


The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 
The    indignant  shadow   to  depose   her 

wrath, 
Or  fix  her  term  of  vengeance — she  replied 
In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfill'd. 
If  I  had  never  lived,  that  which  I  love 
Had  still  been  living  ;  had  I  never  loved, 
That  which  I  love  would  still  be  beauti- 
ful, 
Happy  and  giving  happiness.     What  is 

she? 
What  is  she  now  ?— a  sufferer  for  my 

sins — 
A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon — or  noth- 
ing. 
Within  few  hours  I    shall  not    call  in 

vain — 
Yet  in  this  hour  I  dread  the  thing  I  dare  : 
Until  this  hour  I  never  shrunk  to  gaze 
On  spirit,  good  or  evil — now  I  tremble, 
And  feel  a  strange  cold  thaw  upon  my 

heart. 
But  I  can  act  even  what  I  most  abhor, 
And  champion  human  fears. — The  night 
approaches.  [Exit. 

Scene  III 

The  Summit  of  the  Jungfrau  Mountain. 

Enter  First  Destiny. 

The  moon  is  rising  broad,  and  round,  and 

bright ; 
And  here  on  snows,  where  never  human 

foot 
Of  common    mortal   trod,    we    nightly 

tread, 
And  leave  no  traces  :  o'er  the  savage  sea, 
The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain  ice, 
We  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  put 

on 
The  aspect  of  a  tumbling  tempest's  foam, 
Frozen  in  a  moment — a  dead  whirlpool's 

image  : 
And  this  most  steep  fantastic  pinnacle, 
The    fretwork     of   some    earthquake — 

where  the  clouds 
Pause  to  repose  themselves  in  passing 

by- 
Is  sacred  to  our  revels,  or  our  vigils  ; 
Here  del  wait  my  sisters,  on  our  way 
To  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  for  to-night 
Is  our  great  festival — 't  is  strange  they 

come  not. 

A  Voice  without,  singing. 

The  Captive  Usurper, 

Hurl'd  down  from  the  throne, 


Lay  buried  in  torpor, 
Forgotten  and  lone ; 
I  broke  through  his  slumbers, 

I  shiver'd  his  chain, 
I  leagued  him  with  numbers — ■ 
He's  Tyrant  again  ! 
With  the  blood  of  a  million  he'll  answer 

my  care, 
With  a  nation's   destruction — his   flight 
and  despair. 

Second  Voice,  without. 

The  ship  sail'd  on,  the  ship  sail'd  fast. 
But  I  left  not  a  sail,  and  I  left  not  a 

mast ; 
There  is  not  a  plank  of  the  hull  or  the 

deck, 
And  there  is  not  a  wretch  to  lament  o'er 

his  wreck  ; 
Save  one,  whom  I  held,  as  he  swam,  by 

the  hair, 
And  he  was  a  subject  well  worthy  my 

care  ; 
A  traitor  on  land,  and  a  pirate  at  sea, — 
But  I  saved  him  to  wreak  further  havoc 

for  me  1 

First  Destiny,  ansivering. 

The  city  lies  sleeping ; 

The  morn,  to  deplore  it, 
May  dawn  on  it  weeping : 

Sullenly,  slowly. 
The  black  plague  flew  o'er  it- 
Thousands  lie  lowly  ; 
Tens  of  thousands  shall  perish  \ 

The  living  shall  fly  from 
The  sick  they  should  cherish  ; 

But  nothing  can  vanquish 
The  touch  that  they  die  from. 

Sorrow  and  anguish, 
And  evil  and  dread, 

Envelop  a  nation  ; 
The  blest  are  the  dead, 

Who  see  not  the  sight 
Of  their  own  desolation  ; 

This  work  of  a  night — 
This  wreck  of  a  realm — this  deed  of  my 

doing — 
For  ages  I've  done,  and  shall  still  be  re- 
newing ! 

Enter  the  Second  and  Third  Destinies 

The  Three. 

Our  hands  contain  the  hearts  of  men, 
Our  footsteps  are  their  graves  ; 

We  only  give  to  take  again 
The  spirits  of  our  slaves  ! 


BYRON 


225 


First  Des.     Welcome  ! — Where's  Nem- 
esis ? 
Second  Des.  At  some  great  work; 

But  what  I  know  not,  for  my  hands  were 
full. 
Third  Des.     Behold  she  cometh. 

Enter  Nemesis. 

First  Des.    Say.  where  hast  thou  been  ? 
My  sisters  and  thyself  are  slow  to-night. 
Nem.       I      was     detain'd      repairing 
shatter'd  thrones, 
Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties, 
Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies, 
And  making  them  repent  their  own  re- 
venge ; 
Goading  the  wise  to  madness  ;  from  the 

dull 
Shaping  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 
Afresh,  for  they  were  waxing  out  of  date, 
And  mortals  dared  to  ponder   for  them- 
selves, 
To  weigh  kings  in  the  balance,  and  to 

speak 
Of  freedom,  the  forbidden  fruit. — Away  ! 
We  have  outstay 'd  the  hour — mount  we 
our  clouds !  [Exeunt . 

Scene  IV 

Tlie  Hall  of  Arimanes — Arimanes  on  his 
Throne,  a  Globe  of  Fire,  surrounded 
by  the  Spirits. 

Hymn  of  the  Spirits. 

Hail  to   our   Master ! — Prince   of   Earth 
and  Air  ! 
Who  walks  the  clouds  and  waters — in 
his  hand 
The  sceptre  of  the  elements,  which  tear 
Themselves     to     chaos     at    his   high 
command  ! 
He    breatheth — and    a  tempest   shakes 
the  sea ; 
He  speaketh — and  the  clouds  reply   in 
thunder  ; 
He  gazetli — from  his    glance    the    sun- 
beams flee  ; 
He    moveth—  earthquakes    rend     the 
world  asunder. 
Beneath  his  footsteps  the  volcanoes  rise  : 
His  shadow  in  the  Pestilence  ;  his  path 
The  comets  herald  through  the  crackling 
skies  ; 
And  planets  turn  to  ashes  at  Ids  wrath. 
To  him  War  offers  daily  sacrifice  ; 
'    To  him  Death  pays  his  tribute  ;     Life 
is  his, 

J5 


With  all  its  infinite  of  agonies — 
And  his  the  spirit  of  whatever  is  ! 

Enter  the  Destinies  and  Nemesis. 

First  Des.     Glory  to  Arimanes  !  on  the 

earth 
His  power   increaseth — both  my  sisters 

did 
His  bidding,  nor  did  I  neglect  my  duty ! 
Second  Des.     Glory  to  Arimanes  !    we 

who  bow 
The  necks  of  men,  bow  down  before  his 

throne  ! 
Third  Des.     Glory  to   Arimanes !    we 

await  His  nod ! 
Nem.     Sovereign  of  Sovereigns  !  we  are 

thine, 
And  all  that  liveth,  more  or  less,  is  ours, 
And    most    things   wholly   so  ;   still    to 

increase 
Our  power,  increasing    thine,    demands 

our  care, 
And  we  are  vigilant.     Thy  late  commands 
Have  been  fulfill'd  to  the  utmost. 

Enter.   Manfred. 

A  Spirit.  What  is  here  ? 

A  mortal  ! — Thou  most  rash    and    fatal 

wretch, 
Bow  down  and  worship  ! 

Second  Spirit.     I  do  know  the  man — 
A  Magian    of  great  power,  and  fearful 
skill ! 
Third  Spirit.     Bow  down  and  worship, 
slave ! — 
What,  know'st  thou  not 
Thine    and    our    Sovereign  ? — Tremble, 
and  obey  ! 
All  the  Spirits.    Prostrate  thyself,  and 
thy  condemned  clay, 
Child  of  the  Earth  !  or  dread  the  worst. 
Man.  I  know  it ; 

And  yet  ye  see  I  kneel  not. 
Fourth  Sjjirit.     'T  will  be  taught  thee. 
Man.     'T  is  taught  already  ; — many  a 
night  on  the  earth. 
On  the  bare  ground,  have  I  bow'd  down 

my  face, 
And  strew'd  my  head  with  ashes  ;  I  have 

known 
The  fulness  of  humiliation,  for 
I  sunk  before  my  vain  despair,  and  knelt 
To  my  own  desolation. 

Fifth  Spirit.  Dost  thou  dare 

Refuse  to  Arimanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  behold 
ing  not 


226 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  terror  of  his  glory? — Crouch,  I  say. 
Man.     Bid    him  bow  clown    to    that 

which  is  above  him, 
The  overruling  Infinite— the  Maker 
Who   made   him   not    for   worship — let 

him  kneel, 
And  we  will  kneel  together. 

The  Spirits.  Crush  the  worm  ! 

Tear  him  in  pieces  ! — 

First    Des.     Hence!    avaunt !  —  lies 

mine. 
Prince  of  the  Powers  invisible !    This 

man 
Is  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 
And  presence  here  denote  ;  his  sufferings 
Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 
Our  own  ;  his  knowledge,  and  his  powers 

and  will, 
As  far  as  is  compatible  with  clay, 
Which  clogs  the  ethereal  essence,  have 

been  such 
As  clay  hath  seldom  borne  ;  his  aspira- 
tions 
Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the 

earth, 
And  they  have  only  taught  him  what 

we  know — 
That  knowledge  is  not  happiness,  and 

science 
But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 
Which  is  another  kind  of  ignorance. 
This  is  not  all — the  passions,  attributes 
Of  earth   and   heaven,  from   which   no 

power,  nor  being, 
Nor  breath  from  the  worm  upwards  is 

exempt, 
Have  pierced    his  heart,   and  in  their 

consequence 
Made  him  a  thing  which  I,  who  pity  not, 
Yet  pardon  those  who  pity.     He  is  mine, 
And  thine,  it  may  be  ;  be  it  so,  or  not, 
No  other  Spirit  in  this  region  hath 
A  soul  like  his — or  power  upon  his  soul. 
Nem.     What  doth  lie  here  then  ? 
First  Des.  Let  him  answer  that. 

Man.     Ye  know  what  I  have  known  ; 

and  without  power 
I  could  not  be  amongst  ye  :  but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond — I  come  in 

quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  unto  what  I  seek. 
Nem.  What  wouldst  thou  ? 
Man.  Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 

Call   up   the  dead — my    question   is  for 

them. 
Nem.     Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will 

avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal  ? 
Ari.  Yea. 


Nem.  Whom  wouldst  thou 

Uncharnel  ? 
Man.     One  without  a  tomb — call  up 

Astarte. 

Nemesis 

Shadow  !  or  Spirit ! 

Whatever  thou  art, 
Which  still  doth  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  part 
Of  the  form  of  thy  birth, 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 
Which  return'd  to  the  earth, 

Re-appear  to  the  day  ! 
Bear  what  thou  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form, 
And  the  aspect  thou  worest 
Redeem  from  the  worm, 
Appear  ! — Appear  ! — Appear  ! 
Who  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here  ! 
[The  Phantom  of  Astarte  rises 
and  stands  in  the  midst. 
Man.     Can    this    be    death?    there's 
bloom  upon  her  cheek  ; 
But  now  I  see  it  is  no  living  hue, 
But  a  strange  hectic — like  the  unnatural 

red 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  perish 'd 

leaf. 
It  is  the  same !    Oh,  God  !  that  I  should 

dread 
To  look  upon  the  same — Astarte  ! — No. 
I    cannot    speak   to    her — but   bid    her 

speak — 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

Nemesis 

By  the  power  which  hath  broken 
The  grave  which  enthrall'd  thee, 

Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken, 
Or  those  who  have  call'd  thee ! 

Man.  She  is  silent, 

And  in  that  silence  I  am  more  than  an- 
swer'd. 
Nem.     My  power  extends  no  further, 
Prince  of  Air  ! 
It  rests  with  thee  alone — command  her 
voice. 
Art.     Spirit— obey  this  sceptre  ! 
Nem.  Silent  still ! 

She  is  not  of  our  order,  but  belongs 
To  the  other  powers.     Mortal !  thy  quest 

is  vain, 
And  we  are  baffled  also. 

3Ian.  Hear  me,  hear  me — 

Astarte  !  my  beloved  !  speak  to  me  : 
I   have    so     much     endured — so     much 
endure — 


BYRON 


227 


Look    on    me   !     the    grave    hath    not 

changed  thee  more 
Than  I   am   changed   for    thee.     Thou 

lovedst  me 
Too  much,  as  I  loved  thee  :  we  were  not 

made 
To  torture  thus  each  other,  though  it 

were 
The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  have 

loved. 
Say  that  thou  loath'st  me  not — that  I  do 

bear 
This   punishment   for   both — that   thou 

wilt  be 
One  of  the  blessed — and  that  I  shall  die  ; 
For  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  bind  me  in  existence — in  a  life 
Which  makes   me  shrink  from  immor- 
tality— 
A  future  like  the  past.     I  cannot  rest. 
I  know  not  what  I  ask,  nor  what  I  seek  ; 
I  feel  but  what  thou  art,  and  what  I  am  ; 
And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 
The  voice  which  was  my  music — Speak 

to  me  ! 
For  I  have  call'd   on  thee  in  the  still 

night. 
Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the 

hush'd  boughs, 
And    woke   the   mountain   wolves,  and 

made  the  caves 
Acquainted   with     thy    vainly     echoed 

name, 
Which     answer'd     me  —  many     things 

answer'd  me — 
Spirits  and   men — but  thou  wert  silent 

all. 
Yet  speak  to  me  !     I  have  outwatch'd 

the  stars. 
And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  search  of 

thee. 
Speak   to  me  !   I  have  wander'd  o'er  the 

earth . 
And  never  found  thy  likeness — Speak  to 

me  ! 
Look  on  the  fiends  around — they  feel  for 

me  : 
I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone — 
Speak  to  me  !  though  it  be  in  wrath  ;  — 

but  say — 
I  reck  not  what  —  but  let  me  hear  thee 

once — 
This  once — once  more  ! 

Phantom  of  Astarte.     Manfred. 
Man.  Say  on,  say  on — 

I  live  but  in  the  sound — it  is  thy  voice  ! 
Phan.      Manfred  !      To-morrow    ends 

thine  earthly  ills. 
Farewell  ! 


Man.    Yet  one  word  more — am  I  for 

given  ? 
Phan.     Farewell  ! 

Man.  Say,  shall  we  meet  again? 

Phan.     Farewell  ! 
Man.    One  word  for  mercy  !  Say,  thou 

lovest  me. 
Phan.     Manfred  ! 

[The  Spirit  of  Astarte  disappears. 
Nem.     She's  gone,   and  will    not    be 
recall'd  ; 
Her  words  will   be   fulfill'd.     Return  to 
the  earth. 
A  Spirit.    He  is  convulsed. — This  is  to 
be  a  mortal 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality. 
Another  Sjnrit.      Yet,   see,    he   mas- 
tereth  himself,  and  makes 
His  tortui'e  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have 

made 
An  awful  spirit. 

Nem.  Hast  thou  further  question 

Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worship- 
pers ? 
Man.     None. 

Nem.  Then  for  a  time  farewell. 

Man.  We  meet  then  !  where  ?    On  the 
earth  ? — 
Even  as  thou  wilt :  and  for  the  grace  ac- 
corded 
I  now  depart  a  debtor.     Fare  ye  well  ! 
[Exit  Manfred. 

(Scene  closes. ) 

Act  III 

Scene  I.- A  Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred. 

Manfred  and  Herman. 

Man.     What  is  the  hour  ? 

Her.  It  wants  but  one  till  sunset, 

And  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 

Man.  Say, 

Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed  ? 

Her.        All,  my  lord,  are  ready  : 
Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 

Man.  It  is  well  : 

Thou  may'st  retire.  [Exit  Herman. 

Man.  (alone).  There  is  a  calm  upon  me— 
Inexplicable  stillness  !  which  till  now 
Did  not  belong  to  what  I  knew  of  life. 
If  that  I  did  not  know  philosophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motliest, 
The  merest  word  that  ever  fool'd  the  ear 
From   out   the     schoolman's    jargon.    I 
should  deem 


228 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  golden  secret,  the  sought  "  Kalou," 

found, 
And  seated  in  my  soul.  It  will  not  last. 
But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though 

but  once  : 
It  hath  enlarged  my  thoughts   with  a 

new  sense, 
And  I  within  my  tablets  would   note 

down 
That  there  is  such  a  feeling.     Who  is 

there  ? 

Re-enter  Herman. 

Her.    My  lord,  the  abbot  of  St.  Mau- 
rice craves 
To  greet  your  presence. 

Enter  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 

Abbot.     Peace    be   with    Count   Man- 
fred ! 
Man.     Thanks,  holy  father  !  welcome 
to  these  walls  ; 

Thy  presence  honors  them,  and  blesseth 
those 

Who  dwell  within  them. 
Abbot.     Would   it  were   so,   Count ! — 

But  I  would  fain  confer  with  thee  alone. 
Man.     Herman,  retire. — What  would 

ray  reverend  guest  ? 
Abbot.    Thus,  without  prelude  : — Age 
and  zeal,  my  office, 

And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privi- 
lege ; 

Our  near,  though  not  acquainted  neigh- 
borhood, 

May    also    be    my     herald.       Rumors 
strange, 

And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad, 

And  busy  with  thy  name  ;  a  noble  name 

For  centuries :  may  he  who  bears  it  now 

Transmit  it  unimpair'd  ! 
Man.  Proceed. — I  listen. 

Abbot.  'T  is  said  thou  boldest  converse 
with  the  things 

Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of 
man  ; 

That   with   the   dwellers   of     the     dark 
abodes, 

The  many  evil  and  unheavenly  spirits 

Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of 
death, 

Thou  communest.     I    know   that   with 
mankind, 

Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 

Exchange  thy   thoughts,    and   that  thy 
solitude 

Is  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy. 


Man.     And   what  are    they  who  do 

avouch  these  things  ? 
Abbot.     My  pious  brethren— the  scared 
peasantry — 
Even  thy  own  vassals — who  do  look  on 

thee 
With  most  unquiet  eyes.     Thy  life's  in 
peril. 
Man.     Take  it. 

Abbot.     I  come  to  save,   and  not  des- 
troy : 
I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul  ; 
But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is 

time 
For  penitence  and  pity  :  reconcile  thee 
With  the  true  church,  and  through  the 
church  to  heaven. 
Man.     I  hear  thee.     This  is  my  reply  : 
whate'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  be- 
tween 
Heaven  and  myself.     I  shall  not  choose 

a  mortal 
To  be  my  mediator.     Have  I  sinn'd 
Against    your    ordinances  ?    prove  and 
punish  ! 
Abbot.     My  son  !  I  did  not  speak  of 
punishment. 
But  penitence  and  pardon  ; — with  myself 
The  choice  of  such  remains — and  for  the 

last, 
Our   institutions   and   our  strong  belief 
Have  given   me   power   to   smooth   the 

path  from  sin 
To  higher  hope  and  better  thoughts  ;  the 

first 
I  leave  to  heaven, — "  Vengeance  is  mine 

alone  !  " 
So  saith  the  Lord,  and  with  all  humble- 
ness 
His  servant  echoes  back  the  awful  word. 
Man.     Old  man  !  there  is  no  power  in 
holy  men, 
Nor  charm  in  prayer,  nor  purifying  form 
Of  penitence,  nor  outward  look,  nor  fast, 
Nor  agony- — nor,  greater  than  all  these, 
The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  despair, 
Which   is  remorse   without  the  fear  of 

hell, 
But  all  in  all  sufficient  to  itself 
Would  make  a  hell  of  heaven — can  ex- 
orcise 
From  out  the  unbound  spirit  the  quick 

sense 
Of  its  own  sins,  wrongs,  sufferance,  and 

revenge 
Upon  itself  ;  there  is  no  future  pang 
Can  deal  that  justice  on  the  self-con- 
demn'd 


BYRON 


229 


He  deals  on  his  own'soul. 

Abbot.  All  this  is  well ; 

For  this  will  pass  away,  and  be  succeeded 
By  an  auspicious  hope,  which  shall  look 

up 
With  calm  assurance  to  that    blessed 

place, 
Which  all  who  seek  may  win,  whatever 

be 
Their  earthly  errors,  so  they  be  atoned  : 
And  the  commencement  of  atonement  is 
The  sense  of  its  necessity.     Say  on — 
And  all  our  church  can  teach  thee  shall 

be  taught ; 
And  all  we   can   absolve  thee  shall  be 

pardon'd. 
Man.     When    Rome's  sixth   emperor 

was  near  his  last. 
The  victim  of  a  self-inflicted  wound, 
To  shun  the  torments  of  a  public  death 
From  senates  once  his  slaves,  a  certain 

soldier, 
With   show   of   loyal  pity,    would  have 

stanch'd 
The   gushing   throat   with   his   officious 

robe  ; 
The  dying-  Roman  thrust  him  back,  and 

said — 
Some  empire  still  in  his  expiring  glance — 
"  It  is  too  late — is  this  fidelity  ?  " 
Abbot.     And  what  of  this  ? 
Man.     I  answer  with  the  Roman — 
"  It  is  too  late  !  " 

Abbot.  It  never  can  be  so, 

To  reconcile  thyself  with  thy  own  soul, 
And  thy  own  soul   with  heaven.     Hast 

thou  no  hope  ? 
'Tis  strange — even   those    who    do    de- 
spair above, 
Yet  shape  themselves  some  fantasy  on 

earth, 
To   which   frail   twig   they    cling,    like 

drowning  men. 
Man.     Ay — father  !  I  have  had  those 

earthly  visions, 
And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth, 
To  make   my  own   the    mind   of  other 

men, 
The  enlightener  of  nations ;  and  to  rise 
I  knew  not  whither — it  might  be  to  fall  ; 
But  fall,  even  as  the  mountain-cataract, 
Which  having  leapt  from  its  more  daz- 
zling height, 
Even   in   the    foaming   strength  of  its 

abyss, 
(Which  casts  up  misty  columns  that  be- 
come 
Clouds    raining    from    the   re-ascended 

skies,) 


Lies  low  but  mighty  still. — But  this  is 

past, 
My  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 

Abbot.  And  wherefore  so  V 

Man.     I  could  not   tame   my  nature 

down  ;  for  he 
Must  serve  who  fain  would  sway  ;  and 

soothe,  and  sue. 
And  watch  all  time,  and    pry  into  all 

place, 
And  be  a  living  lie,  who  would  become 
A  mighty  thing  amongst  the  mean,  and 

such 
The  mass  are  ;  I  disdain'd  to  mingle  with 
A  herd,   though  to  be  leader — and  of 

wolves. 
The  lion  is  alone,  and  so  am  I. 
Abbot.  And  why  not  live  and  act  with 

other  men  ? 
Man.     Because  my  nature  was  averse 

from  life  ; 
And  yet  not  cruel ;  for  I  would  not  make. 
But  find  a  desolation.     Like  the  wind, 
The   red-hot    breath    of  the  most   lone 

simoom, 
Which  dwells  but   in  the    desert,  and 

sweeps  o'er 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  no   shrubs 

to  blast, 
And    revels   o'er   their    wild    and    arid 

waves, 
And  seeketh  not,  sO  that  it  is  not  sought. 
But   being   met    is  deadly, — such    hath 

been 
The  course   of   my  existence  ;  but  there 

came 
Things  in  my  path  which  are  no  more. 

Abbot.  Alas  \ 

I  'gin  to  fear  that  thou  art  past  all  aid. 
From  me  and  from  my  calling  ;  yet  so 

young, 
I  still  would — 

Man.  Look  on  me  !  there  is  an  order 
Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in   their  youth,  and  die  ere  middle 

age, 
Without  the  violence   of  warlike  death  : 
Some    perishing  of    pleasure,    some   of 

study, 
Some   worn    with  toil,    some    of    mere 

weariness, 
Some  of  disease,  and  some  insanity, 
And    some    of   wither'd    or   of   broken 

hearts  ; 
For  this  last  is  a  malady  which  slays 
More  than   are  number'd  in  the  lists  of 

Fate. 
Taking    all    shapes,  and  bearing  many 

names. 


230 


BRITISH   POETS 


Look   upon    me!   for   even   of   all  these 

things 
Have  I  partaken;  and  of  all  these  things, 
One  were  enough;  then  wonder  not  that  I 
Am  what  I  am,  but  that  lever  was, 
Or  having  been,  that  I  am  still  on  earth. 

Abbot.     Yet,  hear  ine  still 

Man.  Old  man!  I  do  respect 

Thine  order,  and  revere  thine  years ;  I 

deem 
Thy  purpose  pious,  but  it  is  in  vain  : 
Think  me  not  churlish  ;  I  would  spare 

thyself, 
Far  more  than  me,  in  shunning  at  this 

time 
All  further  colloquy — and  so — farewell. 
[Exit  Manfred. 
Abbot.  Tins  should  have  been  a  noble 

creature  ;  he 
Hath  all  the  energy  which  would  have 

made 
A  goodly  frame  of  glorious  elements, 
Had  they  been  wisely  mingled  ;  as  it  is, 
It  is  an  awful  chaos — light  and  darkness, 
And  mind  and   dust,  and   passions  and 

pure  thoughts 
Mix'd,  and   contending  without  end  or 

order, — 
All  dormant    or    destructive  :    he   will 

perish, 
And  yet    he  must  not ;  I  will  try  once 

more 
For  such  are  worth  redemption  ;  and  my 

duty 
Is  to  dare  all  things  for  a  righteous  end. 
I'll  follow  him — but  cautiously,    though 

surely.  [Exit  Abbot. 

Scene  II 

Another  Chamber. 

Manfred  and  Herman. 

Her.    My  lord,  you  bade  me  wait  on 
you  at  sunset : 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountain. 

Man.  Doth  he  so  ? 

I  will  look  on  him.     [Manfred  advances 
to  the  Window  of  the  Hall. 
Glorious  Orb  !  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant  sons 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More    beautiful    than  they,    which  did 

draw  down 
The  erring  spirits  who  can  ne'er  return. — 
Most  glorious  orb  !  that  wert  a  worship, 

ere 
The    mystery  of   thy    making  was    re- 
veal'd  ! 


Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 
Which    gladden'd,    on  their    mountain 

tops,  the  hearts 
Of  the  (Jhaldean    shepherds,    till    they 

pour'd 
Themselves   in   orisons  !    Thou  material 

God! 
And  representative  of  the  unknown — 
Who  chose  thee  for  his  shadow  !     Thou 

chief  star  ! 
Centre  of  many  stars  !  which  mak'stour 

earth 
Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 
And  hearts  of  all  who   walk   within  thy 

rays  : 
Sire  of  the  seasons !     Monarch  of  the 

climes, 
And  those  who  dwell  in  them  !  for  near 

or  far, 
Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee 
Even  as  our  outward  aspects  ; — thou  dost 

rise, 
And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.     Fare  thee 

well  ! 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.     As  my  first 

glance 
Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then 

take  [one 

My  latest  look:  thou  wilt  not  beam  on 
To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth 

have  been 
Of  a  more  fatal  nature.     He  is  gone  : 
I  follow.  [Exit  Manfred. 

Scene  III 

The  Mountains — The  Castle  of  Manfred 
at  some  distance — A  Terrace  before  a 
Tower — Time,  Twilight. 

Herman,  Manuel  and  other  Dependents 
of  Manfred. 

Her.   'Tis  strange  enough  ;  night  after 

night,  for  years, 
He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower, 
Without  a  witness.     I  have  been  within 

it  — 
So  have  we  all  been  oft-times;  but  from  it, 
Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute,  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.     To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  chamber  where  none  enter  :  I  wrould 

give 
The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these 

three  years, 
To  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel.  'Twere  dangerous; 

Content  thyself  with  what  thou  know'st 

already. 


BYRON 


231 


Her.     Ah  !   Manuel !   thou  art  elderly 

and  wise, 
And  couldst  say  much  ;  thou  hast  dwelt 

within  the  castle — 
How  many  years  is't? 

Manuel.       Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth, 
I  served  his  father,  whom  lie  nought  re- 
sembles. 
Her.    There  be  more  sons  in  like  pre- 
dicament. 
But  wherein  do  they  differ  ? 

Manuel.  I  speak  not 

Of  features  or  of  form,  but  mind  and 

habits  ; 
Count  Sigismund  was  proud,  but  gay  and 

free, — 
A  warrior  and  a  reveller  ;  he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the 

night 
A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time, 
Merrier  than  day  ;  he  did  not  walk  the 

rocks 
And  forests  like  a  wolf,  nor  turn  aside 
From  men  and  their  delights. 

Her.  Beshrew  the  hour, 

But  those  were  jocund  times !     I  would 

that  such 
Would  visit  the  old  walls  again  ;   they 

look 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 

Manuel.  These  walls 

Must  change  their  chief  tain  first.    Oh  !  I 

have  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  them,  Herman. 

Her.  Come,  be  friendly  ; 

Relate    me    some    to    while    away  our 

watch  : 
I've  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which    happen'd    hereabouts,    by    this 

same  tower. 
Manuel.    That  was  a  night  indeed  !     I 

do  remember 
'Twas  twilight,  as  it  may  be  now,  and 

such 
Another  evening  ; — yon  red  cloud,  which 

rests 
On  Eigher's  pinnacle,  so  rested  then, — 
So  like  that  it  might  be  the  same ;  the 

wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  the  mountain 

snows 
Began  to  glitter  with  the  climbing  moon; 
Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  within  his 

tower,— 
How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  but  with 

him 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings— her,  whom  of  all  earthly 

things 


That  lived,  the  only  thing  he  seem'd  tr 

love, — 
As  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do 
The  lady  Astarte,  his— 

Hush !  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  the  Abbot. 

Abbot.     Where  is  your  master  ? 

Her.  Yonder  in  the  tower. 

Abbot.     I  must  speak  with  him. 

Manuel.  'Tis  impossible ; 

He  is  most  private,  and  must  not  be  thus 
Intruded  on. 

Abbot.  Upon  myself  I  take 

The  forfeit  of  my  fault,  if  fault  there  be — 
But  I  must  see  him. 

Her.  Thou  hast  seen  him  once 

This  eve  already. 

Abbot.         Herman  !  I  command  thee, 
Knock,  and  apprize  the  Count  of  my  ap- 
proach. 

Her.     We  dare  not. 

Abbot.   Then  it  seems  I  must  be  herald 
Of  ray  own  purpose. 

Manuel.  Reverend  father,  stop — 

I  pray  vou  pause. 

Abbot.  Why  so  ? 

Manuel.  But  step  this  way, 

And  I  will  tell  you  further.         [Exeunt. 

Scene  IY 

Interior  of  the  Tower. 

Manfred  alone. 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the 

tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beau- 
tiful ! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  Night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man  ;   and  in   her  starry 

shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world. 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
When  I  was  wandering, — upon  such  a 

night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 
'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome  ; 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken 

arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and 

the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from 

afar 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber .' 

and 


BRITISH    POETS 


More  near  from  out  the  Csesars'  palace 

came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some    cypresses    beyond    the    time-worn 

breach 
Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they 

stood 
Within   a   bowshot.     Where   the    Caesars 

dwelt, 
And   dwell   the   tuneless  birds   of  night, 

amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd 

battlements, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial 

hearths, 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth; 
But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection, 
While    Ca-sar's    chambers,    and    the   Au- 
gustan halls, 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. 
And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon, 

upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 
Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up, 
As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the 

place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old,  — 
The  dead  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who 

still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns. 

'Twas  such  a  night! 
'T  is  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time; 
But    I    have    found    our    thoughts    take 

wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should 

array 
Themselves  in  pensive  order. 
Enter  the  Abbot. 
Abbot.  My  good  lord! 

I  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach; 
But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 
By  its  abruptness  —  all  it  hath  of  ill 
Recoils  on  me;  its  good  in  the  effect 
May  light  upon  your  head  —  could  I  say 

heart  — 
Could  I  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers, 

I  should 
Recall   a  noble  spirit  which  hath   wan- 

der'd; 
But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 
Man.  Thou  know'st  me  not; 


My  days  are  number'd,  and  my  deeds  re« 

corded  : 
Retire,  or  'twill  be  dangerous — Away  ! 
Abbot .   Thou  dost  not  mean  to  menace 

me? 
Man.  Not  I ; 

I  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand. 
And  would  preserve  thee. 
Abbot.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

Man.  Look  there ! 

What  dost  thou  see  ? 
Abbot.  Nothing. 

Man.  Look  there  I  say. 

And  steadfastly  ; — now    tell  me    what 
tliou  seest  ? 
Abbot.     That  which  should  shake  me, 
but  I  fear  it  not : 
I  see  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise, 
Like  an  infernal  god,  from  out  the  earth  ; 
His  face  wrapt  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds  :  he  stands  be- 
tween 
Thyself  and  nK  -  but  I  do  fear  him  not. 
Man.   Thou  hast  no  cause — he  shall  not 
harm  thee — but 
His  sight  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into 

palsy. 
I  say  to  thee — Retire  ! 

Abbot.  And  I  reply — 

Never — till    I    have    battled    with   this 

fiend  : — 
What  doth  he  here  '. 

Man.    Why — ay — what  cloth  he  here? 

I  did  not  send  for  him, — he  is  unbidden. 

Abbot.    Alas  !  lost  mortal  !   what  with 

guests  like  these 

Hast  thou  to  do  ?    I  tremble  for  thy  sake  : 

W7hy  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on 

him  ? 
Ah  !  he  unveils  his  aspect :  on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven  :  from  his 

eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell — 
Avaunt ! — 

Man.  Pronounce — what  is  thy  mission  '. 

Spirit.  Come  ! — 

Abbot.  What  art  thou,  unknown  being  ? 

answer  ! — speak  ! 

Spirit.     The   genius  of  this   mortal. — 

Come !  'tis  time. 
Man.    I  am  prepared  for  all  things,  but 
deny 
The  power  which  summons  me.  Whosent 
thee  here  ? 
Spirit.     Thou'lt    know  anon — Come  ! 

Come ! 
Man.  I  have  commanded 

Things  of  an  essence  greater  far  than 
thine, 


BYRON 


233 


And  striven  with  thy  masters.     Get  thee 

hence  ! 
Spirit.     Mortal !  thine  hour  is  come — 

Away  !  I  say. 
Man.     I  knew,  and  know  my  hour  is 

come,  but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee  : 
Away  !     I  '11  die  as  I  have  lived — alone. 
Spirit.     Then  I  must  summon  up  my 

brethren. — Rise  ! 

[Other  Spirits  rise  up. 
Abbot.      A  vaunt!     3*e    evil    ones!  — 

A vaunt !  I  say  ; 
Ye  have  no    power  where  piety   hath 

power, 

And  I  do  charge  ye  in  the  name 

Spirit.  Old  man  ! 

We   know   ourselves,   our  mission,  and 

thine  order ; 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses, 
It  were  in  vain  :  this  man  is  forfeited. 
Once     more    I    summon     him — Away  ! 

Away  ! 
Man.     I  do  defy  ye, — though  I  feel  my 

soul 
Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I  do  defy  ye  ; 
Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthly 

breath 
To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye — earthly 

strength 
To  wrestle,  though  with   spirits  ;  what 

ye  take 
Shall  be  ta'en  limb  by  limb. 

Spirit.  Reluctant  mortal ! 

Is  this  the  Magian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal  ?      Can  it  be  that  thou 
Art  thus  in  love  with  life?  the  very  life 
Which  made  thee  wretched  ! 

Man.  Thou  false  fiend,  thou  liest  ! 

My  life  is  in  its  last  hour, — that  I  know, 
Nor   would   redeem   a  moment  of  that 

hour  ; 
I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 
And   thy   surrounding  angels  ;  my  past 

power, 
Was  purchased  by  no  compact  with  thy 

crew, 
But  by  superior  science — penance,  dar- 
ing, 
And   length    of   watching,    strength  of 

mind,  and  skill 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers — when  the 

earth 
Saw   men  and  spirits  walking  side  by 

side, 
And  gave  ye  no  supremacy  :  I  stand 
Upon  my  strength — I  do  defy — deny — 
Spurn  back,  and  scorn  ye  ! — 


Spirit.  But  thy  many  crimes 

Have  made  thee 

Man.     What  are  they  to  such  as  thee  ? 
Must  crimes  be   punish'd  but  by  other 

crimes,  [hell  ! 

And  greater  criminals? — Back  to  thy 
Thou   hast  no   power   upon   me,  that  I 

feel  ;  [know : 

Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  that  I 
What  I  have  done  is  done  ;  I  bear  within 
A   torture   which   could    nothing    gain 

from  thine : 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts, — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end 
And  its  own  place  and  time  :  its  innate 

sense, 
When  stripp'd  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  color  from  the  fleeting  things  with- 
out, 
But  is  absorb'd  in  sufferance  or  in  joy, 
Born   from   the   knowledge   of  its  own 

desert. 
Thou    didst    not   tempt   me,   and    thou 

couldst  not  tempt  me  ; 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy 

prey- 
But  was  my  own  destroyer  and  will  be 
My  own   hereafter. — Back,    ye    baffled 

fiends ! — 
The  hand  of  death   is  on  me — but  not 

yours  !      [The  Demons  disappear. 
Abbot.     Alas  !  how  pale  thou  art — thy 

lips  are  white — 
And  thy  breast  heaves — and  in  thy  gasp- 
ing throat 
The  accents  rattle  :  Give  thy  prayers  to 

heaven — 
Pray — albeit  but  in  thought, — but  die  not 

thus. 
Man.     'T  is   over — my   dull  eyes  can 

fix  thee  not ; 
But  all  things  swim  around  me,  and  the 

earth 
Heaves  as  it  were  beneath  me.     Fare 

thee  well  ! 
Give  me  thy  hand. 
Abbot.     Cold  —  cold  —  even    to    the 

heart — 
But  yet  one  prayer— Alas  !  how  fares  it 

with  thee  ? 
Man.     Old  man  !  't  is  not  so  difficult 

to  die.  [Manfred  expires. 

Abbot.    He's  gone — his  soul  hath  ta'  en 

its  earthless  flight  ; 
Whither?    I  dread  to  think — but  he  is 

gone. 
September,  1816— May,  1817.     June  16, 

1817. 


234 


BRITISH    POETS 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea  ; 
But,  before  Tgo,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee ! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate  ; 

And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 
July,  1817.     1821. 

FROM  CHILDE  HAROLD. 
CANTO   IV 

I  STOOD   in   Venice,   on   the   Bridge   of 

Sighs  ;  [Stanza  1 

A  palace  and  a  prison  on  eacli  hand : 

I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures 

rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the   enchanter's 

wand  : 
A   thousand   years   their   cloudy  wings 

expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when   many  a  sub- 
ject land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on 
her  hundred  isles ! 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers  ; 
And  such  she  was  ;— her  daughters  had 

their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaust- 
less  East 
Pour'd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling 

showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs    partook,    and    deem'd    their 
dignity  increased. 


In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the 

ear : 
Those  days  are  gone— but  Beauty  still  is 

here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade — but   Nature  doth 

not  die, 
Nor    yet  forget  how  Venice  once   was 

dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of 

Italy ! 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms 

despond 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanish 'd  sway; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto  ;  Shylockand  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn 

away — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch !  though  all 

were  o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 

The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay  ; 
Essentially  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence  :  that  which 

Fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  sup- 
plied, 
First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers 

have  died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing 
the  void. 

When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fetter'd  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of 
war,  [St.  16 

Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse, 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar  : 
See  !  as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the 

car 
Of  the    o'ermaster'd  victor    stops,   the 

reins 
Fall  from  his  hands,  his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  its  belt — he  rends  his  cap- 
tive's chains, 
And  bids  him   thank  the  bard  for  free- 
dom and  his  strains. 

Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were 
thine, 


BYRON 


235 


Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot, 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine, 
Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the 

knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants  ;  and  thy 

lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations, — most  of  all, 
Albion  !     to    thee  :     the    Ocean    queen 

should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children  ;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy 

watery  wall. 

I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood  ;  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and   of  wealth  the 

mart  ; 
And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shake- 
speare's art, 
Had  stamp'd  her  image  in  me,  and  even 

so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not 

part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a   marvel 
and  a  show. 

I  can  repeople  with  the  past — and  of 
The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and 

thought, 
And  meditation  chasten'd  down, enough  ; 
And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or 

sought ; 
And    of  the   happiest   moments   which 

were  wrought 
Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 
From    thee,    fair  Venice !     have    their 

colors  caught : 
There  are  some   feelings  Time  cannot 

benumb. 
Nor  Torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now 

be  cold  and  dumb. 

But  my  soul  wanders  ;  I  demand  it  back 
To     meditate     amongst      decay,     and 
stand  [St.  25 

\  ruin  amidst  ruins  ;  there  to  track 
Fall'n  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a 

land 
Which  ivas  the  mightiest  in  its  old  com- 
mand. 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The  master-mould  of  Nature's  heavenly 

hand  ; 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the 

free, 
The  beautiful,  the   brave,  the   lords   of 
earth  and  sea, 


The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  ot 
Rome  ! 

And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy  ! 

Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the 
home 

Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  can  de- 
cree ; 

Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee? 

Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 

More  rich  than  other  climes'  fertility  ; 

Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 

With  an  immaculate  charm  which  can- 
not be  defaced. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night ; 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her  ;  a  sea 
Of    glory     streams     along    the    Alpine 

height 
Of  blue   Friuli's  mountains  ;  Heaven  is 

free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colors  seems  to 

be,— 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, — 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity, 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's 

crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air — an  island 

of  the  blest ! 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ; 

but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  re- 
mains 
Roll'd  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhsetian 

hill, 
As    Day  and    Night  contending   were, 

until 
Nature     reclaim'd    her  order  : — gently 

flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues 

instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose, 
Which   streams  upon    her   stream,  and 

glass'd  within  it  glows, 

Fill'd  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which, 

from  afar. 
Comes  down    upon   the   waters  ;  all  its 

hues. 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse  : 
And  now  they  change  ;  a  paler  shadow 

strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains ;  parting 

day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pant; 

imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away, 


236 


BRITISH   POETS 


The  last  still  loveliest, — till — 't  is  gone 
— and  all  is  gray. 

Italia  !  oh  Italia  !  thou  who  hast  [St.  42 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A    funeral   dower  of  present  woes  and 

past, 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough'd 

by  shame, 
And    annals  graved    in    characters  of 

flame. 
Oh,  God  !  that  thou  wert  in  thy  naked- 
ness 
Less     lovely     or    more    powerful,    and 

couldst  claim 
Thy   right,  and   awe  the  robbers  back, 

who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears 

of  thy  distress  ; 

Then  might'st  thou  more  appal ;  or,  less 

desired, 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  un deplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms  ;  then,  still 

untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents 

pour'd 
Down  the  deep  Alps ;    nor   would  the 

hostile  horde 
Of  many-nation 'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  blood  and  water  ;  nor  the  stranger's 

sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquish'd,  thou  the  slave  of 

friend  or  foe. 

Yet,      Italy  !      through      every       other 

land  [St.  47 

Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from 

side  to  side  ; 
Mother  of  Arts !  as  once   of  arms ;  thy 

hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our 

guide  ; 
Parent  of  our  religion  !  whom  the  wide 
Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys   of 

heaven  ! 
Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide, 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward 

driven, 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be 

forgiven. 

Oh  Rome  !  my  country  !  city  of  the 
soul  [St.  78 

The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to 
thee,  [trol 

Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  con- 


Iu  their  shut  breast  their  petty  misery. 

What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance? 
Come  and  see 

The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your 
way 

O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  tem- 
ples, Ye! 

Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 

A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our 
clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations  !  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless 

woe  ; 
An    emptjr    urn    within    her    wither'd 

hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was scatter'd  long  ago; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now  ; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers:  dost  thou  flow, 
Old   Tiber  !    through  a  marble    wilder- 
ness ? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle 
her  distress. 

The  Goth,   the  Christian,   Time,  War, 

Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hill'd   city's 

pride  ; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And   up  the   steep  barbarian  monarchs 

ride, 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  Capitol ;  far 

and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a 

site  : 
Chaos  of  ruins  !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er   the   dim   fragments   cast   a   lunar 

light, 
And  say,  "  here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is 

doubly  night? 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquer'd  be, 
And  Freedom  find  no   champion  and  no 

child  ' 

Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung   forth  a   Pallas,  arm'd   and   un- 

defiled  ? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourish'd  in  the 

wild, 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  'midst  the 

roar 
Of    cataracts,    where    nursing    Nature 

smiled 
On  infant  Washington?     Has   Earth  no 

more 
Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe 

no  such  shore  ? 


BYRON 


237 


Where  is  the  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high 

place  [St.  112 

Where    Rome    embraced     her  heroes  ? 

where  the  steep 
Tarpeian?  fittest  goal  of  Treason's  race, 
The  promontory   whence   the  Traitor's 

Leap 
Cured  all  ambition.     Did  the  conquerors 

heap 
Their  spoils  here?  Yes  ;  and  in  yon  field 

below, 
A  thousand  years  of  silenced   factions 

sleep — 
The  Forum,  where  the  immortal  accents 

glow, 
And    still  the  eloquent  air  breathes — 

burns  with  Cicero ! 

Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one 

dome, 
Her  Coliseum  stands  ;  the   moonbeams 

shine 
As  'tware  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
ShouLd  be  the  light  which  streams  here 

to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless 

mine 
Of  contemplation     and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies 

assume 

Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye 

of  heaven. 
Floats  o'er    this    vast    and     wondrous 

monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.     There  is 

given 
Unto  the   things  of  earth,  which   Time 

hath  bent, 
A  spirit  s   feeling,  and  where  he  hath 

leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is 

a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruin'd  battlement, 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages 

are  its  dower. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 

In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd  ap- 
plause, 

As  man  was  slaughter'  by  his  fellow- 
man. 

And  wherefore  slaughter'd  ?  wherefore, 
but  because 

Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial 
laws, 


And  the  imperial  pleasure. — Wherefore 

not  ? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the 

maws 
Of    worms — on    battle-plains  or    listed 

spot  ? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief 

actors  rot. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie  [St.  140 
He   leans   upon    his    hand — his   manly 

brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually 

low — 
And  through   his  side  the  last   drops, 

ebbing  slow 
From  the   red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by 

one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower  ;  and 

now 
The  arena  swims    around    him — he  is 

gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which 

hail'd  the  wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far 

away  ; 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube 

lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at 

play, 
There    was   their    Dacian    mother — he, 

their  sire, 
Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood — Shall  he 

expire 
And  unavenged  ?    Arise  !  ye  Goths,  and 

glut  your  ire ! 

But  here,  where   Murder  breathed  her 

bloody  steam  ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked 

the  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain 

stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame 

or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a 

crowd, 
My  voice  sounds   much — and   fall   tne 

stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void — seats  crush'd,  walls 

bow'd — 
And    galleries,  where    my    steps  seem 

echoes  strangely  loud. 


'3§ 


BRITISH    POETS 


A  ruin — yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  mass 
Walls,    palaces,   half-cities,    have   been 
rear'd  ; 

V.  t  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have 

appear'd. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but 

clear'd  ? 
Alas!  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd  : 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams   too  much  on  all  years, 

man,  have  reft  away. 

But   when  the  rising  moon   begins  to 

climb 
Its  topmost    arch,  and    gently    pauses 

there  ; 
When   the  stars   twinkle    through   the 

loops  of  time, 
And  the   low  night-breeze  waves  along 

the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls 

wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's 

head  ; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth 

not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead  : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 'tis  on  their 

dust  ye  tread. 

But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song, 

The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the 
past  ?  [St.  164 

Methinks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 

He  is  no  more — these  breathings  are  his 
last ; 

His  wanderings  done,  his  visions  ebbing 
fast 

And  he  himself  as  nothing  : — if  he   was 

Aught  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be 
class'd 

With  forms  which  live  and  suffer — let 
that  pass — 

His  shadow  fades  away  into  Destruc- 
tion's mass, 

Which  gathers  shadow,   substance,  life, 

and  all 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud, 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which   all  things  grow  phan- 
toms ;  and  the  cloud 
Between  us  sinks,  and  all  which  ever 

gkrv'd, 
Till  Glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allow'd 
To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness  ;  rays 


Sadder  than  saddest  night,  for  they  dis- 
tract the  gaze, 

And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss, 

To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the 

frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than 

this 
Its  wretched  essence  ;  and  to  dream  of 

fame. 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear, — but  never 

more, 
Oh,  happier  thought !  can  we  be  made 

the  same  : 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore 
These  fardels  of  the  heart — the   heart 

whose  sweat  was  gore. 


But  I  forget. — My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part, — so  let  it  be— 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done  ; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea  ; 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and 

me  ; 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  be- 
hold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  Ocean,  which 

when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,   we  follow'd  on   till   the 
dark  Euxine  roll'd 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades:  long  years — 
Long,     though    not    very   many — since 

have  done  [St.  176 

Their   work   on    both  ;    some   suffering 

and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun  : 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run  ; 
We  have  had  our  reward ,  and  it  is  here, — 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden'd  by  the  sun, 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as 

dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what 

is  clear. 

Oh  !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling- 
place. 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her  ! 
Ye  elements  ! — in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being  !     Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rare- 
ly be  our  lot. 


BYRON 


239 


There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar  : 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,   in  which  I 

steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can   ne'er  express,  yet  cannot 

all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean 

—roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in 

vain  ; 
Man   marks  the   earth   with   ruin — his 

control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;    upon  the  watery 

plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth 

remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling 

groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd, 

and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths — thy 
fields 

Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,— thou  dost  arise 

And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile 
strength  he  wields 

For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  de- 
spise, 

Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the 
skies, 

And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  play- 
ful spray 

And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply 
lies 

His  petty  home  in  some  near  port  or  bay 

And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  : — there 
let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the 

walls, 
Of    rock-built     cities,    bidding  nations 

quake, 
And  monarohs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The   oak   leviathans,     whose  huge  ribs 

make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war — 
These   are   thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy 

flake, 
They    melt    into    thy    yeast  of  waves, 

which  mar 


Alike   the   Armada's   pride   or  spoils  of 
Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,   changed  in  all 

save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what 

are  they  ? 
Thy   waters  wash'd   them  power  while 

they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  ;   their  shores 

obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  de- 
cay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts :   not  so 

thou  ; — 
Unchangeable,  save  to  thy  wild  waves' 

play, 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on   thine  azure 

brow  : 
Such   as  creation's  dawn   beheld,  thou 

rollsst  now. 

Thou   glorious   mirror,    where   the    Al- 
mighty's form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time, — 
Calm  or   convulsed,    in   breeze,  or  gale, 

or  storm , 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving — boundless,    endless,   and 

sublime, 
The  image  of  eternity,  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The   monsters  of  the   deep  are  made  ; 

each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ;   thou  goest   forth,   dread, 
fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !   and  my 

joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to 

be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  ;    from 

a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy   breakers — they  to 

me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made   them  a   terror — 'twas    a  pleasing 

fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  inane — as  I 

do  here. 

My  task  is  done,  my  song  hath  ceased, 

my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo ;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protractec 

dream. 


240 


BRITISH   POETS 


The  torch  shall  be  extinguish'd    which 

hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamp — and  what  is  writ,  is 

writ  ; 
Would  it  were  worthier !  but  I  am  not 

now 
That  which  I  have  been — and  mv  visions 

flit 
Less  palpably  before  me — and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit   dwelt  is  fluttering, 
faint,  and  low. 

Farewell !  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath 

been — 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger  ; — yet — 

farewell  ! 
Ye  !  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the 

scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories 

dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye 

swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore   his   sandal-shoon  and   scallop- 
shell  ; 
Farewell !  with  him  alone  may  rest  the 

pain, 
If  such  there  were — with  you,  the  moral 

of  his  strain. 

June  26— July  20,  1817.     1818. 

DON  JUAN 

DEDICATION 

3ob  Southey  !      You  're  a  poet — Poet- 
laureate, 
And  representative  of  all  the  race  ; 
Although  't  is  true  that  you  turn'd  out  a 
Tory  at 
Last, — yours  has  lately  been  a  com- 
mon case ; 
And  now,  my  Epic  Renegade  !  what  are 
ye  at? 
With   all  the   Lakers,   in  and  out  of 
place  ? 
A  nest  of  tuneful  persons,  to  my  eye 
Like  "  four  and  twenty  Blackbirds  in  a 
pye  ; 

'  Which  pye  being  open'd  they  began  to 
sing'" 
(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds 
good), 
•   A  dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  King," 
Or  Regent,  who  admires  such  kind  of 
food  ; — 
And  Coleridge,  too,   has    lately    taken 
wing, 


But  like  a  hawk  encuniber'd  with  his 
hood, — 
Explaining  metaphysics  to  the  nation — 
I  wish  he  would  explain  his  Explanation. 

You,    Bob !     are    rather    insolent,    you 
know, 
At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 
To  supersede  all  warblers  here  below. 

And  be  the  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish  ; 

And  then  you  overstrain  yourself,  or  so, 

And  tumble  downward  like  the  flying 

fish 

Gasping  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too 

high,  Bob, 
And  fall    for    lack    of    moisture   quite 
a-dry,  Bob  ! 

And  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  long"  Ex- 
cursion " 
(I  think  the  quarto  holds  five  bundled 
pages), 
Has  given  a  sample  from  the  vasty  ver- 
sion 
Of  his    new  system    to    perplex  the 
sages ; 
'T  is  poetry — at  least  by  his  assertion, 
And  may  appear  so  when  the  dog-star 
rages — 
And  he  who  understands  it  would  be  able 
To  add  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

You — Gentlemen  !  by  dint  of  long  seclu- 
sion 
From  better  company,  have  kept  your 
own 
At  Keswick,  and  through  still  continued 
fusion 
Of  one  another's  minds,  at  last  have 
grown 
To  deem  as  a  most  logical  conclusion, 

That  poesy  has  wreaths  for  you  alone  ; 
There  is  a  narrowness  in  such  a  notion, 
Which  makes  me  wish    you'd  change 
your  lakes  for  ocean. 

I  would  not  imitate  the  petty  thought, 

Nor  coin  my  self-love  to  so  base  a  vice, 
For    all    the    glory     your    conversion 
brought, 
Since  gold  alone  should  not  have  been 
its  price, 
You  have  your  salary  ;  was  't  for  that 
you  wrought? 
And  Wordsworth  has  his  place  in  the 
Excise. 
You're  shabby  fellows — true — but  poets 

still, 
And  duly  seated  on  the  immortal  hill. 


BYRON 


241 


Your  bays  may  hide  the  baldness  of  your 
brows — 
Perhaps  some   virtuous    blushes  ; — let 
them  go — 
To  you  I  envy  neither  fruit  nor  boughs — 
And  for  the  fame  you  would  engross 
below, 
The  field  is  universal,  and  allows 

Scope  to  all  such  as  feel  the  inherent 
glow  ; 
Scott,    Rogers,     Campbell,    Moore    and 

Crabbe  will  try 
'Gainst  you  the  question  with  posterity. 

For  me,  who,  wandering  with  pedestrian 
Muses, 
Contend  not  with  you  on  the  winged 
steed, 
I  wish  your  fate  may  yield  ye,  when  she 
chooses 
The  fame  you  envy,  and  the  skill  you 
need  ; 
And  recollect  a  poet  nothing  loses 

In   giving   to   his   brethren  their  full 
meed 
Of  merit,  and  complaint  of  present  days 
Is  not  the  certain  path  to  future  praise. 

He  that  reserves  his  laurels  for  posterity 
(Who  does  not  often  claim  the  bright 
reversion) 
Has  generally  no  great  crop  to  spare  it, 
he 
Being  only  injured  by  his  own  asser- 
tion ; 
And  although  here  and  there  some  glori- 
ous rarity 
Arise  like  Titan  from  the  sea's  immer- 
sion, 
The  major  part  of  such  appellants  go 
To — God  knows  where — for  no  one  else 
can  know. 

If.  fallen  in  evil  days  on  evil  tongues, 

Milton  appealed  to  the  Avenger,  Time, 

If    Time,   the    Avenger,    execrates    his 

wrongs, 

And  makes  the  word  "  Miltonic  "  mean 

"  sublime,'' 

He  deign'd  not  to  belie  his  soul  in  songs, 

Nor  turn  his  very  talent  to  a  crime  ; 
He  did  not  loathe  the  Sire  to  laud  the 

Son, 
But  closed  the  tyrant-hater  he  begun. 

Think'st  thou,  could  he— the  blind  Old 
Man, — arise. 
Like  Samuel  from  the  grave,  to  freeze 
once  more 
16 


The  blood  of  monarchs  with  his  prophe- 
cies. 
Or  be  alive  again — again  all  hoar 
With  time  and  trials,  and  those  helpless 
eyes, 
And  heartless  daughters — worn — and 
pale — and  poor  ; 
Would  he  adore  a  sultan  ?  he  obey 
The  intellectual  eunuch  Castlereagh  ? 

Cold-blooded,  smooth-faced,  placid  mis- 
creant ! 
Dabbling    its    sleek   young    hands   in 
Erin's  gore 
And  thus  for  wider  carnage  taught  to 
pant, 
Transferr'd    to    gorge    upon    a  sister 
shore, 
The  vulgarest  tool  that  Tyranny  could 
want, 
With  just  enough  of  talent,  and  no 
more, 
To  lengthen  fetters  by  another  fix'd, 
And  offer  poison  long  already  mix'd. 

An  orator  of  such  set  trash  of  phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately  vile, 
That  even  its  grossest  flatterers  dare  not 
praise, 
Nor  foes — all  nations — condescend  to 
smile ; 
Not  even  a  sprightly  blunder's  spark  can 
blaze 
From  that  Ixion  grindstone's  ceaseless 
toil, 
That  turns  and  turns  to  give  the  world  a 

notion 
Of  endless  torments  and  perpetual  mo- 
tion. 

A  bungler  even  in  its  disgusting  trade. 
And  botching,  patching,  leaving  still 
behind 
Something    of    which    its    masters  are 
afraid, 
States  to  be  curb'd,  and  thoughts  to  be 
confined, 
Conspiracy  or  Congress  to  be  made — 
Cobbling  at  manacles  for    all    man- 
kind— 
A  tinkering    slave-maker,   who  mends 

old  chains, 
With  God  and  man's  abhorrence  for  its 
gains. 

If  we  may  judge  of  matter  by  the  mind, 

Emasculated  to  the  marrow  It 
Hath  but  two  objects,  how  to  serve,  and 
bind. 


242 


BRITISH   POETS 


Deeming  the  chain  it  wears  even  men 
may  lit, 
Eutropius  of  its  many  masters — blind 

To  worth  as  freedom,  wisdom  as  to  wit, 
Fearless — because  no  feeling  dwells  in 

ice. 
Its  very  courage  stagnates  to  a  vice. 

Where  shall  I  turn  me  not  to  view  its 
bonds. 
For  I  will  never  feel  them  ; — Italy  ! 
Thy  late  reviving  Roman  soul  desponds 
Beneath     the     lie     this      State-thing 
breathed  o'er  thee — 
Thy  clanking  chain,  and  Erin's  yet  green 
wounds, 
Have  voices — tongues  to  cry  aloud  for 
me. 
Europe  has  slaves,   allies,  kings,  armies 

still, 
And  Southey  lives  to  sing  them  very  ill. 

Meantime,  Sir  Laureate,  I  proceed  to  ded- 
icate, 
In  honest  simple  verse,   this  song  to 
you. 
And,  if  in  flattering  strains  I  do  not  pred- 
icate, 
'T  is  that  I  still  retain  my  "  buff  and 
blue  ;  " 
My  politics  as  yet  are  all  to  educate  : 

Apostasy's  so  fashionable,  too, 
To  keep  one  creed's  a  task  grown  quite 

Herculean  : 
Is  it  not  so,  my  Torv,  Ultra- Julian  ? 
September,  1818.     July  15,  1819. 

FROM  CANTO  I 

POETICAL  COMMANDMENTS 

If  ever  I  should  condescend   to   prose, 
I'll    write    poetical     commandments, 
which  [St.  204 

Shall  supersede  beyond    all  doubt    all 
those 
That  went  before  ;  in  these  I  shall  en- 
rich 
My  text  with  many  things  that  no  one 
knows, 
And  carry  precept  to  the  highest  pitch  : 
I'll  call  the  work  "  Longinus  o'er  a  Bottle, 
Or,  Every  Poet  his  own  Aristotle." 

Thou  shalt  believe  in  Milton,   Dryden, 

Pope ; 
Thou   shalt   not  set   up   Wordsworth, 

Coleridge,  Southey ; 
Because  the   first  is  crazed  beyond   all 

hope, 


The  second  drunk,  the  third  so  quaint 

and  mouthy  : 

With  Crabbe  it  may  be  difficult  to  cope, 

And  Campbell's  Hippocrene  is  some 

what  drouthy  : 

Thou  shalt  not  steal  from  Samuel  Rogers, 

nor 
Commit — flirtation   with    the   muse    of 
Moore. 

Thou    shalt    not    covet    Mr.    Sotheby's 
Muse, 
His  Pegasus,  nor  anything  that 's  his  ; 
Thou  shalt  not   bear  false  witness  like 
"  the  Blues" — 
(There 's  one,  at  least,  is  very  fond  of 
this)  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  write,  in  short,  but  what 
I  choose ; 
This  is  true   criticism,   and   you   may 
kiss- 
Exactly  as  you  please,  or  not — the  rod  ; 
But  if  you  don't,  I'll  lay  it  on,  by  G — d  I 


LABUNTUR  ANNI 

"  Non  ego  hoc  ferrem  calidus  juventd 

ConsiUe  Plahco,"  Horace  said,  and  so 
Say   I  ;  by   which     quotation     there    is 
meant  a  [St.  212 

Hint  that  some  six  or  seven  good  years 
ago 
(Long  ere  I  dreamt   of  dating  from  the 
Brenta) 
I  was  most  ready  to  return  a  blow, 
And  would  not  brook  at  all  this  sort  of 

thing 
In   my    hot  youth — when    George    the 
Third  was  King. 

But  now  at  thirty  years  my  hair  is  gray — 

(I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like  at  forty  ? 

I  thought  of  a  peruke  the  other  day — ) 

My  heart  is  not  much  greener  ;  and,  in 

short,  I 

Have     squander'd    my    whole    summer 

while  't  was  May, 

And  feel  no  more  the  spirit  to  retort  ;  I 

Have  spent  my  life,   both   interest  and 

principal, 
And  deem  not,  what  I  deem'd,  my  soul 
invincible. 

No  more — no  more — Oh  !  never  more  on 

me 

The  freshness  of  the  heart  can  fall  like 

dew, 

Which  out  of  all  the  lovely  things  we  see 

Extracts  emotions  beautiful  and  new, 


BYRON 


243 


Hived  in  our  bosoms  like  the  bag  o'  the 
bee. 
Think'st  thou  the  honey  with  those  ob- 
jects grew  ? 
Alas  !  "t  was  not  in  them,  but  in  thy  power 
To  double  even  the  sweetness  of  a  flower. 

No  more — no  more — Oh  !  never  more,  my 
heart, 
Canst  thou  be  my  sole  world,  my  uni- 
verse ! 
Once  all  in  all,  but  now  a  thing  apart, 
Thou  canst  not  be  my  blessing  or  my 
curse  : 
The  illusion's  gone  for  ever,  and  thou  art 
Insensible,  I  trust,  but  none  the  worse, 
And    in  thy   stead   I've  got  a    deal  of 

judgment, 
Though  heaven  knows  how  it  ever  found 
a  lodgment. 

My  days  of  love  are  over  ;  me  no  more 
The  charms  of  maid,  wife,  and  still  less 
of  widow, 
Can  make  the  fool  of  which  they  made 
before, — 
In  short,  I  must  not  lead  the  life  I  did 
do; 
The  credulous  hope  of  mutual  minds  is 
o'er, 
The  copious  use  of  claret  is  forbid  too, 
So  for  a  good  old-gentlemanly  vice, 
I  think  I  must  take  up  with  avarice. 

Ambition  was  my  idol,  which  was  broken 
Before  the  shrines  of  Sorrow,  and  of 

Pleasure  ; 
And  the   two  last  have  left  me  many  a 

token 
O'er  which  reflection  may  be  made  at 

leisure ; 
Now,  like   Friar  Bacon's  brazen   head, 

I've  spoken, 
"  Time  is,  Time  was,  Time's  past :  " — a 

chymic  treasure 
Is  glittering  youth,  which  I  have  spent 

betimes — 
My  heart   in   passion,   and  my  head  on 

rhymes. 

What  is  the  end  of  fame  ?  't  is  but  to  fill 
A  certain  portion  of  uncertain  paper  : 
Some  liken  it  to  climbing  up  a  hill 
Whose  summit,  like  all  hills,  is  lost  in 
vapor ; 
For  this  men  write,    speak,   preach,  and 
heroes  kill, 
And   bards  burn  what  they  call  their 
"  midnight  taper,'' 
To  have,  when  the  original  is  dust, 


A  name,  a  wretched  picture,  and  worse 
bust. 
Canto  I.  September,  1818.  July  15, 1819, 

FROM  CANTO  II 

THE  SHIPWRECK 

'Twas  twilight,  and    the    sunless    day 

went  down  [St.  49. 

Over  the  waste  of  waters  ;  like  a  veil, 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose 

the  frown 
Of  one  whose  hate  is  mask'd  but  to  assail. 
Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was 

shown, 
And  grimly  darkled  o'er  the  faces  pale, 
And  the  dim  desolate  deep  :  twelve  days 

had  Fear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was 

hex-e. 

Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft, 

With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 
A  sort  of  thing  at  whicli  one  would  have 
laugh'd, 
If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be, 
Unless  with  people  who  too  much  have 
quaff 'd, 
And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid 
glee, 
Half  epileptical,  and  half  hysterical : — 
Their   preservation  would  have  been  a 
miracle. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hen- 
coops, spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been 

cast  loose 
That  still  could  keep  afloat  the  struggling 

tars, 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no 

great  use : 
There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a  few 

stars, 
The   boats  put  off  o'ercrowded    with 

their  crews ; 
She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port, 
And,  going  down  head-foremost — sunk, 

in  short. 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  fare- 
well— 
Then   shriek'd   the  timid,   and   stood 
still  the  brave — 
Then  some  leap'd  overboard  with  dread- 
ful yell, 
As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave  ; 
And  the  sea  yawn'd  around  her  like  a 
hell, 


244 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  down   she   suck'd   with   her   the 
whirling   wave, 
Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 
And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

And    first  one  universal  shriek    there 
rush'd, 
Louder  than  the  loud    ocean,    like  a 
crash 
Of  echoing  thunder  ;  and   then  all  was 
hush'd, 
Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorse- 
less dash 
Of  billows  ;  but  at  intervals  there  gush'd, 
Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 
A  solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 


HAIDEE 

How   long   in   his   damp   trance  young 
Juan  lay  [St.  111. 

He  knew  not,  for  the  earth   was  gone 
for  him. 

And  time  had   nothing   more   of  night 
nor  day 
For  his  congealing  blood,   and  senses 
dim  ; 

And    how   this   heavy   faintness   pass'd 
away 
He  knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse 
and  limb, 

And   tingling   vein,   seem'd     throbbing 
back  to  life, 

For  Death,  though  vanquished,  still  re- 
tired with  strife. 

His  eyes  he  open'd,  shut,  again  unclosed, 
For  all  was   doubt  and   dizziness  ;  he 
thought 
He  still  was  in   the  boat,  and  had  but 
dozed, 
And  felt  again  with  his  despair  o'er- 
wrought, 
And  wish'd  it  death  in  which  he  had 
reposed, 
And  then  once  more  his  feelings  back 
were  brought, 
And  slowly  by  his  swimming  e}'es   was 

seen 
A  lovely  female  face  of  seventeen. 

'Twas  bending  close  o'er  his,  and  the 

small  mouth 
Seem'd   almost   prying   into    his    for 

breath  ; 
And  chafing  him,  the   soft  warm  hand 

of  youth 


Recall'd    his   answering    spirits   back 

from  death  ; 

And,  bathing  his  chill  temples,  tried   to 

soothe 

Each  pulse  to  animation,  till  beneath 

Its  gentle  touch  and   trembling  care,  a 

sigh 
To  these  kind  efforts  made  a  low  reply  . 

Then  was  the  cordial  pour  d,  and  mantle 

flung 
Around  his  scarce-clad  limbs  ;  and  the 

fair  arm 
Raised  higher  the  faint  head  which  o'er 

it  hung  ; 
And  her  transparent   cheek,  all   pure 

and  warm, 
Pillow'd  his   death-like   forehead ;  then 

she  wrung 
His   dewy    curls,    long    drench'd    by 

every  storm  ; 
And  watch'd  with  eagerness  each  throb 

that  drew 
A    sigh  from  his  heaved    bosom — and 

hers,  too. 

And  lifting  him  with  care  into  the  cave, 
The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant, — ■ 
one 
Young,  yet  her  elder,  and  of  brow  less 
grave, 
And  more  robust  of  figure — then  begun 
To  kindle  fire,  and  as  the  new   flames 
gave 
Light  to  the  rocks  that  roof'd  them, 
which  the  sun 
Had  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe'er 
She    was,   appear'd   distinct,   and    tall, 
and  fair. 

Her  brow  was  overhung   with  coins  of 
gold, 
That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn   of  her 
hair, 
Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks 
were  roll'd 
In    braids  behind ;  and    though  her 
stature  were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould. 
They  nearly  reach'd  her  heel ;  and   in 
her  air 
There  was  a  something  which  bespoke 

command, 
As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 

Her  hair,  I  said,   was  auburn  ;  but  her 
eyes 
Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the 
same  hue, 


BYRON 


245 


Of    downcast    length,    in     whose     silk 

shadow  lies 
Deepest  attraction  ;  for   when  to  the 

view 
Forth    from  its  raven  fringe   the  full 

glance  flies, 
Ne'er    with  such   force  the    swiftest 

arrow  flew ; 
Tis  as  the  snake  late  coil'd,  who  pours 

his  length. 
And  hurls  at   once   his   venom  and  his 

strength. 

Her  brow  was  white  and  low,  her  cheek's 

pure  dye 
Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  set 

sun  ; 
Short  upper  lip — sweet  lips !  that  make 

us  sigh 
Ever  to  have  seen  such  ;  for  she  was 

one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors,  when  all's 

done — 
I've  seen  much  finer   women,  ripe  and 

real, 
Than   all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone 

ideal) . 

I'll  tell  you  why  I  say  so,  for  't  is  just 
One  should  not  rail  without  a  decent 
cause  : 
There  was  an  Irish  lady,  to  whose  bust 
I  ne'er  saw  justice  done,  and  yet  she 
was 
A  frequent  model ;  and  if  e'er  she   must 
Yield    to    stern    Time    and    Nature's 
wrinkling  laws. 
They  will  destroy  a  face  which  mortal 

thought 
Ne'er  compass'd,  nor  less  mortal  chisel 
wrought. 

And  such  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  cave: 
Her  dress  was  very  different  from  the 
Spanish, 
Simpler,  and  yet  of  colors  not  so  grave  ; 
For,  as  you  know,  the  Spanish  women 
banish 
Bright  hues  when  out  of  doors,  and  yet, 
while  wave 
Around  them  (what  I  hope  will  never 
vanish) 
The  basquina  and  the  mantilla,  they 
Seem  at  the  same  time  mystical  and  gay. 

But  with  our  damsel  this  was  not  the 
case : 
Her   dress   was  many-color'd,    finely 
spun  ; 


Her  locks  curl'd  negligently  round  her 
face, 
But  through  them  gold  and  gems  pro- 
fusely shone  : 

Her  girdle  sparkled,  and  the  richest  lace 
Flow'd  in  her  veil,  and  many  a  precious 
stone 

Flash'd  on   her  little  hand  ;  but,  what 
was  shocking, 

Her  small  snow  feet  had  slippers,  but  no 
stocking. 

The  other  female's  dress  was  not  unlike, 

But  of  inferior  materials  :  she 
Had  not  so  many  ornaments  to  strike, 

Her  hair  had  silver  only,  bound  to  be 

Her  dowry  ;  and  her  veil,  in  foi*m  alike, 

Was    coarser ;  and    her    air,   though 

firm,  less  free  ; 

Her  hair  was  thicker,  but  less  long ;  her 

eyes 
As  black,  but  quicker,   and  of  smaller 
size. 

And  these  two  tended  him,  and  cheer'd 
him  both 
With  food  and  raiment,  and  those  soft 
attentions, 
Which  are — (as  I  must  own) — of  female 
growth, 
And  have  ten  thousand  delicate  inven- 
tions : 
They  made  a  most  superior  mess  of  broth, 
A  thing  which  poesy  but  seldom  men- 
tions, 
But  the  best  dish  that  e'er  was  cook'd 

since  Homer's 
Achilles  order'd  dinner  for  new  comers. 

The  coast — I  think  it  was  the  coast  that  I 
Was  just  describing — Yes,  it  ivas  the 
coast—  [St.  181 

Lay    at    this    period    quiet   as  the  sky, 
The  sands  untumbled,  the  blue  waves 
untost, 
And  all  was  stillness,  save  the  sea-bird's 
cry, 
And  dolphin's  leap,  and  little  billow 
crost 
By  some  low  rock  or  shelve,  that  made 

it  fret 
Against  the  boundary  it  scarcely  wet. 

And  forth  they  wander'd,  her  sire  being 
gone, 
As  I  have  said,  upon  an  expedition  ; 
And  mother,  brother,  guardian,  she  had 
none, 
Save  Zoe,  who,  although  with  due  pre* 
cision 


2+b 


BRITISH    POETS 


She  waited  on  her  lady  with  the  sun, 
Thought  daily  service   was  her  only 

mission, 
Bringing   warm   water,  wreathing  her 

long  tresses, 
And  asking  now  and  then  for  cast-off 

dresses. 

It  was  the  cooling  hour,  just  when  the 

rounded 
Red  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  azure 

hill, 
Which  then  seems  as  if  the  whole  earth 

it  bounded, 
Circling  all  nature,  hush'd,  and  dim, 

and  still, 
With  the    far  mountain-crescent  half 

surrounded 
On  one  side,  and  the  deep  sea  calm 

and  chill, 
Upon  the  other,  and  the  rosy  sky, 
With  one  star  sparkling  through  it  like 

an  eye. 

And  thus  they  wander'd  forth,  and  hand 
in  hand, 
Over  the  shining  pebbles  and  the  shells, 
Glided  along  the  smooth  and  harden'd 
sand, 
And  in  the  worn  and  wild  receptacles 
Work'd  by  the  storms,  yet  work'd  as  it 
were  plann'd, 
In  hollow  halls,  with  sparry  roofs  and 
cells. 
They  turn'd  to  rest;  and,  each  clasp'd 

by  an  arm, 
Yielded  to   the  deep   twilight's  purple 
charm. 

They  look'd  up  to  the  sky,  whose  float- 
ing glow 
Spread   like  a  rosy  ocean,   vast  and 
bright ; 

They  gazed  upon  the  glittering  sea  be- 
low, 
Whence  the  broad  moon  rose  circling 
into  sight ; 

They  heard  the  waves  splash,  and  the 
wind  so  low, 
And  saw  each  other's  dark  eyes  darting 
light 

Into  each  other — and,  beholding  this, 

Their  lips  drew  near,  and  clung  into  a 
kiss  ; 

A  long,  long  kiss,  a  kiss  of  youth,  and 
love, 
And  beauty,  all  concentrating  like  rays 
Into  one  focus,  kindled  from  above  ; 


Such  kisses  as  belong  to  early  days, 
Where  heart,  and  soul,   and  sense,  in 
concert  move, 
And  the  blood's  lava,  and  the  pulse  a 
blaze, 
Each  kiss  a  heart-quake, — for  a  kiss's 

strength, 
I  think  it  must  be  reckon'd  by  its  length. 

By  length  I  mean  duration  ;  theirs  en- 
dured 
Heaven  knows  how  long — no    doubt 
they  never  reckon'd ; 

And  if  they  had,  they  could  not  have 
secured 
The  sum  of  their  sensations  to  a  second ; 

They  had  not  spoken ;  but  they  felt  al- 
lured, 
As  if  their  souls  and  lips  each  other 
beckon'd. 

Which,  being  join'd,like  swarming  bees 
they  clung — 

Their   hearts  the  flowers  from  whence 
the  honey  sprung. 

They  were  alone,  but  not  alone  as  they 
Who  shut  in  chambers  think  it  lone- 
liness ; 
The  silent  ocean,  and  the  starlight  bay, 
The  twilight  glow,  which  momently 
grew  less, 
The  voiceless  sands,  and  dropping  caves, 
that  lay 
Around  them,  made  them  to  each  other 
press, 
As  if  there  were  no  life  beneath  the  sky 
Save  theirs,   and  that  their  life   could 
never  die. 

They  f  ear'd  no  eyes  nor  ears  on  that  lone 
beach, 
They  felt  no  terrors  from  the  night  ; 
they  were 
All  in  all  to  each  other ;   though  their 
speech 
Was  broken   words,   they   thought  a 
language  there, — 
And  all  the  burning  tongues  the  passions 
teach 
Found  in  one  sigh  the  best  interpreter 
Of  nature's  oracle — first  love, — that  all 
Which  Eve  has  left  her  daughters  since 
her  fall. 

Alas  !  the  love  of  women  !  it  is  known 
To  be  a  lovely  and  a  fearful  thing  ; 

For  all  of  theirs  upon  that  die  is  thrown, 
And  if  't  is  lost,  life  hath  no  more  to 
bring 


BYRON 


247 


To  them  but  mockeries  of  the  past  alone, 
And  their  revenge  is  as  the  tiger's 

spring, 
Deadly,  and  quick,  and  crushing ;  yet, 

as  real 
Torture  is  theirs,  what  they  inflict  they 

feel. 

They  are  right  ;  for  man,  to  man  so  oft 
unjust, 
Is  always  so  to  women  ;  one  sole  bond 
Awaits  them,  treachery  is  all  their  trust; 
Taught    to     conceal,    their    bursting 
hearts  despond 
Over  their  idol,  till  some    wealthier  lust 
Buys    them    in   marriage — and   what 
rests  beyond  ? 
A  thankless  husband,   next  a  faithless 

lover, 
Then    dressing,    nursing,   praying,  and 
all's  over. 

Some  take  a  lover,  some  take  drams  or 
,  prayers, 
Some    mind    their   household,   others 
dissipation, 
Some  run  away,  and  but  exchange  their 
cares, 
Losing    the  advantage  of  a  virtuous 
station  ; 
Few  changes  e'er  can  better  their  affairs. 

Theirs  being  an  unnatural  situation, 
From  the  dull  palace  to  the  dirty  hovel  : 
Some  play  the  devil,  and  then  write  a 
novel. 

Haidee   was  Nature's  bride,  and   knew 

not  this  : 
Haidee    was     Passion's     child,    born 

where  the  sun 
Showers  triple  light,  and  scorches  even 

the  kiss 
Of  his  gazelle-eyed  daughters  ;  she  was 

one 
Made  but  to  love,  to  feel  that  she  was 

his 
Who  was  her  chosen  :  what  was  said  or 

done 
Elsewhere  was  nothing.  She  had  nought 

to  fear, 
Hope,  care,  nor  love  beyond, — her  heart 

beat  here. 

And  oh  !  that  quickening  of  the  heart, 
that  beat  I 
How  much  it  costs  us  1  yet  each  rising 
throb 
Is  in  its  cause  as  its  effect  so  sweet, 

That  wisdom,  ever  on  the  watch  to  rob 
Joy  of  its  alchemy,  and  to  repeat 


Fine  truths  ;  even  Conscience,  too,  has 

a  tough  job 
To  make  us  understand  each  good  old 

maxim, 
So  good — I  wonder  Castlereagh  don't  tax 

'em. 

And  now  't  was  done — on  the  lone  shore 
were  plighted 
Their  hearts  ;  the  stars,  their  nuptial 
torches,  shed 
Beauty  upon  the  beautiful  they  lighted  -, 
Ocean    their    witness,   and   the  cave 
their  bed, 
By    their    own    feelings    hallow'd  and 
united, 
Their  priest  was  Solitude,  and  they 
were  wed  : 
And  they  were  happy,  for  to  their  young 

eyes 
Each  was  an  angel,  and  earth  paradise. 

Oh,  Love  !  of  whom  great  Caesar  was  the 
suitor, 
Titus  the  master,  Antony  the  slave, 
Horace,  Catullus,  scholars,  Ovid  tutor, 
Sappho    the     sage    blue-stocking,   in 
whose  grave- 
All  those  may  leap  who  rather  would  be 
neuter — 
(Leucadia's  rock  still  overlooks   the 
wave) — 
Oh,  Love  !  thou  art  the  very  god  of  evil, 
For,  after  all,  we  cannot  call  thee  devil. 

Thou  mak'st  the  chaste  connubial  state 
precarious, 
And  jestest  with  the  brows  of  might- 
iest men  : 

Caesar  and  Pompey,  Mahomet,  Belisarius, 
Have  much  employ'd  the  muse  of  his- 
tory's pen  : 

Their  lives  and  fortunes  were  extremely 
various, 
Such   worthies   Time    will  never  see 
again  ; 

Yet  to    these   four  in   three  things  the 
same  luck  holds, 

They  all  were  heroes,   conquerors,  and 
cuckolds. 

Thou  mak'st  philosophers  ;  there's  Epi- 
curus 
And  Aristippus,  a  material  crew  ! 
Who  to  immoral  courses  would  allure  us 

By  theories  quite  practicable  too  ; 
If  only  from  the  devil  they  would  insuie 
us, 
How  pleasant  were  the  maxim  (not 
quite  new), 


248 


BRITISH   POETS 


"Eat,    drink,   and   love;  what  can  the 

rest  avail  us  ?  " 
So  said  the  royal  sage  Sardanapalus. 

But  Juan  !  had  he  quite  forgotten  Julia  ? 
And  should  he  have  forgotten  her  so 
soon  ? 
I  can't    but    say  it  seems   to    me    most 
truly  a 
Perplexing  question  ;  but,  no   doubt, 
the  moon 
Does  these  things  for  us,  and  whenever 
newly  a 
Strong  palpitation  rises,  't  is  her  boon, 
Else  how  the  devil  is  it  that  fresh  fea- 
tures 
Have  such  a  charm  for  us  poor  human 
creatures  ? 

I  hate  inconstancy — I  loathe,  detest, 
Abhor,  condemn,  abjure  the   mortal 
made 
Of  such    quicksilver    clay  that  in  his 
breast 
No  permanent  foundation  can  be  laid  ; 
Love,  constant  love,  has  been  my  con- 
stant guest, 
And  yet  last  night,  being  at  a  masque- 
rade, 
I  saw  the  prettiest  creature,  fresh  from 

Milan, 
Which  gave  me  some  sensations  like  a 
villain. 

But  soon  Philosophy  came  to  my  aid, 
And     whisper'd,     "  Think     of    every 
sacred  tie !  " 
"  I  will,  my  dear  Philosophy  !  "  I  said, 
"But  then   her  teeth,  and  then,  oh, 
Heaven  !  her  eye  ! 
I'll  just  inquire  if  she  be  wife  or  maid, 

Or  neither — out  of  curiosity." 
"Stop  !"  cried  Philosophy,  with  air  so 

Grecian 
(Though  she  was  masqued  then  as  a  fair 
Venetian)  ; 

"  Stop  ! "  so  I  stopp'd. — But  to  return  : 
that  which 
Men  call  inconstancy  is  nothing  more 
Than  admiration    due    where  nature's 
rich 
Profusion  witli  young  beauty  covers 
o'er 
Some  favor'd  object  ;  and  as  in  the  niche 

A  lovely  statue  we  almost  adore, 
This  sort  of  adoration  of  the  real 
Is   but    a    heightening    of  the    "  beau 
ideal." 


'T  is  the  perception  of  the  beautiful, 
A  fine  extension  of  the  faculties, 

Platonic,  universal,  wonderful, 

Drawn    from    the   stars,    and    filter'd 
through  the  skies, 

Without  which  life  would  be  extremely 
dull : 
In  short,  it  is  the  use  of  our  own  eyes, 

With  one  or  two  small  senses  added,  just 

To  hint  that  flesh  is  form'd  of  liery  dust. 

Yet  't  is  a  painful  feeling,  and  unwilling, 
For  surely  if  we  always  could  perceive 
In  the  same  object  graces  quite  as  kill- 
ing 
As  when  she  rose  upon  us  like  an  Eve, 
'T  would  save  us  many   a  heart-ache, 
many  a  shilling 
(For  we  must   get  them  anyhow,  or 
grieve), 
Whereas,  if  one  sole  lady  pleased  for- 
ever, 
How  pleasant  for  the  heart,  as  well  as 
liver. 

The  heart  is  like  the  sky,   a  part   of 

heaven, 
But  changes  night  and  day,  too,  like 

the  sky  ; 
Now  o'er  it  clouds  and  thunder  must  be 

driven, 
And  darkness  and  destruction  as  on 

high : 
But  when  it  hath  been  scorch'd,  and 

pierced,  and  riven, 
Its  storms  expire  in  water-drops  ;  the 

eye 
Pours   forth   at    last   the   heart's   blood 

turn'd  to  tears, 
Which  make  the  English  climate  of  our 

years. 

The  liver  is  the  lazaret  of  bile, 

But  very  rarely  executes  its  function, 
For  the  first  passion  stays  there  such  a 
while, 
That  all  the  rest  creep  in  and  form  a 
junction, 
Like  knots  of  vipers  on  a  dunghill's  soil, 
Rage,  fear,   hate,  jealousy,   revenge, 
compunction, 
So  that  all  mischiefs  spring  up  from  this 

entrail, 
Like  earthquakes  from  the   hidden  fire 
call'd  "  central." 

In  the  mean  time,  without  proceeding 
more 
In  this  anatomv.  I've  finish'd  now 


BYRON 


249 


Two  hundred  and  odd  stanzas  as  before, 
That   being    about    the    number  I'll 
allow 
Each  canto  of   the  twelve,  or  twenty- 
four  ; 
And,  laying  down  my  pen,  I  make  my 
bow, 
Leaving  Don  Juan  and  Haidee  to  plead 
For  them  and  theirs  with  all  who  deign 
to  read. 
Canto  II.,  December,  1818,   January, 
1819.     July  15,  1819. 

FROM  CANTO  III 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 
Where    burning    Sappho    loved    and 
sung. 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 
Where     Delos     rose,     and     Phoebus 
sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse: 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  eel  10  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea  ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 
I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be 
free  ; 

For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis  ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations  ; — all  were  his  ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  ? 

And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame. 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face  ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 


Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae  ! 

What,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  !  no  ; — the  Aroices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come  ! " 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain — in  vain  :  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes. 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call- 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal  ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet  : 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  ; 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant  ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was    freedom's     best     and     bravest 
friend ; 
Tfiat  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh  !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks, 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells  ; 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  : 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine  ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 


250 


BRITISH    POETS 


My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die  : 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  ! 

Thus  sung,  or  would,  or  could,  or  should 
have  sung,  St.  87 

The  modern  Greek,  in  tolerable  verse  ; 
If  not  like  Orpheus  quite,  when  Greece 
was  young, 
Yet  in  these  times  he  might  have  done 
much  worse  : 
His  strain  display'd  some  feeling — right 
or  wrong ; 
And  feeling,  in  a  poet,  is  the  source 
Of  others'  feeling  ;  but  they  are  such 

liars, 
And  take  all  colors — like  the  hands  of 
dyers. 

But  words  are  things,  and  a  small  drop 
of  ink, 
Falling  like  dew,  upon  a  thought,  pro- 
duces 

That  which   makes   thousands,  perhaps 
millions,  think  ; 
'Tis  strange,  the  shortest  letter  which 
man  uses 

Instead  of  speech,  may  form  a  lasting 
link 
Of  ages  ;  to  what  straits  old  Time  re- 
duces 

Frail  man  when  paper — even  a  rag  like 
this, 

Survives  himself,  his  tomb,  and  all  that's 
his  ! 

And  when  his  bones  are  dust,  his  grave 
a  blank, 
His  station,  generation,   even  his  na- 
tion, 
Become  a  thing,  or  nothing,  save  to  rank 

In  chronological  commemoration, 
Some  dull  MS.  oblivion  long  has  sank, 
Or  graven  stone  found  in  a  barrack's 
station 
In  digging  the  foundation  of  a  closet, 
May  turn  his  name  up,  as  a  rare  deposit. 

And  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile  ; 
'Tis    something,    nothing,    words,    il- 

usion  wind — 
Depending  more   upon  the    historian's 

style 


Than   on   the  name  a  person    leaves 
behind  : 
Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist  owes  to 
Hoyle  ; 
The  present  century  was  growing  blind 
To  the  great  Marlborough's  skill  in  giv- 
ing knocks, 
Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

Milton's  the  prince  of  poets — so  we  say  ; 

A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine  : 
An  independent  being  in  his  day — 
Learn'd,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and 
wine  ; 
But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way, 
We're  told  this  great  high  priest  of  all 
the  Nine 
Was   whipt   at    college — a   harsh  sire — 

odd  spouse, 
For  the  first  Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house. 

All  these  are,  certes,  entertaining  facts, 
Like  Shakspeare's  stealing  deer,  Lord 
Bacon's  bribes  ; 
Like  Titus'  youth,  and  Caesar's  earliest 
acts  ; 
Like  Burns  (whom  Doctor  Currie  well 
describes)  ; 
Like  Cromwell's  pranks  ; — but  although 
truth   exacts 
These  amiable  descriptions  from  the 
scribes, 
As  most  essential  to  their  hero's  ston% 
They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 

All  are  not  moralists,  like  Southey,  when 
He  prated  to  the  world  of  "  Pantis- 
ocrasy  :  " 
Or  Wordsworth  unexcised,  unhired,  who 
then 
Season'd  his  pedlar  poems  with   de- 
mocracy ; 
Or  Coleridge,  long  before  his  flighty  pen 
Let    to    the    Morning   Post    its   aris- 
tocracy ; 
When   he  and   Southey,  following   the 

same  path, 
Espoused   two    partners    (milliners    of 
Bath). 

Such  names  at  present  cut   a   convict 
figure, 
The   very  Botany  Bay  in   moral   geo- 
graphy ; 
Their  royal  treason,  renegado  rigor, 
Are  good  manure  for  their  more  bare 
biography. 
Wordsworth's  last  quarto,  by  the  way, 
is  bigger 


BYRON 


25i 


Than  any  since  the  birthday  of  typo- 
graphy ; 

A  drowsy  frowzy  poem,  call'd  the  "  Ex- 
cursion," 

Writ  in  a  manner  which  is  my  aversion. 

He  there  builds  up  a  formidable  dyke 
Between  his   own  and   others'   intel- 
lect ; 
But  Wordsworth's  poem,   and  his   fol- 
lowers, like 
Joanna    Southcote's  Shilob,   and   her 
sect, 
Are  things  which  in  this  century  don't 
strike 
The  public  mind, — so  few  are  the  elect ; 
And  the  new  births  of  both  their  stale 

virginities 
Have  proved    but  dropsies,   taken    for 
divinities. 

But  let  me  to  my  story  :  I  must  own, 
If  I  have  any  fault,  it  is  digression, 

Leaving  my  people  to  proceed  alone, 
While  I  soliloquize  beyond  expression: 

But  these  are  my  addresses  from  the 
throne, 
Which  put  off  business  to  the  ensuing 
session : 

Forgetting  each  omission  is  a  loss  to 

The  world,  not  quite  so  great  as  Ariosto. 

I    know  that   what   our  neighbors  call 
"  longueurs," 
(We  've  not  so  good  a  ivord,  but  have 
the  thing, 
In   that  complete  perfection  which  in- 
sures 
An    epic    from    Bob    Southey    every 
Spring—) 
Form   not   the   true   temptation   which 
allures 
The  reader  ;  but  't  would  not  be  hard 
to  bring 
Some  fine  examples  of  the  epopee, 
To  prove  its  grand  ingredient  is  ennui. 

We  learn  from  Horace,  "  Homer  some- 
times sleeps  ;  " 
We    feel    without   him,    Wordsworth 
sometimes  wakes, — 
To    show    witli   what    complacency   he 
creeps, 
With   his  dear   "  Wagoners,"  around 
1) is  lakes. 
He   wishes   for    "a   boat'"    to   sail   the 
deeps — 
Of  ocean  ? — No,  of  air;    and   then  he 
makes 


Another  outcry  for  "  a  little  boat," 
And  drivels  seas  to  set  it  well  afloat. 

If  he  must  fain  sweep  o'er  the  ethereal 
plain, 
And     Pegasus    runs    restive    in    his 
"  Wagon," 
Could  he  not  beg  the  loan  of  Charles's 
Wain? 
Or  pray  Medea  for  a  single  dragon  ? 
Or  if,  too  classic  for  his  vulgar  brain, 
He  fear'd  his  neck  to  venture  such  a 
nag  on, 
And  he  must  needs  mount  nearer  to  the 

moon. 
Could  not  the  blockhead  ask  for  a  bal- 
loon ? 

"Pedlars,"  and    "Boats,"  and   "Wag- 
ons !  "  Oh  !  ye  shades 
Of  Pope  and  Dryden,  are  we  come  to 

this  ? 
That  trash  of  such  sort  not  alone  evades 
Contempt,  but  from  the  bathos'  vast 

abyss 
Floats  scumlike  uppermost,   and  these 

Jack  Cades 
Of  sense  and  song  above  your  graves 

may  hiss — 
The  "  little  boatman  "  and  his   "  Peter 

Bell  " 
Can    sneer  at  him  who  drew   "Achito- 

phel  !  " 

T'  our  tale. — The  feast  was  over,   the 
slaves  gone, 
The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all 
retired  ; 
The  Arab    lore    and  poet's  song  were 
done, 
And  every  sound  of  revelry  expired  ; 
The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone, 

The   rosy  flood   of   twilight's  sky  ad- 
mired ; 
Ave  Maria  !  o'er  the  earth  and  sea, 
That    heavenliest    hour    of    Heaven    is 
worthiest  thee ! 

Ave  Maria  !  blessed  be  the  hour  ! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I 
so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in    its   fullest 
power 
Sink   o'er   the  earth  so  beautiful  and 
soft, 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant 
tower, 
Or   the   faint   dying    day-hymn    stole 
aloft, 


252 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  not  ;i  breath  crept  through  the  rosy 

air, 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seem'd  stirr'd 

with  prayer. 

Ave  Maria  !  't  is  the  hour  of  prayer  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  't  is  the  hour  of  love  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and   to  thy  Son's 
above ! 
Ave  Maria  !  oh  that  face  so  fair ! 
Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Al- 
mighty dove — 
What  though  't  is  but  a  pictured  image 

strike, 
That  painting  is  no  idol, — 't  is  too  like. 

Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  to  say, 
In  nameless  print — that  I  have  no  de- 
votion ; 
But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to 
pray, 
And  you  shall  see  who  has  the  proper- 
est  notion 
Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way  ; 
My  altars  are  the   mountains  and  the 
ocean, 
Earth,  air,  stars, — all  that  springs  from 

the  great  Whole, 
Who  hath  produced,  and  will  receive 
the  soul. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight ! — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which   bounds  Ravenna's   immemorial 
wood, 
Rooted  where   once  the  Adrian  wave 
flow'd  o'er, 
To  where  the    last   Caesarean    fortress 
stood, 
Evergreen   forest !  which   Boccaccio's 
lore 
And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground 

to  me, 
How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and 
thee  ! 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 
Making  their  summer  lives  one  cease- 
less song, 
Were  the  sole  echoes,  save   my  steed's 
and  mine, 
And  vesper  bell's  that  rose  the  boughs 
along  ; 
The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line. 
His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the 
fair  throng 
Which  learn'd  from  this  example  not  to 

fly 


From  a  true  lover, — shadow'd  my  mind's 
eye. 

Oh,   Hesperus !   thou  bringest  all  good 

things — 
Home   to   the   weary,   to   the  hungry 

cheer, 
To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding 

wings, 
The    welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabor'd 

steer ; 
Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone 

clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect 

of  dear, 
Are  gather'd  round   us  by  thy  look  of 

rest  ; 
Thou    bring'st    the    child,    too,    to   the 

mother's  breast. 

Soft  hour  !  which  wakes  the  wish  and 
melts  the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first 
day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are 
torn  apart ; 
Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his 
way 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 
Seeming   to    weep    the    dying    day's 
decay  ; 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns? 
Ah  !  surely  nothing  dies  but  something 
mourns  ! 

When  Nero  perish'd  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroy'd, 

Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Rome, 
Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  over- 

o°y'd, 

Some  hands  unseen  strew'd  flowers  upon 

his  tomb  : 
Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a  heart  not 

void 
Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when 

power 
Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 

But  I'm  digressing ;  what  on  earth  has 
Nero, 
Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons, 
To  do  with  the  transactions  of  my  hero, 
More  than  such  madmen's  fellow-man 
— the  moon's  ? 
Sure  my  invention  must  be  down  at  zero, 
And  I  grown  one  of  many  ' '  wooden 
spoons  " 
Of  verse  (the  name  with  which  we  Can- 
tabs  please 
To  dub  the  last  of  honors  in  degrees). 


BYRON 


253 


I  feel  this  tediousness  will  never  do — 

'T  is  being  too  epic,  and  I  must  cut  down 
(In  copying)  this  long  canto  into  two  ; 

They'll  never  find  it  out,  unless  I  own 

The  fact,  excepting   some  experienced 

few ; 

And  then  as  an  improvement  't  will  be 

shown  : 

I'll  prove  that  such  the  opinion  of  the 

ci'itic  is 
From  Aristotle  passim. — See  iTo^-rt/cfa. 

Canto  III.     1819-1820.   August  8,  1821. 

FROM  CANTO  IV 

Nothing  so  difficult  as  a  beginning  [St.  1 

In  poesy,  unless  perhaps  the  end  ; 
For    oftentimes    when    Pegasus    seems 
winning 
The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down 
we  tend, 
Like  Lucifer  when  hurl'd  from  heaven 
for  sinning ; 
Our  sin  the  same,  and  hard  as  his  to 
mend, 
Being  pride,  which  leads  the  mind  to  soar 

too  far, 
Till  our  own  weakness  shows  us  what  we 
are. 

But  time,  which  brings  all  beings  to  their 
level, 
And  sharp  Adversity,  will  teach  at  last 
Man, — and,  as  we  would  hope, — perhaps 
the  devil, 
That  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast : 
While  youth's  hot  wishes  in  our  red  veins 
revel, 
We  know  not  this — the  blood  flows  on 
too  fast : 
But  as  the  torrent  widens  towards  the 

ocean, 
We  ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion. 

As  boy,  I  thought  myself  a  clever  fellow, 
And  wish'd  that  others  held  the  same 
opinion  ; 
They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more 
mellow, 
And    other  minds  acknowledged    my 
dominion  : 
Now  my  sere  fancy  "  falls  into  the  yellow 
Leaf,"  and   Imagination    droops  her 
pinion, 
And  the  sad  truth  which  hovers  o'er  my 

desk 
Turns  what  was  once  romantic  to  bur- 
lesque. 


And  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing, 
'  T  is  that  I  may  not  weep  ;  and  if  I 
weep, 
'T  is  that  our  nature  cannot  always  bring 

Itself  to  apathy,  for  we  must  steep 
Our  hearts  first  in  the  depths  of   Lethe's 
spring, 
Ere  what  we  least  wish  to  behold  will 
sleep : 
Thetis  baptized  her  mortal  son  in  Styx  : 
A  mortal  mother  would  on  Lethe  fix. 

Some  have  accused  me  of  a  strange  design 
Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the 
land, 
And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line  ; 

I  don't  pretend  that  I  quite  understand 
My  own  meaning  when  I  would  be  very 
fine  ; 
But  the  fact  is  that  I   have   nothing 
plann'd, 
Unless  it  were  to  be  a  moment  merry, 
A  novel  word  in  my  vocabulary. 

To  the  kind  reader  of  our  sober  clime 
This  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic  ; 

Pulci  was  sire  of  the  half-serious  rhyme, 
Who   sang   when   chivalry  was   more 
Quixotic, 

And  revell'd  in  the  fancies  of  the  time, 
True  knights,  chaste  dames,  huge  giant 
kings  despotic  : 

But  all  these,  save  the  last,  being  obsolete, 

I  chose  a  modern  subject  as  more  meet. 

How  I  have  treated  it,  I  do  not  know  ; 
Perhaps    no    better    than    they  have 
treated  me, 
Who  have  imputed  such  designs  as  show 
Not  what  they  saw,   but   what  they 
wish'd  to  see  ; 
But  if  it  gives  them  pleasure,  be  it  so, 
This  is  a  liberal  age,  and  thoughts  are 
free  : 
Meantime  Apollo  plucks  me  by  the  ear, 
And  tells  me  to  resume  mjr  story  here. 
Canto  IV.  1819—1820.  August  8  ,  1821. 

FROM  CANTO  XI 

LONDON   LITERATURE  AND  SOCIETY 

Juan    knew   several   languages-as  well 

He  might — and  brought  them  up  with 

skill,  in  time  ( SI .  53 

To  save  his  fame  with  each  accomplish'd 

belle, 

Who  still  regretted  that  he   did  not 

rhyme. 


254 


BRITISH    POETS 


There  wanted  but  this  requisite  to  swell 
His  qualities(with  them)  into  sublime  ; 

Lady  Fitz-Frisky,  and  Miss  Ma3via  Man- 
nish, 

Both  long'd  extremely  to  be  sung  in 
Spanish. 

However,  he  did  pretty  well,  and  was 
Admitted  as  an  aspirant  to  all 

The  coteries,  and,  as  in  Banquo's  glass, 
At  great  assemblies  or  in  parties  small, 

He  saw  ten  thousand  living  authors  pass, 
That  being  about  their  average  num- 
eral ; 

Also  the  eighty  "  greatest  living  poets," 

As  every  paltry  magazine  can  show  it's. 

In  twice  five  years  the  "  greatest  living 
poet." 
Like  to  the  champion  fisty  in  the  ring, 
Is  call'd  on  to  support  his  claim,  or  show 
it, 
Although  'tis  an  imaginary  thing. 
Even  I — albeit  I'm  sure  I  did  not  know  it, 
Nor  sought  of  foolscap  subjects  to  be 
king,— 
Was  reckon'd  a  considerable  time. 
The  grand  Napoleon  of  the    realms   of 
rhyme. 

But  Juan  was  mjr  Moscow,  and  Faliero 
My  Leipsic,  and  my  Mont  Saint  Jean 
seems  Cain  : 
"  La  Belle  Alliance  "  of  dunces  down  at 
zero, 
Now  that  the  Lion's  fall'n,  may    rise 
again  : 
But  I  will  fall  at  least  as  fell  my  hero  ; 

Nor  reign  at  all,  or  as  a  monarch  reign  ; 
Or  to  some  lonely  isle  of  gaolers  go, 
With  turncoat  Southey  for  my   turnkey 
Lowe. 

Sir    Walter  reign'd   before  me ;  Moore 
and  Campbell 
Before  and  after  :  but  now  grown  more 
holy, 
The  Muses  upon  Sion's  hill  must  ramble 
With      poets    almost    clergymen,    or 
wholly  : 
And  Pegasus  has  a  psalmodic  amble 
Beneatli   the   very   Reverend   Rowley 
Powley, 
Who   shoes  the   glorious  animal    with 

stilts, 
A   modern  Ancient    P'sto  — 'by  these 

hilts!  " 
rStill  he  excels  that  artificial  hard 

Laborer  in  the  same  vineyard,  though 
the  vine 


Yields  him  but  vinegar  for  his  reward, — 
That   neutralized   dull   Dorus  of  the 

Nine  ; 
That  swarthy  Sporus,  neither  man  nor 

bard ; 
That  ox  of  verse,  who  ploughs  for  every 

line : — 
Cambyses'  roaring  Romans  beat  at  least 
The     howling     Hebrews    of     Cybele's 

priest.  — 

Then  there's  my  gentle  Euphues  \  who, 
they  say, 
Sets  up  for  being  a  sort  of  moral  me  : 1 
He  '11  find  it  rather  difficult  some  day 

To  turn  out  both,  or  either,  it  may  be. 
Some  persons  think  that  Coleridge  hath 
the  sway  ; 
And  Wordsworth  has  supporters,  two 
or  three  ; 
And  that   deep-mouth'd  Boeotian  "  Sav- 
age Landor " 
Has  taken  for  a  swan  rogue  Southey's 
gander. 

John  Keats,  who  was  kill'd  off  by  one 
critique,2 
Just  as  he  really  promised  something 
great, 
If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 
Contrived  to  talk  about  the  Gods  of 
late, 
Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed 
to  speak. 
Poor  fellow  !  His  was  an  untoward  fate; 
'T  is  strange  the   mind,  that   very  fiery 

particle, 
Should  let    itself  be  snuff'd    out  by  an 
article. 

The  list  grows  long  of  live  and  dead  pre- 
tenders 
To  that  which  none  will  gain — or  none 
,  will  know 
The  conqueror  at  least ;  who,  ere  Time 

renders 
His  last  award,  will  have  the  long  grass 

grow 
Above  his  burnt-out   brain,   and  sapless 
cinders. 
If  I  might  augur,  I  should  rate  but  low 

1  Barry  Cornwall,  once  called  "  a  moral  Byron." 
5  The  entirely  mistaken  idea  that  Keats'  de- 
cline and  death  were  due  to  the  severe  criticism 
on  his  Endymion  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  was 
shared  by  Shelley,  and  was  generally  prevalent 
until  the  publication  of  Milnes'  Life  of  Keats. 
See  H.  Buxton  Forman's  edition  of  Keats' 
Works,  Vol.  IV.,  pp.  225-272,  and  Colvin's  Life  of 
Keats,  pp.  124  and  208. 


BYRON 


255 


Their  chances  ; — they  're  too  numerous, 

like  the  thirty 
Mock  tyrants,  when  Rome's  annals  wax'd 

but  dirty. 

This  is  the  literary  lower  empire, 
Where  the  praetorian    bands   take  up 
the  matter ; — 
A  "dreadful  trade,"  like  his   who  "  ga- 
thers samphire," 
The  insolent  soldiery   to    soothe    and 
natter, 
With  the  same  feelings  as  you'd  coax  a 
vampire. 
Now,   were   I  once   at  home,    and  in 
good  satire, 
I'd  try  conclusions  with  those  Janizaries, 
And  show  them  what    an    intellectual 
war  is. 

I  think  I   know  a  trick  or  two,  would 

turn 
Their  flanks  ; — but  it  is   hardly  worth 

my  while 
With  such  small  gear  to  give  myself 

concern  : 
Indeed  I  've  not  the  necessary  bile  ; 
My  natural  temper  's  really  aught  but 

stern, 
And  even  my  Muse's  worst  reproof  's  a 

smile ; 
And  then  she  drops  a  brief  and  modern 

curtsy, 
And    glides    away,    assured  she  never 

hurts  ye. 

My  Juan,  whom  I  left  in  deadly  peril 
Amongst  live  poets   and  blue  ladies, 
pass'd 
With  some    small    profit  through   that 
field  so  sterile, 
Being  tired  in  time,  and  neither  least 
nor  last, 
Left  it  before  he  had  been  treated  very 
ill; 
And   henceforth  found   himself  more 
gaily  class'd 
Amongst  the  higher  spirits  of  the  day, 
The  sun's  true  son,  no  vapor,  but  a  ray. 

His  morns  he  pass'd  in  business — which 
dissected, 
Was  like  all  business,  a  laborious  noth- 
ing 
That  leads  to  lassitudp,  the  most  infected 
And  Centaur  Nessus  garb  of   mortal 
clothing, 
And  on  our  sofas  makes  us  lie  dejected, 
And    talk    in  tender  horrors  of    our 
loathing 


All  kinds  of  toil,  save  for  our  country's 

good — 
Which  grows  no  better,  though  't  is  time 

it  should. 

His  afternoons  he  pass'd  in  visits,  lunch- 
eons, 
Lounging,  and  boxing  ;    and  the  twi- 
light hour 

In  riding  round  those  vegetable  punch- 
eons 
Call'd  "  Parks."  where  there  is  neither 
fruit  nor  flower 

Enough  to  gratify  a  bee's  slight  munch- 
ings  ; 
But  after  all  it  is  the  only  "bower" 

(In  Moore's  phrase)  where  the  fashion- 
able fair 

Can  form  a    slight  acquaintance   with 
fresh  air. 

Then  dress,  then  dinner,  then  awakes  the 
world  ! 
Then  glare  the  lamps,  then   whirl  the 
wheels,  then  roar 
Through  street  and  square  fast  flashing 
chariots  hurl'd 
Like  harness'd   meteors  :  then   along 
the  floor 
Chalk  mimics  painting  ;  then   festoons 
are  twirl'd  ; 
Then  roll  the  brazen  thunders  of  the 
door, 
Which  opens  to  the  thousand  happy  few 
An  earthly  Paradise  of  "  Or  Molu." 

There  stands  the  noble  hostess,  nor  shall 
sink 
With    the     three-thousandth   curtsy  ; 
there  the  waltz, 
The  only   dance  which   teaches  girls  to 
think, 
Makes  one  in  love  even  with  its  very 
faults. 
Saloon,  room,  hall,  o'erflow  beyond  their 
brink, 
And  long  the  latest  of  arrivals  halts, 
'Midst  royal  dukes  and  dames  condenin'd 

to  climb, 
And  gain  an  inch  of  staircase  at  a  time. 

Thrice  happy  he  who,  after  a  survey 

Of  the  good  company,  can  win  a  corner, 
A  door   that's  in   or   boudoir  out  of  the 
way, 
Where  he  may  fix   himself  like  small 
"  Jack  Horner," 
And  let  the  Babel  round  run  as  it  may, 
And  look  on  as  a  mourner,  or  a  scorner 


=  56 


BRITISH    POETS 


Or  an  approver,  or  a  mere  spectator, 
Yawning  a  little  as  the  night  grows  later. 

But  this  won't  do,  save  by  and  by  ;  and  he 
Who,  like  Don  Juan,  takes  an  active 
share, 
Must  steer  with   care  through  all  that 
glittering  sea 
Of  gems  and  plumes  and  pearls  and 
silks,  to  where 
He  deems  it  is  his  proper  place  to  be  ; 
Dissolving  in  the  waltz   to   some   soft 
air, 
Or  proudlier   prancing  with   mercurial 

skill, 
Where  Science  marshals  forth  her  own 
quadrille. 

Or,  if  he  dance    not,    but    hath  higher 
views 
Upon    an    heiress   or    his    neighbor's 
bride, 
Let  him  take  care  that  that  which  he 
pursues 
Is  not  at  once  too  palpably  descried. 
Full  many  an  eager  gentleman  oft  rues 
His  haste  ;  impatience  is  a  blundering 
guide, 
Amongst  a  people  famous  for  reflection, 
Who  like  to  play  the  fool  with  circum- 
spection. 

But,  if  you  can   contrive,  get  next   at 
supper ; 
Or    if    forestall'd,    get    opposite   and 
ogle  :— 
Oh,    ye    ambrosial    moments  !    always 
upper 
In  mind,  a  sort  of  sentimental  bogle, 
Which    sits    for    ever    upon   memory's 
crupper, 
The  ghost  of  vanish'd  pleasures  once  in 
vogue  !  Ill 
Can  tender  souls  relate  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  hopes  and  fears  which  shake  a  single 
ball. 

But  these  precautionary  hints  can  touch 
•  Only    the    common    run,    who    must 

pursue, 
And  watch,  and   ward  ;  whose  plans  a 
word  too  much 
Or  little  overturns  ;  and  not  the  few 
Or  many  (for  the  number  's  sometimes 
such) 
Whom  a  good  mien,  especially  if  new, 
Or  fame,  or  name,  for  wit,  war,    sense, 

or  nonsense. 
Permits  whate'er  they  please,  or  did  not 
long  since. 


Our  hero,  as  a  hero,  young    and    hand 

some, 
Noble,  rich,  celebrated,  and  a  stranger 
Like  other  slaves  of  course  must  pay  his 

ransom, 
Before  he  can  escape    from  so  much 

danger 
As  will    environ    a    conspicuous    man. 

Some 
Talk  about  poetry,     and    "rack    and 

manger," 
And    ugliness,     disease,     as    toil     and 

trouble  ; — 
I  wish  they  knew  the  life  of  a  young 

noble. 

They  are  young,  but  know  not   youth — 

it  is  anticipated  ; 
Handsome  but  wasted,   rich   without 

a  sou  ; 
Their    vigor    in    a    thousand  arms    is 

dissipated  ; 
Their   cash  comes  from,  their  wealth 

goes  to  a  Jew  ; 
Both  senates  see  their  nightly  votes  par- 
ticipated 
Between  the  tyrant's  and  the  tribunes' 

crew  ; 
And  having  voted,  dined,  drank,  gamed, 

and  whored, 
The  family  vault  receives  another  lord. 


But"  carpe  diem, "Juan,  "  carpe,carpe !" 

To-morrow  sees  another  race  as  gay 
And  transient  and  devour'd  by  the  same 
harpy. 
"  Life's  a  poor  player," — then  "  play 
out  the  play, 
Ye  villains  ! "  and  above  all  keep  a  sharp 
eye 
Much  less  on  what  you  do  than   what 
you  say  : 
Be  hypocritical,  be  cautious,  be 
Not  what  you  seem,   but    always  what 
you  see. 

But   how   shall  I  relate  in  other  cantos 
Of  what  befell   our  hero  in   the   land, 
Which    'tis   the   common  cry  and  lie  to 
vaunt  as 
A   moral  country  ?     But    I  hold  my 
hand — 
For  I  disdain  to  write  an  Atalantis  ; 

But  'tis  as  well  at  once  to  understand 
You  are  not  a  moral   people,    and  you 

know  it 
Without  the  aid  of  too  sincere  a  poet. 


BYRON 


257 


What  Juan  saw  and  underwent  shall  be 
My    topic,  with  of  course  the  due  re- 
striction 
Which  is  required  by   proper  courtesj- ; 
And  recollect  the  work  is  only  fiction, 
And  that  I  sing  of  neither  mine  nor  me, 
Though  every   scribe,  in  some   slight 
turn  of  diction,  [doubt 

Will  hint  allusions  never   meant.    Ne'er 
This — when    I    speak.  I  don't  hint,   but 
speak  out. 

Whether  he  married    with  the    third  or 
fourth 
Offspring  of  some  sage  husband-hunt- 
ing countess,  [worth 
Or  whether   with   some   virgin  of   more 
(I  mean    in    Fortune's    matrimonial 
bounties) 
He  took   to   regularly   peopling   Earth 
Of  which  your  lawful,  awful  wedlock 
fount  is, — 
Or  whether  he   was  taken  in  for    dam- 
ages,                                      [ages, — 
For  being  too    excursive    in   his  liom- 

Is  yet  within  the  unread  events  of  time. 
Thus   far,  go  forth,  thou  lay,  which  I 
will  back 
Against    the    same    given   quantity   of 
rhyme,  [tack 

For  being  as  much  the  subject  of  at- 
As  ever  yet  was  any  work  sublime, 
By  those  who  love  to  say  that  white  is 
black. 
So  much  the  better  ! — I  may  stand  alone, 
But  would  not  change  my  free  thoughts 
for  a  throne. 
Canto  XI.  1822-1823.  August  29, 1823. 

THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT,1 


QUEVEDO  REDIVIVUS 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  COMPOSITION  SO  EN- 
TITLED BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  ' '  WAT 
TYLER " 


"  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment.  1  yea,  a  Daniel  1 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word." 

'Southey  published  in  1821  a  poem  called  "  A 
Vision  of  Judgment,"  in  which  he  extolled 
George  III.  for  his  personal  virtues,  and  de- 
scribed his  reception  into  heaven.  In  the  Pref- 
ace of  this  poem  he  bitterly  attacked  Byron  for 
immorality  in  his  writings.  See  full  accounts 
of  the  affair  in  the  biographies  of  Byron  and 
Southey.  The  briefest  and  best  treatment  of  it 
is  in  Nichol's  Life  of  Byron,  toward  the  end  of 
Chapter  VIII. 

*7 


It  hath  been  wisely  said,  that  "One  fool  makes 
many  ; "  and  it  hath  been  poetically  observed— 

"  That  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread."— POPE. 

If  Mr.  Southey  had  not  rushed  in  where  he 
had  no  business,  and  where  he  never  was  before, 
and  never  will  be  again,  the  following  poem 
would  not  have  been  written.  It  is  not  impossi* 
ble  that  it  may  be  as  good  as  his  own,  seeing 
that  it  cannot,  by  any  species  of  stupidity,  natu 
ral  or  acquired,  be  xoorse.  The  gross  flattery, 
the  dull  impudence,  the  renegado  intolerance, 
and  impious  cant,  of  the  poem  by  the  author  of 
"  Wat  Tyler,"  are  something  so  stupendous  as  to 
form  the  sublime  of  himself — containing  the 
quintessence  of  his  own  attributes. 

So  much  for  his  poem — a  word  on  his  preface. 
In  this  preface  it  has  pleased  the  magnanimous 
Laureate  to  draw  the  picture  of  a  supposed 
"Satanic  School,"  the  which  he  doth  recom- 
mend to  the  notice  of  the  legislature ;  thereby 
adding  to  his  other  laurels  the  ambition  of  those 
of  an  informer.  If  there  exists  anywhere  ex- 
cept in  his  imagination,  such  a  School,  is  he  not 
sufficiently  armed  against  it  by  his  own  intense 
canity  ?  The  truth  is,  that  there  are  certain 
writers  whom  Mr.  S.  imagines,  like  Scrub,  to 
have  "  talked  of  him  ;  for  they  laughed  con- 
sumedly." 

I  think  I  know  enough  of  most  of  the  writers 
to  whom  he  is  supposed  to  allude,  to  assert,  that 
they,  in  their  individual  capacities,  have  done 
more  good,  in  the  charities  of  life,  to  their  fel- 
low-creatures, in  any  one  year,  than  Mr.  Southey 
lias  done  harm  to  himself  by  his  absurdities  in 
his  whole  life  ;  and  this  is- saying  a  great  deal. 
But  I  have  a  few  questions  to  ask. 

lstly,  Is  Mr.  Southey  the  author  of  "  Wat 
Tyler"  ? 

2ndly,  Was  he  not  refused  a  remedy  at  law  by 
the  highest  judge  of  his  beloved  England,  be- 
cause it  was  a  blasphemous  and  seditious  publi- 
cation ? 

3dly,  Was  he  not  entitled  by  William  Smith, 
in  full  parliament,  "  a  rancorous  renegado  ?  " 

4thly,  Is  he  not  poet  laureate,  with  his  own 
lines  on  Martin  the  regicide  staring  him  in  the 
face  ? 

And,  5thly,  Putting  the  four  preceding  items 
together,  with  what  conscience  dare  he  call  the 
attention  of  the  laws  to  the  publications  of 
others,  be  they  what  they  may  1 

I  say  nothing  of  the  cowardice  of  such  a  pro- 
ceeding, its  meanness  speaks  for  itself  ;  but  I 
wish  to  touch  upon  the  motive,  which  is  neither 
more  nor  less  than  that  Mr.  S.  has  been  laughed 
at  a  little  in  some  recent  publications,  as  he  was 
of  yore  in  the  "  An ti- Jacobin,"  by  his  present 
patrons.  Hence  all  this  "  skimble-scamble 
stuff''  about  "Satanic,"  and  so  forth.  How- 
ever, it  is  worthy  of  him — "  qualis  ab  incejito." 

If  there  is  anything  obnoxious  to  the  political 
opinions  of  a  portion  of  the  public  in  the  follow- 
ing poem,  they  may  thank  Mr.  Southey.  He 
might  have  written  hexameters,  as  he  has  writ 
ten  everything  else,  for  aught  that  the  writer 
cared — had  they  been  upon  another  subject. 
But  to  attempt  to  canonize  a  monarch,  who, 
whatever  were  his  household  virtues,  was 
neither  a  successful  nor  a  patriot  king,— inas- 
much as  several  years  of  his  reign  passed  in  war 
with  America  and  Ireland,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
aggression  upon  France, — like  ail  other  exagger- 
ation,  necessarily  begets  opposition.  In  what- 
ever manner  he  may  be  spoken  of  in  this  new 


258 


BRITISH    POETS 


"Vision,"  his  public  career  will  not  be  more 
favorably  transmitted  by  history.  Of  his  pri- 
vate virtues  (.although  a  little  expensive  to  the 
nation)  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

With  regard  to  the  supernatural  personages 
treated  of,  I  can  only  say  that  I  know  as  much 
about  them,  and  (as  an  honest  man)  have  a  bet- 
ter right  to  talk  of  them  than  Robert  Southey. 
I  have  also  treated  them  more  tolerantly.  The 
way  in  which  that  poor  insane  creature,  the 
Laureate,  deals  about  his  judgments  in  the  next 
world,  is  like  his  own  judgment  in  this.  If  it 
was  not  completely  ludicrous,  it  would  be  some- 
thing worse.  I  don't  think  that  there  is  much 
more  to  say  at  present. 

QUEVEDO  REDIVIVUS. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate  : 
His  keys  were  rusty,  and  the  lock  was 
dull, 
So  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late  ; 
Not  that  the  place  by  any  means  was 
full, 
But  since  the  Gallic  era  "  eighty-eight  " 
The  devils  had  ta'en  a  longer,  stronger 
pull, 
And  "  a  pull  altogether,"  as  they  say 
At  sea — which  drew  most  souls  another 
way. 

The  angels  all  were  singing  out  of  tune, 

And  hoarse  with  having  little  else  to 

do. 

Excepting  to  wind  up  the  sun  and  moon, 

Or  curb  a  runaway  young  star  or  two, 

Or  wild  colt  of  a  comet,  which  too  soon 

Broke  out  of  bounds  o'er  the  ethereal 

blue, 

Splitting  some  planet   with  its  playful 

tail, 
As  boats  are  sometimes  by  a  wanton 
whale. 

The    guardian  seraphs  had    retired  on 
high, 
Finding  their  charges  past  all  care  be- 
low ; 
Terrestrial  business  fill'd  nought  in  the 
sky 
Save     the     recording    angel's    black 
bureau  ; 
Who  found,  indeed,  the  facts  to  multi- 
ply 
With  such  rapidity  of  vice  and  woe, 
That  he  had  stripp'd  off  both  his  wings 

in  quills, 
And  yet  was  in  arrear  of  human  ills. 

His  business  so  augmented  of  late  years. 
That  he  was  forced,  against  his  will 
no  doubt, 

(Just  like  those  cherubs,  earthly  minis- 
ters,) 


For    some  resource   to  turn    himself 
about, 
And  claim  the  help  of  his  celestial  peers, 
To  aid  him  ere  he  should  be  quite  worn 
out 
By  the   increased   demand    for   his  re- 
marks : 
Six  angels  and  twelve  saints  were  named 
his  clerks. 

This  was  a  handsome   board — at  least 

for  heaven  ; 
And  yet  they  had  even  then  enough 

to  do, 
So  many  conquerors'  cars  were  daily 

driven, 
So  many  kingdoms  fitted  up  anew  ; 
Each  day  too  slew  its  thousands  six  or 

seven, 
Till  at  the  crowning  carnage,  Water- 
loo, 
They  threw  their  pens  down  in  divine 

disgust — • 
The  page  was  so  besmear'd  with  blood 

and  dust. 

This  by  the  way  ;  't  is  not  mine  to  record 
What  angels  shrink  from  :  even  the 
very  devil 
On  this  occasion  his  own  work  abhorr'd, 
So  surfeited  with  the  infernal  revel : 
Though  he  himself  had  sharpen'd  every 
sword, 
It  almost  quench'd  his  innate  thirst 
of  evil. 
(Here  Satan's  sole  good  work  deserves 

insertion — 
'T  is,  that  he  has  both  generals  in  re- 
version.) 

Let's  skip  a  few  short  years  of  hollow 

peace, 
Which  peopled  earth  no  better,  hell 

as  wont, 
And  heaven  none— they  form  the  tyrant's 

lease, 
With    nothing   but   new  names   sub- 
scribed upon  't ; 
'T  will  one  day  finish :  meantime  they 

increase, 
"With   seven  heads  and  ten  horns," 

and  all  in  front. 
Like  Saint  John's  foretold    beast ;  but 

ours  are  born 
Less  formidable  in  the  head  than  horn. 

In  the  first  year  of   freedom's   second 
dawn 
Died  George  the  Third  ;  although  no 
tyrant,  one 


BYRON 


!59 


Who  shielded   tyrants,   till  each  sense 
withdrawn 
Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun  ; 

A  better  farmer  ne'er  brush'd  dew  from 
lawn, 
A  worse  king  never   left  a  i-ealm  un- 
done ! 

He  died — but  left  his  subjects  still  be- 
hind, 

One  half  as  mad — and  t'other  no  less 
blind. 

He  died !  his  death  made  no  great  stir 

on  earth  : 
His  burial   made   some   pomp  ;   there 

was  profusion 
Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,   and   no  great 

dearth 
Of  aught  but  tears — save  those  shed 

by  collusion. 
For  these  things  may  be  bought  at  their 

true  worth  ; 
Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion — 
Bought   also ;   and   the   torches,  cloaks, 

and  banners, 
Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  man- 
ners, 

Form'd  a  sepulchral  melodrame.     Of  all 
The  fools  who  flock'd  to  swell  or  see 
the  show, 
Who     cared     about    the    corpse?     The 
funeral 
Made  the   attraction,   and   the   black 
the  woe. 
There    throbb'd   not    there    a    thought 
which  pierced  the  pall ; 
And   when   the   gorgeous   coffin    was 
laid  low, 
It  seem'd  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 
The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust !   It  might 

Return  to  what  it  must  far  sooner,  were 

The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  fight 

Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  fire,  and 

air; 

But  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 

What  nature  made  him  at  his  birth, 

as  bare 

As  the  mere  million's  base  unmummied 

clay- 
Yet  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay. 

He's  dead — and  upper  earth  with  him 
has  done  ; 

He's  buried;  save  the  undertaker's  bill, 
Or  lapidary  scrawl,  the  world  is  gone 

For  him,  unless  he  left  a  German  will ; 


But   where's  the  proctor   who  will   ask 
his  son  ? 
In  whom   his   qualities   are   reigning 
still, 

Except  that  household  virtue,  most  un- 
common, 

Of  constancy  to  a  bad,  ugly  woman. 

"  God  save  the   king  !  "    It   is  a  large 
economy 
In  God  to  save  the  like  :  but  if  he  will 
Be  saving,  all  the  better;  for  not  one  am  I 
Of  those  who  think  damnation  better 
still : 
I  hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 
In  this  small  hope  of  bettering  future  ill 
By  circumscribing,  with  some  slight  re- 
striction, 
The  eternity  of  hell's  hot  jurisdiction. 

I  know  this  is  unpopular  ;  I  know 

Tis  blasphemous  ;  I  know  one  may  be 
damn'd 
For  hoping  no  one  else  may  e'er  be  so ; 
I  know  my  catechism;  I  know  we're 
cramm'd 
With   the   best   doctrines   till   we  quite 
o'erflow; 
I  know  that  all  save  England's  church 
have  shamm'd. 
And  that  the  other  twice  two  hundred 

churches 
And  synagogues  have  made   a   damn'd 
bad  purchase. 

God  help  us  all !  God  help  me  too  !  I  am, 
God  knows,  as  helpless  as  the  devil  can 
wish, 

And  not  a  whit  more  difficult  to  damn, 
Than  is  to  bring  to  land  a  late-hook'd 
fish, 

Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  lamb  ; 
Not  that  I'm  fit  for  such  a  noble  dish, 

As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  fry 

Of  almost  everybody  born  to  die. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 
And  nodded  o'er  his  keys;  when,  lo! 
there  came 
A  wondrous  noise  he  had  not   heard   of 
late— 
A  rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream, 
and  flame  ; 
In   short,   a   roar   of  things    extremely 
great, 
Which  would  have  made  aught  save  a 
saint  exclaim; 
But  he.  with   first  a  start  and  then  a 
wink.  [think! 

Said,  "  There's  another  star  gone  out,  1 


260 


BRITISH    POETS 


But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 
A  cherub  flapp'd  bis  right  wing  o'er 
his  eyes — 
At  which  St.  Peter  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd 
his  nose  : 
"  Saint  porter,"  said  the  angel,  "  pri- 
thee rise ! " 
Waving  a  goodly  wing,  which  glow'd, 
as  glows 
An  earthly  peacock's  tail,  with  heav- 
enly dyes  : 
To    which    the    saint    replied,    "  "Well, 
what's  the  matter? 
"  Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  all  this 
clatter  ?  " 

"  No,"  quoth  the  cherub;  "  George  the 

Third  is  dead." 
"  And  who  is  Geoi-ge  the  Third?  "  re- 
plied the  apostle : 
"  What George  f   what  Third?"    "The 

king  of  England,"  said 
The  angel.     "  Well!    he    won't   find 

kings  to  jostle 
Him  on  his  way;  but  does  he  wear  his 

head  ? 
Because  the  last  we  saw  here  had  a 

tustle, 
And  ne'er  would  have  got  into  heaven's 

good  graces, 
Had  he  not  flung  his  head  in  all  our  faces. 

"  He  was,  if  I  remember,  king  of  France  ; 
That   head   of   his,    which   could   not 
keep  a  crown 
On  earth,  yet  ventured  in  my  face  to 
advance 
A  claim  to  those  of  martyrs — like  my 
own  : 
If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  I  had  once 
When  I  cut  ears  off,  I   had   cut   him 
down  ; 
But   having   but   my  keys,  and  not  my 

brand, 
I  only  knock'd   his   head   from  out  his 
hand. 

"  And  then  he  set  up  such  a  headless 
howl, 
That  all  the  saints  came  out  and  took 
him  in; 
And  there  he  sits  by  St.  Paul,  cheek  by 
jowl  ; 
That  fellow  Paul — the  parvenu  !     The 
skin 
Of  St.   Bartholomew,  which  makes  his 
cowl 
In  heaven,  and  upon  earth  redeem'd 
his  sin, 


So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 
Better  than  did  this  weak  and   wooden 
head. 

"  But   had   it   come   up   here   upon   its 
shoulders, 
There  would  have  been  a  different  tale 
to  tell : 
The  fellow-feeling  in  the  saints'  beholders 
Seems  to  have  acted  on  them  like  a 
spell, 
And  so  this  very  foolish  head   heaven 
solders 
Back  on  its  trunk  :  it  may  be  very  well, 
And  seems  the  custom  here,  to  overthrow 
Whatever  has  been  wisely  done  below." 

The    angel    answer'd,    "Peter!  do  not 
pout : 
The  king  who  comes  has  head  and  all 
entire, 
And  never  knew   much    what    it    was 
about — 
He  did  as  doth  the  puppet — by  its  wire, 
And  will  be  judged  like  all  the  rest,  no 
doubt : 
My  business  and  your  own  is  not  to 
inquire 
Into  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  cue — 
Which  is  to  act  as  we  are  bid  to  do." 

While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  cara- 
van, 
Arriving  like  a  rush  of  mighty  wind, 
Cleaving  the  fields  of  space,  as  dotli  the 
swan 
Some  silver  stream  (say  Ganges,  Nile 
or  Inde, 
Or  Thames,  or  Tweed) ,  and  'midst  them 
an  old  man 
With  an  old  soul,  and  both  extremely 
blind, 
Halted  before  the  gate,  and  in  his  shroud 
Seated  their  fellow  traveller  on  a  cloud. 

But  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  bright 
host 
A  Spirit  of  a  different  aspect  waved 
His   wings,    like    thunder-clouds  above 
some  coast 
Whose  barren   beach    with    frequent 
wrecks  is  paved  ; 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  tem- 
pest-toss'd  ; 
Fierce    and    unfathomable    thoughts 
engraved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face, 
And  where  he  gazed  a  gloom  pervaded 
space. 


BYRON 


261 


As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate 
Ne'er  to  be  enter' d  more  by  him  or  Sin, 

With  suoh  a  glance  of  supernatural  hate, 
As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  himself 
within  ; 

He  patter'd  with  his  keys  at  a  great  rate, 
And  sweated  through  his  apostolic 
skin  : 

Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor, 

Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 

The  very  cherubs  huddled  all  together, 
Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon  ;  and 
they  felt 
A  tingling  to  the  tip  of  every  feather, 

And  form'd  a  circle  like   Orion's  belt 
Around    their    poor    old   charge ;    who 
scarce  knew  whither 
His  guards  had  led  him,  though  they 
gently  dealt 
With  royal  manes  (for  by  many  stories, 
And  true,  we  learn   the  angels  all  are 
Tories). 

As  things  were  in  this  posture,  the  gate 
flew 
Asunder,  and  the  flashing  of  its  hinges 
Flung  over  space  an  universal  hue 

Of  many-color'd  flame,  until  its  tinges 
Reach'd  even  our  speck  of  earth,  and 
made  a  new 
Aurora  boi  ealis  spread  its  fringes 
O'er  the   North   Pole  ;  the  same  seen, 

when  ice-bound, 
By  Captain  Parry's  crew,  in  "Melville's 
Sound." 

And  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued 

beaming 
A    beautiful   and     mighty    Thing  of 

Light, 
Radiant  with  glory,  like  a  banner  stream- 
ing 
Victorious  from  some  world-o'erthrow- 

ing  fight  : 
My  poor    comparisons    must    needs    be 

teeming 
With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the 

night 
Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions, 

saving 
Johanna    Southcote,   or    Bob    Southey 

raving. 

Twas  the  archangel    Michael  ;  all  men 

know 
The  make  of  angels  and   archangels, 

since 
There's  scarce  a  scribbler  has  not  one  to 

show. 


From  the  fiends'  leader  to  the  angels' 

prince  ; 

There  also  are  some  altar-pieces,  though 

I  really  can't  say  that  they  much  evince 

One's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits  ; 

But  let  the  connoisseurs  explain  their 

merits. 

Michael  flew  forth  in  glory  and  in  good  ; 
A  goodly  work  of  him  from  whom  all 
glory 
And  good   arise  ;    the  portal  past — he 
stood  ; 
Before  him   the   young   cherubs   and 
saints  hoary — 
(I  say  young,  begging  to  be  understood 
By  looks,  net  years  ;  and  should   be 
very  sorry 
To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  St. 

Peter, 
But  merely  that    they  seem'd  a  little 
sweeter) . 

The  cherubs  and  the  saints  bow'd  down 
before 
That  arch-angelic  hierarch,  the  first 
Of  essences  angelical,  who  wore 
The  aspect   of  a  god  ;  but  this  ne'er 
nursed 
Pride  in  his   heavenly  bosom,  in  whose 
core 
No   thought,   save     for     his   Mastei's 
service,  durst 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 

He  and  the  sombre,  silent  Spirit  met — 
They  knew  each  other  both  for  good 
and  ill  ; 
Such  was  their  power,  that  neither  could 
forget 
His  former  friend  and  future  foe  ;  but 
still 
There     was    a    high,  immortal,    proud 
regret 
In  either's  eye,  as  if  't  were  less  their 
will 
Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 
Their   date  of  war,  and  their   "champ 
clos  "  the  spheres. 

But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space:  we 
know 
From  Job,  that  Satan  hath  the  power 
to  pay 
A  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so  ; 
And  that  the  "  sons  of  God,"  like  those 
of  clay, 
Must  keep  him  company  ;  and  we  mi<ght 
show 


262 


BRITISH  POETS 


From  the  same  book,  in  how   polite  a 

The  dialogue  is  held  between  the  Powers 
Of  Good  and  Evil — but  'twould  take  up 
hours. 

And  this  is  not  a  theologic  tract, 
To    prove    with     Hebrew     and     with 
Arabic, 
If  Job  be  allegory  or  a  fact, 

But  a  true  narrative  ;   and  thus  I  pick 
From  out  the  whole  but  such  and  such 
an  act 
As  sets  aside  the  slightest  thought  of 
trick. 
'Tis  every  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion, 
And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 

The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 
The    gate    of    heaven  ;    like    eastern 

thresholds  is 
The  place  where  Death's  grand  cause  is 

argued  o'er, 
And  souls  despatch'd  to  that  world  or 

to  this  ; 
And  therefore  Michael  and  the    other 

wore 
A  civil  aspect  :  though  they  did   not 

kiss, 
Yet  still  between  his  Darkness  and  his 

Brightness 
There  pass'd  a  mutual  glance  of  great 

politeness. 

The  Archangel  bow'd,  not  like  a  modern 
beau, 
But  with  a  graceful  Oriental  bend, 
Pressing  one  radiant  arm  just  where  be- 
low 
The  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to 
tend  ; 
He  turn'd  as  to  an  equal,  not  too  low, 
But   kindly ;    Satan   met   his    ancient 
friend 
With   more  hauteur,  as  might   an  old 

Castilian 
Poor    noble    meet    a    mushroom    rich 
civilian. 

He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 
An  instant ;    and  then  raising  it,  he 
stood 
In  act  to  assert  his  right  or  wrong,  and 
show 
Cause  why  King  George  by  no  means 
could  or  should 
Make  out  a  case  to  be  exempt  from  woe 
Eternal,     more    than     other     kings, 
endued 


With  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  his- 
tory mentions, 

Who  long  have  "  paved  hell  with  theil 
good  intentions." 

Michael  began  :    "  What   wouldst  thou 
witli  this  man. 
Now   dead,   and   brought    before  the 
Lord  ?     What  ill 
Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race 
began, 
That  thou  canst  claim  him  ?    Speak  1 
and  do  thy  will, 
If  it  be  just  :  if  in  this  earthly  span 

He  hath  been  greatly  failing  to  fulfil 
His  duties  as  a  king  and  mortal,  say, 
And  he   is  thine  ;  if  not,  let  him  have 
way." 

"Michael!"  replied  the  Prince  of  Air, 

"  even  here, 
Before  the  Gate  of  him  thou  servest, 

must 
I  claim  my   subject  :    and  will   make 

appear 
That  as  he  was  my  worshipper  in  dust, 
So  shall  he  be  in  spirit,  although  dear 
To  thee   and  thine,   because   nor  wine 

nor  lust 
Were   of   his  weaknesses  ;    yet   on  the 

throne 
He   reign'd   o'er   millions    to   serve    me 

alone. 

"  Look  to  our  earth,  or  rather  mine  ;  it 
was, 
Once,  more  thy  Master's  :  but  I  triumph 
not 
In  this  poor  planet's  conquest ;  nor,  alas  ! 
Need  he  thou  servest  envy  me  my  lot  : 
With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds 
which  pass 
In  worship  round  him,  he   may  have 
forgot 
Yon  weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things: 
I  think  few  worth  damnation  save  their 
kings, — 

"  And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit-rent,  to 
Assert  my  right  as  lord:  and  even  had 
I  such  an  inclination,  it  were  (as  you 
Well    know)    superfluous  ;    they     are 
grown  so  bad, 
That  hell  has  nothing  better  left  to  do 
Than  leave  them  to  themselves  :    so 
much  more  mad 
And  evil  by  their  own  internal  curse, 
Heaven  cannot  make  them  better,  nor  1 
worse. 


BYRON 


263 


*'  Look  to  the  earth.  I  said,  and  say  again: 
When  this  old,   blind,  mad,  helpless, 
weak,  poor  worm 
Began   in  youth's   first  bloom  and  flush 
to  reign. 
The   world  and  he  both  wore  a  dif- 
ferent form, 
And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery 
plain 
Of  ocean  call'd   him   king :    through 
many  a  storm 
His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time; 
For  the  rough   virtues   chose  them  for 
their  clime. 

"  He   came   to   his   sceptre   young  ;  he 
leaves  it  old  : 
Look  to  the  state  in  which  he  found 
his  realm, 
And  left  it ;  and  his  annals  too  behold, 

How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm; 
How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gold, 
The  beggar's  vice,  which  can  but  over- 
whelm 
The  meanest  hearts  ;    and  for  the  rest, 

but  glance 
Thine  eye  along  America  and  France. 

"  'Tis  true,  he  was  a  tool  from  first  to  last 
(I  have  the  workmen  safe  ;)  but  as  a  tool 
So  let  him  be  consumed.     From  out  the 
past 
Of  ages,  since   mankind  have  known 
the  rule 
Of    monarchs — from    the    bloody    rolls 
amass'd 
Of  sin  and  slaughter — from  the  Caesar's 
school, 
Take  the   worst  pupil  ;    and  produce  a 

reign 
More   drench'd    with  gore,    more  cum- 
ber'd  with  the  slain. 

"  He  ever  warr'd  with  freedom  and  the 
free  : 
Nations  as  men,  home  subjects,  foreign 
foes, 
So  that  they  utter'd  the  word  '  Liberty  ! ' 
Found   George   the   Third   their  first 
opponent.     Whose 
History  was  ever  stain'd  as  his  will  be 
With  national  and  individual  woes? 
I  grant  his  household  abstinence  ;  1  grant 
His  neutral  virtues,    which   most  mon- 
archs want  ; 

"  I  know  he  was  a  constant  consort ;  own 
He  was  a  decent  sire,   and  middling 
lord. 


All  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a  throne ; 

As  temperance,  if  at  Apicius'  board, 
Is  more   than  at  an  anchorite's  supper 
shown. 
I  grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord  ; 
And  this  was  well  for  him,  but  not  for 

those 
Millions  who  found  him  what  oppres- 
sion chose. 

"  The  New   World  shook  him  off  ;    the 
Old  yet  groans 
Beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared,  if 
not 
Completed  :    he  leaves  heirs  on  many 
thrones 
To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot 
Compassion  for  him — his  tame  virtues  ; 
drones 
Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now 

forgot 
A   lesson   which     shall   be   re-taught 
them,  wake 
Upon  the  thrones  of  earth  ;  but  let  them 
quake  I 

"  Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 
The  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on 
earth,  implored 
Apart  oi  that  vast  all  they'held  of  old, — 
Freedom  to  worship — not  alone   your 
Lord, 
Michael,  but  you,  and  you,  Saint  Peter  ! 
cold 
Must  be  your  souls,  if   you  have  not 
abhor'd 
The  foe  to  Catholic  participation 
In  all  the  license  of  a  Christian  nation. 

"True!  he  allow'd  them  to  pray  God; 

but   as 
A  consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the 

law 
Which    would   have  placed   them  upon 

the  same  base 
With   those     who  did    not    hold    the 

saints  in  awe." 
But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his 

place, 
And  cried,   "  You  may    the  prisoner 

withdraw  : 
Ere  heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this 

Guelph, 
While  I  am  guard,  ma}'  I  be  damn'd  my- 
self ! 

"  Sooner  will  I  with  Cerberus  exchange 

My  office  (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 
Than  see  this  royal  Bedlam  bigot  range 


264 


BRITISH  POETS 


The  azure  fields  of  heaven,  of  that  be 

sure ! " 
"Saint !  "  replied  Satan,  "  you  do  well  to 

avenge 
The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites 

endure ; 
And  if  to  this  exchange  you  should  be 

given, 
I'll    try  to  coax    our    Cerberus    up    to 

heaven ! " 

Here  Michael  interposed  :  "  Good  saint ! 
and  devil ! 
Pray,  not  so  fast ;  you  both  outrun  dis- 
cretion. 
Saint  Peter  !  you  were  wont  to  be  more 
civil ! 
Satan,  excuse  this  warmth  of  his  ex- 
pression, 
And  condescension  to  the  vulgar's  level : 
Even  saints  sometimes   forget   them- 
selves in  session. 
Have  you  got  more  to  say?" — "  No." — 

"  If  you  please, 
I'll  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses." 

Then    Satan    turn'd    and    waved    his 
swarthy  hand, 
Which  stirr'd  with  its  electric  quali- 
ties 
Clouds  farther  off  than  we  can  under- 
stand, 
Although  we  find  him  sometimes  in 
our  skies ; 
Infernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land 

In  all  the  planets,  and  hell's  batteries 
Let  off  the  artillery,  which  Milton  men- 
tions 
As  one  of  Satan's  most  sublime  inven- 
tions. 

This  was  a  signal  unto  such  damned  souls 
As  have  the  privilege  of  their  damna- 
tion 
Extended  far  beyond  the  mere  controls 
Of  worlds  past,  present,  or  to  come  ; 
no  station 
Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 

Of  hell  assign'd  ;  but  where  their  incli- 
nation 
Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of 

game, 
They  may  range  freely — being  damn'd 
the  same. 

They're  proud  of  this — as  very  well  they 
may, 
It  being  a  sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt 
key 


Stuck  in    their  loins ;    or    like    to    an 
"  entre" 
Up    the    back    stairs,    or  such    free- 
masonry. 

I  borrow  my  comparisons  from  clay, 
Being    clay    myself.     Let    not    those 
spirits  be 

Offended  with  such  base  low  likenesses  ; 

We  know  their  posts  are  nobler  far  than 
these. 

When  the  great  signal  ran  from  heaven 
to  hell- 
About  ten  million  times  the  distance 
reckon'd 
From  our  sun  to  its  earth ,  as  we  can  tell 
How  much  time  it  takes  up,  even  to  a 
second, 
For  every  ray  that  travels  to  dispel 
The  fogs  of  London,  through  which, 
dimly   beacon'd 
The  weathercocks  are  gilt  some  thrice  a 

year, 
If  that  the  summer  is  not  too  severe  : 

I  say  that  I  can  tell — 'twas  half  a  min- 
ute ; 
I  know  the  solar  beams  take  up  more 

time 
Ere,  pack'd  up   for  their  journey,  they 

begin  it  ; 
But  then  their  telegraph  is  less  sub- 

blime, 
And  if  they  ran  a  race,  they  would  not 

win  it 
'Gainst    Satan's   courier's    bound    for 

their  own  clime. 
The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every 

ray 
To  reach  its  goal — the  devil  not  half  a 

day. 

Upon  the  verge  of  space,  about  the  size 

Of  half-a-crown,  a  little  speck  appear'd 

(I've  seen  a  something  like  it  in  the  skies 

In  the  iEgean,  ere  a  squall);  it  neai'd, 

And,  growing  bigger,  took  another  guise; 

Like    an    aerial    ship   it   tack'd,   and 

steer 'd, 

Or  •  ivas  steer'd   (I  am   doubtful   of  the 

grammar 
Of    the  last  phrase,  which  makes  the 
stanza  stammer ; — 

But  take  your  choice) :  and  then  it  grew 
a  cloud 
And  so  it  was — a  cloud  of  witnesses. 
But  such    a  cloud  !  No  land  e'er  saw  a 
crowd 


BYRON 


265 


Of  locusts  numerous  as  the  heavens 
saw  these  ; 
They    shadowed    with    their    myriads 
space ;  their  loud 
And  varied   cries  were  like  those  of 
wild  geese 
(If  nations  may  be  liken'd  to  a  goose), 
And  realized  the  phrase  of  "  hell  broke 
loose." 

Here  crashed  a  sturdy  oath  of  stout  John 
Bull, 
Who  damned  away  his  eyes  as  hereto- 
fore : 

There  Paddy  brogued  "By  Jasus!" — 
"  What's  your  wull  ?  " 
The  temperate.  Scot  exclaimed:  the 
French  ghost  swore 

In  certain   terms  I  shan't  translate  in 
full, 
As  the  first  coachman  will ;  and  'midst 
the  war, 

The  voice  of  Jonathan  was  heard  to  ex- 
press, 

"  Our  president  is  going  to  war,  I  guess." 

Besides  there  were  the  Spaniard,  Dutch, 
and  Dane ; 
In  short,  an  universal  shoal  of  shades, 
From  Otaheite's  isle  to  Salisbury  Plain, 
Of  all  climes   and   professions,  years 
and  trades, 
Ready  to  swear  against  the  good  king's 
reign, 
Bitter  as  clubs  in  cards  are  against 
spades : 
All  summon'd  by  this  grand  "  subpoena," 

to 
Try  if  kings  mayn't  be  damn'd  like  me 
or  you. 

When  Michael  saw  this  host,  he  first 
grew  pale, 
As    angels    can ;    next,    like     Italian 
twilight, 
He  turn'd  all  colors — as  a  peacock's  tail, 
Or  sunset  streaming  through  a  Gothic 
skylight 
In  some  old  abbey,  or  a  trout  not  stale, 
Or  distant  lightning  on  the  horizon  by 
night. 
Or  a  fresh  rainbow,  or  a  grand  review 
Of  thirty  regiments  in  red,  green  and 
blue. 

Then   he   address'd    himself  to    Satan : 
"Why— 
My  good  old  friend,  for  such  I  deem 
you, though 


Our  different  parties  make  us  fight  so 
shy, 
I  ne'er  mistake  you  for  a  personal  foe ; 
Our  difference  is  political,  and  I 

Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below, 
You  know   my  great  respect   for  you : 

and  this 
Makes  me  regret  whate'er  you  do  amiss— 

"Why,    my  dear  Lucifer,   would    you 
abuse 
My  call  for  witnesses  ?  I  did  not  mean 
That  you  should  half  of  earth  and  hell 
produce ; 
'Tis  even  superfluous,  since  two  hon- 
est, clean, 
True  testimonies  are  enough :  we  lose 

Our  time,  nay,  our  eternity,  between 
The  accusation  and  defence  :  if  we 
Hear  both,    'twill   stretch    our  immor- 
tality." 

Satan  replied,  "  To  me  the  matter  is 
Indifferent,   in    a    personal    point  of 
view  : 
I  can  have  fifty  better  souls  than  this 
With  far  less  trouble   than   we  have 
gone  through 
Already  ;  and  I  merely  argued  his 
Late   Majesty  of  Britain's"  case  with 
you 
Upon  a  point  of  form  :  you  may  dispose 
Of  him  ;    I've  kings  enough  below,  God 
knows ! " 

Thus    spoke    the    Demon    (late    call'd 

"  multi-faced" 
By  multo-scribbling  Southey).    ' '  Then 

we'll  call 
One  or  two  persons  of  the  myriads  placed 
ArOund  our    congress,   and    dispense 

with  all 
The  rest,"  quoth  Michael:  "Who  may 

be  so  graced 
As    to    speak    first  ?    there's    choice 

enough — who  shall 
It  be?"    Then  Satan  answer'd,  "There 

are  many  ; 
But  you  may  choose  Jack  Wilkes  as  well 

as  any." 

A    merry,    cock-eyed,     curious-looking 
sprite 
Upon    the    instant  started   from  the 
throng, 
Dress'd  in  a  fashion  now  forgotten  quite  ; 
For  all  the  fashions  of  the  flesh  stick 
long 
By  people  in   the  next   world ;   where 
unite 


266 


BRITISH    POETS 


All  the  costumes  since  Adam's,  right 
or  wrong, 

From  Eve's  rig-leaf  down  to  the  petti- 
coat, 

Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 

The  spirit  look'd  around  upon  the  crowds 
Assembled,      and      exclaim'd,      "  My 
friends  of  all 
The  spheres,  we  shall  catch  cold  amongst 
these  clouds ; 
So  let's  to  business  :  whv  this  general 
call? 
If  those  are  freeholders  I  see  in  shrouds, 
And  'tis  for  an  election  that  they  bawl, 
Behold  a  candidate  with  unturn'd  coat ! 
Saint   Peter,    may    I   count   upon   your 
vote  ?  " 

"Sir,"  replied  Michael,  "you  mistake; 
these  things 
Are  of  a  former  life,  and  what  we  do 
Above  is  more  august ;  to  judge  of  kings 
Is    the    tribunal    met  :   so    now    you 
know." 
"Then  I  presume  those  gentlemen  with 
wings," 
Said  Wilkes,  "are  cherubs;  and  that 
soul  below 
Looks  much  like  George  the  Third,  but 

to  my  mind 
A    good    deal    older — Bless  me  !    is  he 
blind  ?  " 

"  He  is  what  you  behold  him,  and  his 

doom 
Depends  upon  his  deeds,"    the    Angel 

said  ; 
"  If  you  have  aught  to  arraign   in   him, 

the  tomb 
Gives  license  to  the  humblest  beggar's 

head 
To    lift  itself  against     the    loftiest." — 

"  Some," 
Said]  Wilkes,    "don't  wait  to  see  them 

laid  in  lead, 
For  such  a  liberty — and  I,  for  one, 
Have  told  them  what  I  thought  beneath 

the  sun." 

''Above  the  sun  repeat,  then,  what  thou 
hast 
To  urge  against  him,"  said  the    Arch- 
angel.    "Why," 
Replied  the  spirit,  "  since  old  scores  are 
past, 
Must  I  turn  evidence  ?     In  faith,  not  I. 
Besides,  I  beat  him  hollow  at  the  last, 
With  all  his  Lords  and  Commons  :    in 
the  sky 


I  don't  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  since 
His  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a  prince. 

"Foolish,    no    doubt,    and    wicked,    to 
oppress 
A  poor  unlucky  devil  without  a  shilling  ; 
But  then  I  blame  the  man  himself  much 
less 
Than  Bute  and  Grafton,  and  shall  be 
unwilling 
To  see  him  punish'd  here  for  their  excess, 
Since    they  were    both    damn'd    long 
ago,  and  still  in 
Their  place  below  :  for  me,  I  have    for- 
given, 
And    vote    his     '  habeas    corpus '    into 
heaven." 

"  Wilkes,"  said  the  Devil,  "  I  understand 
all  this  ; 
You  turn'd  to  half  a  courtier  ere  you 
died, 
And  seem  to  think  it  would  not  be  amiss 
To  grow  a  whole  one  on  the  other  side 
Of  Charon's  ferry  ;  you  forget  that  his 

Reign  is  concluded  ;  whatsoe'er  betide, 
He  won't  be  sovereign  more  :  you've  lost 

your  labor, 
For  at  the  best  he  will  but  be  your  neigh- 
bor. 

"  However,  I  knew  what  to  think  of  it, 
When  I  beheld  you  in  your  jesting  way, 
Flitting  and  whispering  round  about  the 
spit 
Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day, 
With  Fox's  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 
His  pupil ;  I  knew  what  to  think,  I  say  : 
That  fellow  even  in  hell  breeds    farther 

ills; 
I'll  have  him  gagg'd — 'twas  one  of  his 
own  bills. 

"Call    Junius!"      From  the    crowd    a 
shadow  stalk'd, 
And  at  the  name  there  was  a  general 
squeeze, 
So  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  walk'd 

In  comfort,  at  their  own  aerial  ease, 
But  were  all  ramm'd,  and  jamm'd   (but 
to  be  balk'd, 
As  we  shall  see),    and    jostled    hands 
and  knees, 
Like  wind  compress'd  and  pent  within  a 

bladder, 
Or  like  a  human  colic,  which  is  sadder. 

The    shadow  came — a  tall,    thin,    gray- 
hair'd  figure, 


BYRON 


267 


That  look'd  as  it  had  been  a  shade  on 
earth  ; 
Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigor. 
But  naught  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its 
birth  ; 
Now  it  wax'd  little,   then  again    grew 
bigger, 
With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savage 
mirth  ; 
But  as  you  gazed  upon  its  features,  they 
Changed  every  instant — to  what,    none 
could  say. 

The  more  intently  the  ghosts  gazed,    the 

less 
Could     they     distinguish    whose     the . 

features  were ; 
The  Devil  himself  seem'd  puzzled   even 

to  guess  ; 
They  varied  like  a  dream — now   here, 

now  there  ; 
And  several  people  swore   from   out   the 

press, 
They  knew  him  perfectly  ;     and    one 

could  swear 
He  was  his  father  :  upon  vvhich  another 
Was  sure  he  was  his    mother's    cousin's 

brother : 

Another,  that  he  was  a  duke,  or  knight. 

An  orator,  a  lawyer,  or  a  priest, 
A  nabob,  a  man-midwife  ;  but  the  wight 
Mysterious  changed    his   countenance 
at  least 
As  oft  as  they   their  minds  ;    though   in 
full  sight 
He  stood,    the    puzzle    only    was  in- 
creased ; 
The  man  was  a  phantasmagoria  in 
Himself — he  was  so  volatile  and  thin. 

The  moment  that  you   had  pronounced 
him  one, 
Presto !      his    face    changed,   and     lie 
was  another  ; 
And  when  that  change  was  hardly  well 
put  on, 
It  vai-ied,  till  I  don't    think    his   own 
mother 
(If  that  he  had  a  mother)  would  her  son 
Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from  one  to 
t'other  : 
Till  guessing  from  a  pleasure  grew  a  task, 
At  this  epistolary  "Iron  Mask." 

For  sometimes  he  like  Cerberus  would 
seem — 
"  Three  gentlemen  at  once  "  (as  sagely 
says 


Good  Mrs.   Malaprop);  then  you  might 
deem 
That  he  was  not  even  one  ;  now  many 
rays 

Were  flashing  round  him  ;    and  now  a 
thick  steam 
Hid  him  from  sight — like  fogs  on  Lon- 
don days : 

Now   Burke,    now   Tooke,   he    grew   to 
people's  fancies, 

And  certes  often  like  Sir  Philip  Francis, 

I've  an  hypothesis — 'tis  quite  my  own  ; 

I  never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
Of  doing  people  harm  about  the  throne, 

And  injuring  some  minister  or  peer, 
On  whom  the  stigma  might  perhaps  be 
blown  ; 

It  is — my  gentle  public,  lend  thine  ear  ! 
'Tis   that  what  Junius  we  are  wont  to 

call 
Was  really,  truly,  nobody  at  all. 

I  don't  see  wherefore  letters  should  not 
be 
Written  without  hands,  since  we  daily 
view 
Them  written  without  heads  ;  and  books, 
we  see, 
Are  fill'd  as  well  without  the  latter  too  : 
And  really  till  we  fix  on  somebody 
For  certain  sure  to  claim  them  as  his 
due, 
Their  author,  like   the  Niger's   mouth, 

will  bother 
The  world  to  say  if  there  be  mouth  or 
author. 

"And    who  and   what  art  thou?"  the 
Archangel  said. 
"For  that  you  may  consult  my  title- 
page," 
Replied  this  mighty  shadow  of  a  shade : 
"  If  I  have  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 
I  scarce  shall  tell  it  now." — "  Canst  thou 
upbraid," 
Continued  Michael,  "  George  Rex,  or 
allege 
Aught  further  ?  "  Junius  answer'd,  "  You 

had  better 
First  ask  him  for  his  answer  to  my  letter  : 

"  My  charges  upon  record  will  outlast 
The   brass    of    both    his   epitaph   and 
tomb." 
"  Repent'st  thou  not,"  said  Michael,  "  of 
some  past 
Exaggeration  ?  something  which  may 
doom 


►68 


BRITISH    POETS 


Thyself  if  false,  as  him  if  true?   Thou 

wast 
Too  bitter — is  it  not  so  ? — in  thy  gloom 
Of    passion?" — "  Passion  1  "    cried    the 

phantom  dim, 
"  I  loved  my  country,  and  I  hated  him. 

"  What  I  have  written,  I  have  written  : 

let 
The  rest  be  on  his  head  or  mine  I "  so 

spoke 
Old    "  Nominis     Umbra;"    and    while 

speaking  yet. 
Away  he  melted  in  celestial  smoke. 
Then    Satan    said  to  Michael,    "Don't 

forget 
To  call  George  Washington,  and  John 

Home  Tooke, 
And  Franklin  ;  " — but  at  this  time  there 

was  heard 
A.  cry  for  room,  though  not  a  phantom 

stirr'd. 

At  length  with  jostling,  elbowing,  and 
the  aid 
Of  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post, 
The  devil  Asmodeus  to  the  circle  made 
His  way,  and  look'd  as  if  his  journey 
cost 
Some  trouble.     When  his  burden  down 
he  laid, 
"  What's  this  ?  "  cried  Michael ;  "  why, 
'tis  not  a  ghost  ?  " 
"  I  know  it,"  quoth  the  incubus  ;  "  but  he 
Shall  be  one,  if  you  leave  the  affair  to  me. 

"  Confound  the  renegado !  T  have  sprain'd 
My  left  wing,  he'sso  heavy  ;  one  would 
think 
Some  of  his  works  about  his  neck  were 
chain'd. 
But  to  the  point ;  while  hovering  o'er 
the  brink 
Of  Skiddaw    (where    as    usual  it    still 
rain'd), 
I  saw  a  taper,  far  below  me,  wink, 
And  stooping,  caught  this   fellow  at  a 

libel- 
No  less  on  history  than  the  Holy  Bible. 

"  The  former  is  the  devil's  scripture,  and 
The  latter  yours,  good  Michael :  so  the 
affair 
Belongs  to  all  of  us,  you  understand. 
I  snatch'd  him  up  just  as  you  see  him 
there, 
And  brought  him  off  for  sentence  out  of 
hand  : 
I've  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the 
air— 


At  least  a  quarter  it  can  hardly  be  : 
I  dare  say  that  his  wife  is  still  at  tea." 

Here  Satan  said,  "  I  know  this  man  of 
old, 
And  have  expected  him  for  some  time 
here  ; 
A  sillier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold, 

Or  more  conceited  in  his  petty  sphere  : 

But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 

Such  trash  below  your  wing,  Asmodeus 

dear  : 

We  had  the  poor  wretch  safe  (without 

being  bored 
With  carriage) coming  of  his  own  accord. 

"  But  since  he's  here,  let's  see  what  he 

has  done." 
"  Done  !  "  cried  Asmodeus,  "  he  antici- 
pates 
The  very  business  you  are  now  upon, 
And  scribbles  as  if  head  clerk  to  the 

Fates. 
Who  knows  to  what  his  ribaldry  may 

run , 
When  such  an  ass  as  this,  like  Balaam's, 

prates  ?  " 
"  Let's  hear,"  quoth  Michael,  "  what  he 

has  to  say : 
You  know  we're  bound  to  that  in  every 

way." 

Now  the  bard,  glad  to  get  an  audience, 
which 
By  no  means  often  was  his  case  below, 
Began   to   cough,  and   hawk,  and   hem, 
and  pitch 
His  voice  into  that  awful  note  of  woe 
To  all  unhappy  hearers  within  reach 
Of  poets  when  the  tide  of  rhyme's  in 
flow  ; 
But  stuck  fast  with  his  first  hexameter, 
Not  one  of  all  whose  gouty  feet  would 
stir. 

But  ere  the  spavin'd  dactyls  could   bo 
spurr'd 
Into  recitative,  in  great  dismay 
Both  cherubim  and  seraphim  were  heard 
To  murmur  loudly  through  their   long 
array ; 
And  Michael  rose  ere  he  could  get  a  word 
Of  all  his  founder'd  verses  under  way, 
And  cried,  "  For  God's  sake  stop,  my 

friend  !   'twere  best — 
Non  Di,   non  homines — you  know  the 
rest." 

A  general  bustle  spread  throughout  the 
throng, 


BYRON 


269 


Which  seem*d  to  hold  all  verse  in  detes- 
tation : 
The  angels  had  of  course  enough  of  song 
When  upon  service  ;  and  the  generation 
Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not 
long 
Before,  to  profit  by  a  new  occasion  : 
The  monarch,  mute  "till  then,  exclaim'd, 

"  What  !  what  ! 
Pye  come  again  ?  No   more — no  more  of 
that ! " 

The  tumult  grew  ;  an  universal  cough 
Convulsed   the  skies,  as  during  a  de- 
bate, 
When    Castlereagh    has    been   up  long 
enough 
(Before  he  was  first  minister  of  state, 
I  mean — the  slaves  hear  now)  ;  some  cried 
"Off,  off!" 
As  at  a  farce  ;    till,  grown  quite  des- 
perate, 
The  bard  Saint  Peter  pray'd  to  interpose 
(Himself  an  author)  only  for  his  prose. 

The  varlet  was  not  an  ill-fa vor'd  knave  ; 
A  good  deal  like  a  vulture  in  the  face, 
With  a  hook    nose   and  a  hawk's   eye, 
which  gave 
A  smart  and    sharper-looking  sort  of 
grace 
To    his  whole   aspect,  which,    though 
rather  grave, 
Was  by  no  means  so  ugly  as  his  case  ; 
But  that,  indeed,  was  hopeless  as  can  be, 
Quite  a  poetic  felony  "  de  se." 

Then  Michael  blew  his  trump,  and  still'd 
the  noise 
With  one  still  greater,  as  is  yet  the  mode 
On  earth   besides  ;   except  some  grum- 
bling voice, 
Which  now  and  then  will  make  a  slight 
inroad 
Upon  decorous  silence,  few  will  twice 
Lift  up  their  lungs  when   fairly   over- 
crow'd  ; 
And  now  the  bard  could  plead   his  own 

bad  cause. 
With  all  the  attitudes  of  self-applause. 

He  said — '(I   only   give   the  heads) — he 
said, 
He  meant  no  harm  in  scribbling  ;  'twas 
his  way 
Upon    all     topics ;     'twas,   besides,   his 
bread, 
Of    which     he    butter'd   both  sides ; 
'twould  delav 


Too  long  the  assembly  (he  was  pleased 
to  dread), 
And  take  up  rather  more  time  than  a 
day, 

To  name  his  works — he  would  but  cite  a 
few — 

"Wat  Tyler  "— "    Rhymes    on     Blen- 
heim " — "  Waterloo." 

He  had  written  praises  of  a  regicide  ; 
He  had   written   praises  of  all  kings 
whatever  ; 
He  had   written  for  republics  far  and 
wide, 
And  then  against  them  bitterer  than 
ever  ; 
For  pantisocracy  he  once  had  cried 
Aloud,  a  scheme  less  moral  than  'twas 
clever  ; 
Then  grew  a  hearty  anti-Jacobin — 
Had   turn'd   his  coat — and  would  have 
turn'd  his  skin. 

He  had  sung  against  all  battles,  and 
again 
In  their  high  praise  and  glory;  he  had 
call'd 
Reviewing   "  the  ungentle  craft,"  and 
then 
Become  as  base  a  critic  as  e'er  era  wl'd— 
Fed,  paid,  and  pamper'd  by  the  very  men 
By  whom  his  muse   and   morals   had 
been  maul'd  : 
He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and 

blanker  prose, 
And  more  of  both  than  anybody  knows, 

He  had  •  written    Wesley's    life  :    here 
turning  round 
To  Satan,  "  Sir,  I'm   ready  to  write 
yours, 
In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound, 
With  notes  and  preface,  all  that  most 
allures 
The  pious   purchaser  ;  and    there's    no 
ground 
For  fear,  for  I  can  choose  my  own  re- 
viewers : 
So  let  me  have  the  proper  documents, 
That  I  may  add  you  to  my  other  saints." 

Satan  bow'd,  and  was  silent.     "  Well, 
if  you, 
With  amiable  modesty,  decline 
My   offer,    what   says  Michael?    There 
are  few 
Whose    memoirs    could    be    render'd 
more  divine. 
Mine  is  a  pen  of  all  work;  not  so  new 


270 


BRITISH    POETS 


As  it  was  once,  but  I  would  make  you 

shine 
Like  your  own  trumpet.     By  the  way, 

my  own 
Has  more  of  brass  in  it,  and  is  as  well 

blown. 

"  But  talking  about  trumpets,  here's  my 
Vision  ! 
Now  you  shall  judge,  all  people  ;  yes, 
you  shall 
Judge   with  my  judgment,  and  by  my 
decision 
Be  guided  who  shall  enter  heaven  or 
fall. 
I  settle  all  these  things  by  intuition, 
Times  present,  past,  to  come,  heaven, 
hell,  and  all, 
Like  King  Alfonso.     When  I  thus  see 

double, 
I  save  the  Deity  some  worlds  of  trouble." 

He  ceased,  and  drew  forth  an  MS.  ;  and 
no 
Persuasion  on  the  part  of  devils,  saints. 
Or  angels,  now  could  stop  the  torrent  ; 
so 
He  read   the  first  three  lines  of  the 
contents  ; 
But  at  the  fourth,   the  whole  spiritual 
show 
Had  vanish'd.  witli  variety  of  scents, 
Ambrosial     and     sulphureous,   as    they 

sprang, 
Like  lightning,  off  from  his  "  melodious 
twang." 

Those  grand  heroics  acted  as  a  soell : 
The    angels    stopp'd     their    ears   and 
plied  their  pinions  ; 
The  devils  ran  howling,  deafen'd,  down 
to  hell ; 
The   ghosts   fled,  gibbering,   for   their 
own  dominions — 
(For   'tis   not   yet  decided    where  they 
dwell, 
And  I  leave  every  man  to  his  opinions); 
Michael  took  refuge  in  his  trump — but, 

lo  ! 
His  teeth  were  set  on  edge,  he  could  not 
blow  1 

Saint    Peter,    who   has     hitherto     been 

known 
For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his 

keys, 
And  at  the  fifth  line  knock'd  the  poet 

down  ; 


Who  fell   like  Phaeton,  but  more  at 

ease, 

Into  his  lake,  for  there  he  did  not  drown; 

A  different  web  being  by  the  Destinies 

Woven  for  the  Laureate's  final  wreath, 

whene'er 
Reform  shall  happen  either  here  or  there. 

He  first  sank  to  the  bottom — like  his 
works, 
But  soon  rose  to  the  surface — like  him- 
self ; 

For  all  corrupted  things  are  buoy'd  like 
corks, 
By  their  own  rottenness,  like  as  an  elf, 

Or  wisp   that    flits   o'er   a   morass  :    he 
lurks. 
It  may  be,  still,  like  dull  books  on  a 
shelf, 

In  his  own  den,  to  scrawl  some  "  Life  " 
or  "  Vision," 

As  Welborn  says — "  the  devil  turn'd  pre- 
cisian." 

As  for  the  rest,  to  come  to  the  conclu 

sion 
Of  this  true  dream,    the  telescope  is 

gone 
Which   kept  my  optics   free    from  all 

delusion, 
And   show'd   me   what  I  in   my   turn 

have  shown ; 
All  I  saw  farther,  in  the  last  confusion, 
Was,   that   King   George   slipp'd  into 

heaven  for  one  ; 
And   when   the   tumult   dwindled   to  a 

calm, 
I   left   him    practising    the    hundredth 

psalm. 
May  7— October  4, 1821.   October  15,  1822 

IMPROMPTUS  1 

Strahan,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the  times, 
Patron  and  publisher  of  rhymes, 
For  thee  the  bard  up  Pindus  climbs, 
My  Murray. 

To  thee,  with  hope  and  terror  dumb. 
The  unfledged  MS.  authors  come  ; 
Thou  printest  all — and  sellest  some — 
My  Murray 

Upon  thy  table's  baize  so  green 
The  last  new  Quarterly  is  seen, — 
But  where  is  thy  new  Magazine, 

My  Murray? 

1  From  letters  addressed  to  Mr.  Murray,  or  to 
Thomas  Moore. 


BYRON 


271 


Along  thy  sprucest  bookshelves  shine 
The  works  thou  deemest  most  divine — 
The  "  Art  of  Cookeiy,"'  and  mine, 

My  Murray. 

Tours,  Travels,  Essays,  too,  I  wist, 
And  Sermons,  to  thy  mill  bring  grist ; 
And  then  thou  hast  the  "  Navy  List," 
My  Murray. 

And  Heaven  forbid  I  should  conclude 
Without  "  the  Board  of  Longitude," 
Although  this  narrow  paper  would, 

My  Murray. 
April  11,  1818.     1830. 


When  a  man  hath  no  freedom  to  fight 
for  at  home, 
Let  him  combat  for  that  of  his  neigh- 
bors ; 
Let  him  think  of  the  glories  of  Greece 
and  of  Rome, 
And  get  knock'd  on  the  head  for  his 
labors. 

To  do  good  to  mankind  is  the  chivalrous 
plan, 
And  is  always  as  nobly  requited  ; 
Then  battle  for  freedom  wherever  you 
can, 
And,  if  not  shot  or  hang'd,  you'll  get 
knighted. 

November  5, 1820.     1824. 


So  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

So  late  into  the  night, 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 

Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 
And  the  day  returns  too  soon, 

Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 
By  the  light  of  the  moon. 

February  28,  1817.     1830. 

The  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay, 
Mankind  are  the  asses  who  pull ; 

Each  tugs  it  a  different  way, 
And  the  greatest  of  all  is  John  Bull. 
November  5,  1820.     1830. 


Who  kill'd  John  Keats  ? 
"  I,"  says  the  Quarterly,1 
So  savage  and  Tartarly  ; 

"  'Twas  one  of  my  feats." 

Who  shot  the  arrow  ? 

"The  poet-priest  Milman 
(So  ready  to  kill  man). 

Or  Southey,  or  Barrow." 

July  30,  1821.     1830. 


For  Orford  and  for  Waldegrave 

You  give  much  more  than  me  you  gave 

Which  is  not  fairly  to  behave. 

My  Murray. 

Because  if  a  live  dog,  'tis  said, 

Be  worth  a  lion  fairly  sped, 

A  live  lord  must  be  worth  two  dead, 

My  Murray. 

And  if,  as  the  opinion  goes, 
Verse  hath  a  better  sale  than  prose, — 
Certes,  I  should  have  more  than  those, 
My  Murray. 

But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  cranim'd, 
So,  if  you  will,  /shan't  be  shamm'd, 
And  if  you  won't,  you  may  be  damn'd, 
My  Murray. 
August  23,  1821.     1830. 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  ON  THE  ROAD 
BETWEEN  FLORENCE   AND  PISA 

Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great   in 

story  ; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of 

our  glory  ; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  tvvo- 

and-twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever 

so  plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the 

brow  that  is  wrinkled  ? 
'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower   with  May-dew 

be-sprinkled. 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head 

that  is  hoary  ! 
What  care  I   for  the  wreaths  that  can 

only  give  glory  ! 

Oh,  Fame  ! — if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy 
praises, 

1  See  the  note  on  page  254. 


BRITISH    POETS 


T  was  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sound- 
ing phrases, 

Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear 
one  discover, 

She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to 
love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I 

found  thee  ; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that 

surround  thee  ; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was 

bright  in  my  story, 
I  knew   it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was 

glory. 

November,  1821.     1830. 

ON  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLETE  MY 
THIRTY-SIXTH  YEAR 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move  : 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love  ! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf  ; 
The    flowers    and  fruits   of  love   are 
gone  ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle  ; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 
A  funeral  pile. 


The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care. 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 

And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 

But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  thus — and  't  is  not  here — 
Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul 
nor  now, 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 

Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see  ! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake  !  (not  Greece — she  is  awake  !) 
Awake,    my   spirit !      Think   througr 
whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then   strike  home  ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood  ! — unto  thee 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be, 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,  why  live  9 

The  land  of  honorable  death 
Is  here  : — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath  ! 

Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found— 
A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 

Then  look  around,  and  choose  thjr  ground 
And  take  thy  rest. 
At  Missolonghi,     January    22, 

October  29,  1824. 


SHELLEY 

LIST   OF   REFERENCES 
Editions 

**  Complete  Works,  8  volumes,  edited  by  H.  Buxton  Forman,  1876- 
'79,  new  edition,  1882. —  Poetical  Works,  3  volumes,  edited  from  the 
original  editions  by  R.  H.  Shepherd,  1888.  —  *  Poetical  Works, 
4  volumes,  edited  by  G.  E.  Woodberry,  The  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.,  1892 
(Centenary  Edition).  —  Poetical  Works,  5  volumes,  edited  by  H. 
Buxton  Forman,  1892  (Aldine  Edition).  —  Complete  Works,  8  volumes, 
edited  by  N.  H.  Dole,  1904  (Laurel  Edition).  —  *  Poetical  Works, 
1  volume,  edited  by  Edward  Dowden,  1890  (Globe  Edition).  —  *  Poetical 
Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  G.  E.  Woodberry,  1901  (Cambridge  Edition). 
—  **  Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  Thomas  Hutchinson,  with 
textual  notes  and  new  material,  1904  (Oxford  Edition).  —  *Letters, 
collected  and  edited  by  Roger  Ingpen,  2  volumes,  1909. 

Biography 

Medwin  (Thomas),  Life  of  Shelley,  1847.  —  Hogg  (T.  J.),  Life  of  Shelley, 
1858.  —  Middleton  (C.  S.),  Shelley  and  his  Writings,  1858.  —  Shelley 
Memorials,  edited  by  Lady  Shelley,  1859.  - — Garnett  (Richard),  Relics 
of  Shelley,  1862.  —  Rossetti  (W.  M.),  Life  of  Shelley  (prefixed- to  his 
edition  of  Shelley's  Works),  1870.  —  Smith  (G.  B.),  Shelley,  A  Critical 
Biography,  1877.  —  **  Symonds  (J.  A.),  Shelley  (English  Men  of  Letters 
Series),  1878.  —  Jeaffreson  (J.  C),  The  Real  Shelley,  1885.  —  Dowden 
(Edward),  Life  of  Shelley  (The  standard  biography,  but  not  altogether 
satisfactory.  Lacking  both  in  frankness  and  in  sympathy),  1886.  — 
Rabbe  (Felix),  Shelley,  sa  Vie  et  ses  (Euvres,  1887;  translated,  1888. — 
Sharp  (William),  Shelley  (Great  Writers  Series),  1887.  —  Salt  (H.  S.), 
Shelley,  A  Biographical  Study,  1896. — Clutton-Brock  (A.),  Shelley: 
The  Man  and  the  Poet,  1909.  —  (See  also  Mrs.  Shelley's  Notes  to  the 
Poems,  Moore's  Life  of  Byron,  C.  Kegan  Paul's  William  Godwin,  his 
Friends  and  Contemporaries,  and  Mrs.  F.  A.  Marshall's  The  Life  and 
Letters  of  Mary  W.  Shelley.) 

Reminiscences  and  Early  Criticism 

*  Trelawney  (E.  J.),  Recollections  of  Shelley  and  Byron. — Hunt 
(Leigh),  Byron  and  some  of  his  Contemporaries.  —  Hunt  (Leigh),  Autobi- 
ography.—  Medwin  (Thomas),  Shelley  Papers.  —  Mitford  (Mary  Rus- 
sell), Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life.  —  De  Quince y  (T.),  Essays  on 
Poets.  —  *  Peacock  (Thomas  Love),  Memoirs  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  - 
Miller  (A.  B.),  Leigh  Hunt  in  his  Relations  with  Byron,  Keats  and  Shelley . 

Later  Criticism 

Bates  (E.  S.),  A  Study  of  Shelley's  ^Cenci,  1908.  —  *  Bagehot  (Walter), 
Literary  Studies,  1879.  —  *  Bourget  (Paul),  Etudes  et  portraits.  —  Bradley  (A.  C), 
Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry,  1909. — Brandes  (G.  M.  C),  Shelley  und  Lord  Byron: 

273 


274  BRITISH    POETS 

Zwei  littomrische  Charakterbilder,  1904.  —  Brooke  (S.  A.),  Studies  in  Poetry,  1907. 
—  *Bkowning  (Robert),  On  the  Poet,  objective  and  subjective;  and  on  Shelley  as 
man  and  poet,  1852,  1881.  —  Calvert  (G.  H.),  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Goethe,  1880.  — 
Dowden  (Edward),  French  Revolution  and  English  Literature:  Essay  VI,  1897.  — 
Dowden  (Edward),  Transcripts  and  Studies,  1888.  —  Dowden  (Edward),  Studies  in 
Literature:  Transcendental  Movement  and  Literature;  French  Revolution  and  Litera- 
ture, 1878.  —  Garnett  (Richard),  Essays  of  an  Ex-Librarian:  Shelley  and  Lord 
Beaconsfield,  1901.  —  Gosse  (E.),  Questions  at  Issue,  1893.  —  Hutton  (R.  H.), 
Literary  Essays,  1871,  1888.  —  Lang  (Andrew),  Letters  to  Dead  Authors,  1886. — ■ 
Macdonald  (George),  Imagination  and  Other  Essays  (1883),  1886. —  Masson  (David), 
Wordsworth,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  Other  Essays,  1874.  —  Payne  (W.  M.),  The  Greater 
English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907.  —  Scudder  (V.  D.),  The  Greek 
Spirit  in  Shelley  and  Browning.  —  Shairp  (J.  C),  Aspects  of  Poetry,  1881.  —  Shel- 
ley Society,  Papers,  1888.- —  Slicer  (T.  R.),  Shellpy,  an  Appreciation.  —  Stephen 
(Leslie),  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  Ill:  Godwin  and  Shelley,  1879,  1892.  —  Swin- 
burne (A.  C),  in  Chambers's  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  Ill,  new  edition, 

1904.  —  Swinburne  (A.  C),  Essays  and  Studies,  1875:  Notes  on  the  Text  of 
Shelley.  —  Symons  (A.),  The  Romantic  Movement  in  English  Poetry,  1909.  —  Thom- 
son (James),  Biographical  and  Critical  Studies,  1896.  —  *Thompson  (Francis),  Shelley, 
1909;  from  the  Dublin  Review,  July,  1908.  —  Todhunter  (John),  A  Study  of  Shelley, 
1880.  —  *Trent  (W.  P.),  Authority  of  Criticism:  A  propos  of  Shelley,  1899.  —  *Wood- 
berry  (G.  E.),  Makers  of  Literature  (1890),  1900.  —  Woodberry  (G.E.),  The  Torch, 

1905.  —  Yeats  (W.  B).,  Ideas  of  Good  and  Evil:  The  Philosophy  of  Shelley,  1903. 
Arnold  (M.),  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series,  1888.  —  Caine  (T.  Hall),  Cobwebs 

of  Criticism,  1883.  —  Dawson  (W.  J.),  Makers  of  English  Poetry  (1890),  1906.  —  De 
Vere  (Aubrey),  Essays,  Chiefly  on  Poetry,  1887  — Hancock  (A.  E.),  French  Revolution 
and  the  English  Poets,  1899.  — Johnson  (C.  F.),  Three  Americans  and  three  Englishmen, 
1886.  —  Lang  (Andrew),  Poets'  Country,  1907.  —  More  (Paul  E.),  Shelburne  Essays, 
Seventh  Series,  1910.  —  Zanella  (G.),  Paralleli  letterari:  Shelley,  Leopardi,  1885. 

Tributes  in  Verse 

*Browning,  Memorabilia;  Pauline;  etc.  —  Bourget  (Paul),  Sur  un  Volume  de 
Shelley.  —  Aganoor,  Leggenda  Eterna:  Pel  Monumento  a  Shelley,  1900.  —  Palgrave 
(F.  T.),  Lyrical  Poems:  Two  Graves  at  Rome.  —  Forman  (Alfred),  Sonnets:  Two  Son- 
nets to  Shelley.  —  Lang  (A.),  Lines  on  the  Inaugural  Meeting  of  the  Shelley  Society.  — 
*Thomson  (James),  Shelley,  a  Poem.  —  *Rossetti  (D.  G.),  Five  English  Poets:  Percy 
Bysshe  Shelley.  —  *Rossetti  (W.  M.),  Shelley's  Heart.  —  De  Vere  (Aubrey),  Lines 
composed  at  Lerici.  —  Hunt  (Leigh),  Sonnet  to  Shelley.  —  Langford  (J.  A.),  Shelley. 
—  *Tabb  (J.  B.),  Shelley,  a  Sonnet.  —  Hayne  (P.  H.),  Poems,  1855:  Shelley.  —  Pike 
(Albert),  Tribute  to  Shelley,  1835.  —  Taylor  (Bayard),  Ode  to  Shelley.  —  Roberts 
(C.  G.  D.),  Ave!  An  Ode  for  the  Shelley  Centenary.  —  *Woodberry  (G.  E.),  Poems: 
Shelley,  a  Sonnet;  Shelley's  House.  —  *Watson  (William),  *Shelley's  Centenary;  To 
Edward  Dowden  on  his  Life  of  Shelley;  Quatrain  to  Harriet  Shelley.  • —  Carman  (Bliss), 
By  the  Aurelian  Wall:  The  White  Gull.  —  Parkes  (B.  R.),  Gabriel  (a  poem  on  the  Life 
of  Shelley),  1856.  —  *Carducci  (G.),  Odi  barbare:  Presso  di  l'Urna  di  Shelley ;  translated, 
in  The  Independent,  December,  1906.  —  van  Dyke  (Henry),  The  White  Bees,  1909: 
Two  Sonnets;  from  the  Atlantic,  November,  1906.  — ■  Duclo  (Estelle),  Shelley;  in  Book 
News,  April,  1908.  —  Thomas  (Edith  M.),  The  Guest  at  the  Gate,  1909:  Bion  and  Ado- 
nai's;  from  the  Century,  1906.  —  Scheffauer  (H.),  Looms  of  Life,  1909:  The  Fire  Funeral. 

Bibliography 

♦Forman  (H.  B.),  The  Shelley  Library;  an  Essay  in  Bibliography,  1886.  —  Salem 
Public  Library,  Special  Reading  List.  —  Anderson  (J.  P.),  Appendix  to  Sharp's  Life 
of  Shelley. 


SHELLEY 


STANZAS— April,  1814  » 

Away  !   the   moor  is  dark  beneath   the 
moon, 
Rapid  clouds  have  drank  the  last  pale 
beam  of  even  : 
Away  !    the  gathering   winds  will  call 
the  darkness  soon, 
And  profoundest  midnight  shroud  the 
serene  lights  of  heaven. 


past 


Every 
thy 


Pause  not  !    The  time  is 
voice  cries,  Away  ! 
Tempt  not  with   one   last    tear 
friend's  ungentle  mood  : 
Thy  lover's  eye,  so  glazed  and  cold,  dares 
not  entreat  thy  stay  : 
Duty  and  dereliction  guide  thee  back 
to  solitude. 

Away,   away !   to  thy  sad    and    silent 
home  ; 
Pour    bitter  tears  on    its    desolated 
hearth  ; 
Watch  the   dim   shades  as  like  ghosts 
they  go  and  come, 
And  complicate  strange  webs  of  mel- 
ancholy mirth. 

The    leaves  of   wasted   autumn    woods 
shall  float  around  thine  head  : 
The  blooms  of  dewy  spring  shall  gleam 
beneath  thy  feet : 
But  thy  soul  or  this  world  must  fade  in 
the  frost  that  binds  the  dead, 
Ere  midnight's  frown  and  morning's 
smile,   ere  thou   and   peace  may 
meet. 

The  cloud  shadows  of  midnight  possess 

their  own  repose, 
For  the  weary  winds  are  silent,  or  the 

moon  is  in  the  deep  : 
Some  respite  to  its  turbulence  unresting 

ocean  knows ; 

1  See  Dowden's  Life  of  Shelley,  Vol.  I.,  pp. 
110-411. 


Whatever  moves,  or  toils,  or  grieves, 
hath  its  appointed  sleep. 

Thou  in  the  grave  shalt  rest— yet  till 
the  phantoms  flee 
Which  that  house  and  heath  and  gar- 
den made  dear  to  thee  erewhile, 
Thy  remembrance,  and  repentance,  and 
deep  musings  are  not  free 
From   the  music  of  two   voices  and 
the  light  of  one  sweet  smile. 

1814.     1816. 

TO  COLERIDGE  i 

AAKPY2I  AlOISfi  nOTMON  'AIIOTMON 

Oh  !  THERE  are  spirits  of  the  air, 
And  genii  of  the  evening  breeze, 

And  gentle  ghosts,  with  eyes  as  fair 
As  star-beams  among  twilight  trees : — 

Such  lovely  ministers  to  meet 

Oft   hast    thou   turned   from   men   thy 
lonely  feet. 

With    mountain   winds,    and    babbling 
springs, 
And  moonlight  seas,  that  are  the  voice 
Of  these  inexplicable  things 

Thou  didst  hold  commune,  and  rejoice 
When  they  did  answer  thee  ;  but  they 
Cast,   like  a  worthless  boon,   thy   love 
away. 

And  thou  hast  sought  in  starry  eyes 
Beams    that    were   never  meant    for 
thine, 

1  The  poem  beginning  "  Oh,  there  are  spirits  in 
the  air"  was  addressed  in  idea  to  Coleridge, 
whom  he  never  knew  ;  and  at  whose  character 
he  could  only  guess  imperfectly,  through  his 
writings,  and  accounts  he  heard  of  him  from 
some  who  knew  him  well.  He  regarded  his 
change  of  opinions  as  rather  an  act  of  will  than 
conviction,  and  believed  that  in  his  inner  heart 
he  would  be  haunted  by  what  Shelley  considered 
the  better  and  holier  aspirations  of  his  youth. 
(From  Mrs.  Shelley's  Note  on  the  Early  Poems.) 
See  also  Dowden's  Life  of  Shelley.  Vol.  I.,  p.  478 
and  note. 


275 


276 


BRITISH   POETS 


Another's  wealth  : — tame  sacrifice 

To  a  fond  faith !  still  dost  thou  pine  ? 
Still  dost  thou  hope  that  greeting  hands, 
Voice,  looks,  or   lips,    may   answer  thy 
demands? 

Ah  !  wherefore   didst   thou  build  thine 
hope 
On  the  false  earth's  inconstancy? 
Did  thine  own  mind  afford  no  scope 

Of  love,  or  moving  thoughts  to  thee  ? 
That  natural  scenes  or  human  smiles 
Could  steal  the  power  to   wind   thee    in 
their  wiles. 

Yes,  all  the  faithless  smiles  are  fled 
Whose    falsehood    left   thee    broken- 
hearted ; 
The  glory  of  the  moon  is  dead  ; 

Night's  ghosts  and  dreams  have  now 
departed  ; 
Thine  own  soul  still  is  true  to  thee, 
But    changed    to  a   foul    fiend  through 
misery. 

This  fiend,  whose  ghastly  presence  ever 

Beside  tbee  like  thy  shadow  hangs, 
Dream  not  to  chase  ; — the   mad  endea- 
vor 
Would  scourge  thee  to  severer  pangs. 
Be  as  thou  art.     Thy  settled  fate, 
Dark  as  it  is,  all  change  would  aggra- 
vate. 1815.     1816. 

ALASTOR, 

OR 
THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE 

PREFACE 

The  poem  entitled  Alnstor  may  be  considered 
as  allegorical  of  one  of  the  most  interesting 
situations  of  the  human  mind.  It  represents  a 
youth  of  uncorrupted  feelings  and  adventurous 
genius  led  forth  by  an  imagination  inflamed  and 
purified  through  familiarity  with  all  that  is  ex- 
cellent and  majestic,  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
universe.  He  drinks  deep  of  the  fountains  of 
knowledge,  and  is  still  insatiate.  The  magnifi- 
cence and  beauty  of  the  external  world  sinks 
profoundly  into  the  frame  of  his  conceptions,  and 
affords  to  their  modifications  a  variety  not  to  be 
exhausted.  So  long  as  it  is  possible  for  his  de- 
sires to  point  towards  objects  thus  infinite  and 
unmeasured,  he  is  joyous,  and  tranquil,  and  self- 
possessed.  But  the  period  arrives  when  these 
objects  cease  to  suffice.  His  mind  is  at  length 
suddenly  awakened  and  thirsts  for  intercourse 
with  an  intelligence  similar  to  itself.  He  im- 
ages to  himself  the  Being  whom  he  loves.  Con- 
versant with  speculations  of  the  sublimest  and 
most  perfect  natures,  the  vision  in  which  he 
embodies  his  own  imaginations  unites  all  of 
wonderful,  or  wise,  or  beautiful,  which  the  poet, 


the  philosopher,  or  the  lover  could  depicture. 
The  intellectual  faculties,  the  imagination,  tht 
functions  of  sense,  have  their  respective  requisi- 
tions on  the  sympathy  of  corresponding  powers 
in  other  human  beings.  The  Poet  is  represented 
as  uniting  these  requisitions,  and  attaching  them 
to  a  single  image.  He  seeks  in  vain  for  a  proto 
type  of  his  conception.  Blasted  by  his  disap. 
pointment,  he  descends  to  an  untimely  grave. 

The  picture  is  not  barren  of  instruction  to  ac- 
tual men.  The  Poet's  self-centred  seclusion  was 
avenged  by  the  furies  of  an  irresistible  passion 
pursuing  him  to  speedy  ruin.  But  that  Power 
which  strikes  the  luminaries  of  the  world  with 
sudden  darkness  and  extinction,  by  awakening 
them  to  too  exquisite  a  perception' of  its  influ- 
ences, dooms  to  a  slow  aud  poisonous  decay  those 
meaner  spirits  that  dare  to  abjure  its  dominion. 
Their  destiny  is  more  abject  and  inglorious  as 
their  delinquency  is  more  contemptible  and  per- 
nicious. They  who,  deluded  by  no  generous 
error,  instigated  by  no  sacred  thirst  of  doubtful 
knowledge,  duped  by  no  illustrious  superstition, 
loving  nothing  on  this  earth,  and  cherishing  no 
hopes  beyond,  yet  keep  aloof  from  sympathies 
with  their  kind,  rejoicing  neither  in  human  joy 
nor  mourning  with  human  grief  ;  these,  and 
such  as-  they,  have  their  apportioned  curse. 
They  languish,  because  none  feel  with  them  their 
common  nature.  They  are  morally  dead.  They 
are  neither  friends,  nor  lovers,  nor  fathers,  nor 
citizens  of  the  world,  nor  benefactors  of  their 
country.  Among  those  who  attempt  to  exist 
without  human  sympathy,  the  pure  and  tender- 
hearted perish  through  the  intensity  and  passion 
of  their  search  after  its  communities,  when  the 
vacancy  of  their  spirit  suddenly  makes  itself 
felt.  AH  else,  selfish,  blind,  and  torpid,  are  those 
unforeseeing  multitudes  who  constitute,  to- 
gether with  their  own,  the  lasting  misery  and 
loneliness  of  the  world.  Those  who  love  not 
their  fellow-beings  live  unfruitful  lives,  and  pre- 
pare for  their  old  age  a  miserable  grave. 

"  The  good  die  first, 
And  those  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket  I " 

December  Ik,  1815. 


Nondum  amabam,  et  amare  amabam,  quaere- 
bam  quid  ainarem,  amans  amare.— Confess.  St. 
August. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood  ! 
If  our  great  Mother  has  imbued  my  soul 
With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 
Your   love,   and   recompense   the   boon 

with  mine  ; 
If  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon,  and 

even, 
With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers, 
And   solemn   midnight  tingling   silent- 

ness ; 
If  autumn's  hollow   sighs   in   the   sere 

wood, 
And  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and 

crowns 
Of  starry   ice  the  gray  grass  and  bare 

houghs ; 


SHELLEY 


277 


If  spring's  voluptuous  pantings  when  she 
breathes 

Her  first  sweet  kisses,  have  been  dear  to 
me  ; 

If  no  bright  bird,  insect,  or  gentle  beast 

I  consciously  have  injured,  but  still 
loved 

And  cherished  these  my  kindred  ;  then 
forgive 

This  boast,  beloved  brethren,  and  with- 
draw 

No  portion  of  your  wonted  favor  now  ! 

Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world  ! 
Favor  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have  loved 
Thee     ever,    and     thee     only ;    I    have 

watched 
Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness   of  thy 

steps, 
And  my  heart  ever  gazes  on  the  depth 
Of  thy    deep   mysteries.     I  have    made 

my  bed 
In  charnels  and  on  coffins,  where  black 

death 
Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won   from 

thee, 
Hoping  to   still    these    obstinate    ques- 
tionings 
Of  thee  and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone 

ghost, 
Thy   messenger,  to    render  up    the  tale 
Of  what   we   ai-e.     In   lone   and   silent 

hours. 
When  night  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its 

own  stillness, 
Like  an  inspired  and    desperate  alchy- 

mist 
Staking  his  very  life  on  some  dark  hope, 
Have  I  mixed  awful    talk    and    asking 

looks 
With    my    most     innocent    love,    until 

strange  tears 
Uniting    with  those    breathless   kisses, 

made 
Such    magic  as  compels    the    charmed 

night 
To  render    up    thy     charge  :  .  .  .  and, 

though  ne'er  yet 
Thou  hast    unveiled    thy   inmost   sanc- 
tuary, 
Enough    from  incommunicable    dream, 
And  twilight  phantasms,  and  deep  noon- 
day thought, 
lias  shone  within  me,  that  serenely  now 
And  moveless,  as  a  long-forgotten  lyre 
Suspended  in  the  solitary  dome 
Of  some  mysterious  and  deserted  fane, 
I  wait  thy    breath,  Great  Parent,   that 
my  strain 


May  modulate  with  murmurs  of  the  air, 
And  motions  of  the  forests  and  the  sea, 
And  voice  of  living    beings,  and   woven 

hymns 
Of  night  and  day,  and  the  deep  heart  of 

man. 

There  was  a  Poet  whose  untimely 
tomb 

No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence 
reared, 

But  the  charmed  eddies  of  autumnal 
winds 

Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyra- 
mid 

Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste 
wilderness  : — 

A  lovely  youth, — no  mourning  maiden 
decked 

With  weeping  flowers,  or  votive  cypress 
wreath, 

The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting 
sleep  : — 

Gentle,  and  brave,  and  generous. — no 
lorn  bard 

Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melo- 
dious sigh  : 

He  lived,  he  died,  he   sung,  in   solitude. 

Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passion- 
ate notes, 

And  virgins,  as  unknown  lie  passed,  have 
pined 

And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild 
eyes. 

The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to 
burn, 

And  Silence,  too  enamored  of  that  voice, 

Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell. 

By   solemn   vision,  and   bright   silver 

dream, 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And   sound   from   the    vast    earth   and 

ambient  air 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses, 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting   lips,  and  all  of 

great, 
Or  good,  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 
In    truth  or   fable   consecrates,    he  felt 
And   knew.        When    early   youth   had 

pass'd,  he  left 
His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home 
To  seek   strange  truths  in  undiscovered 

lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilder 

ness 
Has  lured  his  fearless  steps  ;  and  he  haa 

bought 


278 


BRITISH  .POETS 


With  his  sweet  voice  and  eyes,   from 

savage  men, 
His  rest  and  food.     Nature's  most  secret 

steps 
He  like  her  shadow  has  pursued,  where'er 
The  red  volcano  overeanopies 
Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
With  burning  smoke,  or  where  bitumen 

lakes 
On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 
With  sluggish  surge,  or  where  the  secret 

caves 
Rugged  and  dark,  winding  among  the 

springs 
Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 
To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes 
Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 
Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls, 
Frequent  with  crystal  column,  and  clear 

shrines 
Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chrys- 
olite. 
Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 
Than  gems  or  gold,  the  varying  roof  of 

heaven 
And  the  green  earth  lost  in  his  heart  its 

claims 
To  love  and  wonder ;  he  would  linger 

long 
In  lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild  his 

home. 
Until    the   doves    and    squirrels   would 

partake 
From  his  innocuous  hand  his   bloodless 

food, 
Lured  by   the    gentle   meaning   of   his 

looks, 
And    the    wild    antelope,    that  starts 

whene'er 
The  dry  leaf  rustles  in  the  brake,  suspend 
Her  timid  steps  to  gaze  upon  a  form 
More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old  : 
Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Balbec,  and  the 

waste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis  and  Thebes,  and  whatsoe'er  of 

strange 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk, 
Or  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphynx, 
Dark  ^Ethiopia  in  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.      Among  the  ruined  temples 

there, 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of    more    than     man,     where    marble 

demons  watch 


The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead 

men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute 

walls  around, 
He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 
Of  the  world's  youth,  through  the  long 

burning  day 
Gazed  on  those  speechless  shapes,  nor, 

when  the  moon 
Filled  the  mysterious  halls  with  floating 

shades 
Suspended  lie  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And  gazed,  till  meaning  on  his  vacant 

mind 
Flashed  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he 

saw 
The  thrilling  secrets    of    the    birth  of 

time. 
Meanwhile  an  Arab  maiden  brought  his 

food, 
Her  daily  portion,  from  her  father's  tent, 
And  spread  her  matting  for  his  couch, 

and  stole 
From  duties    and    repose    to    tend    his 

steps  : — 
Enamored,  yet  not  daring  for  deep  awe 
To   speak   her  love : — and  watched  his 

nightly  sleep, 
Sleepless  herself,  to  gaze  upon  his  lips 
Parted  in  slumber,  whence  the  regular 

breath 
Of  innocent  dreams  arose  :  then,  when 

red  morn 
Made  paler  the  pale  moon,  to  her  cold 

home 
Wildered,  and    wan,   and    panting,  she 

returned. 

The     Poet     wandering     on,    through 

Arabie 
And  Persia,  and   the    wild   Carmanian 

waste, 
And   o'er  the  aerial   mountains    which 

pour  down 
Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves, 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way  ; 
Till  in  the  vale  of  Cashmire,  far  within 
Its  loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  plants 

entwine 
Beneath    the    hollow    rocks    a    natural 

bower, 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretched 
His  languid  limbs.     A  vision  on  his  sleep 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  nevej 

yet 
Had  flushed  his  cheek.     He  dreamed  a 

veiled  maid 
Sate  near  him,  talking  in  low  soleniB 

tones. 


SHELLEY 


279 


Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own 

soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought ;  its  music 

long, 
Like    woven    sounds     of    streams     and 

breezes,  held 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 
Of     many-colored     woof    and     shifting 

hues. 
Knowledge   and  truth  and  virtue  were 

her  theme, 
And  lofty  hopes  of  divine  liberty, 
Thoughts    the   most   dear  to   him,  and 

poesy, 
Herself  a  poet.     Soon  the  solemn  mood 
Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her 

frame 
A  permeating  fire  :  wild  numbers  then 
She  raised,  with  voice  stifled  in  tremu- 
lous sobs 
Subdued  by   its  own   pathos :  her   fair 

hands 
Were  bare  alone,  sweeping  from  some 

strange  harp 
Strange  symphony,  and  in  their  branch- 
ing veins 
The  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale. 
The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 
The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath 
Tumultuously  accoi'ded  with  those  fits 
Of  intermitted  song.     Sudden  she  rose, 
As  if  her  heart  impatiently  endured 
Its   bursting  burthen  :  at  the  sound  he 

turned, 
And  saw  by  the  warm  light  of  their  own 

life 
Her  glowing  limbs  beneath  the  sinuous 

veil 
Of  woven  wind,  her  outspread  arms  now 

bare, 
Her  dark  locks  floating  in  the  breath  of 

night, 
Her  beamy  bending  eyes,  her  parted  lips 
Outstretched,  and  pale,    and    quivering 

eagerly. 
His  strong  heart  sunk  and  sickened  with 

excess 
Of  love.    He  reared  his  shuddering  limbs 

and  quelled 
His  gasping  breath,  and  spread  his  arms 

to  meet 
Her  panting  bosom  :  .   .  .  she  drew  back 

a  while. 
Then,  yielding  to  the  irresistible  joy, 
With  frantic  gesture  and  short  breath- 
less cry 
Folded  his  frame  in  her  dissolving  arms. 
Now  blackness  veiled  his  dizzy  eyes,  and 

night 


Involved  and  swallowed  up  the  vision  ; 

sleep, 
Like  a  dark  flood  suspended  in  its  course, 
Rolled    back  its  impulse  on  his    vacant 

brain. 

Roused  by  the  shock  he  started   from 
his  trance — 
The  cold  white  light    of    morning,    the 

blue  moon 
Low  in  the  west,  the   clear  and  garish 

hills, 
The  distinct  valley  and  the  vacant  woods, 
Spread     round     him    where    he    stood. 

Whither  have  fled 
The    hues    of  heaven  that  canopied  his 

bower 
Of      yesternight?      The      sounds     that 

soothed  his  sleep, 
The  mystery  and  the  majesty  of  Earth, 
The  joy,  the  exultation  ?    His  wan  eyes 
Gaze  on  the  empty  scene  as  vacantly 
As  ocean's  moon  looks  on  the  moon    in 

heaven . 
The  spirit  of  sweet  human  love  has  sent 
A  vision  to  the  sleep  of  him  who  spurned 
Her  choicest  gifts.     He  eagerly  pursues 
Beyond  the  realms  of  dream  that  fleet- 
ing shade  ; 
He  overleaps  the  bounds.     Alas  !  alas ! 
Were  limbs,  and  breath,  and  being    in- 
tertwined 
Thus  treacherously  ?    Lost,  lost,  for  ever 

lost, 
In  the  wide  pathless  desert  of  dim  sleep, 
That  beautiful    shape !     Does    the  dark 

gate  of  death 
Conduct  to  thy  mysterious  paradise, 
O  Sleep  ?    Does  the  bright  arch  of    rain- 
bow clouds, 
And  pendent  mountains  seen  in  the  calm 

lake, 
Lead  only  to  a  black  and  watery  depth, 
While  death's  blue  vault,  with  loathliest 

vapors  hung, 
Where  every  shade  which  the  foul  grave 

exhales 
Hides  its  dead  eye  from  the  detested  day, 
Conduct,    O    Sleep,    to    thy     delightful 

realms  ? 
This  doubt  with  sudden  tide  flowed    on 

his  heart  ; 
The  insatiate  hope  which    it    awakened 

stung 
His  brain  even  like  despair. 

While  daylight  held 
The  sky,  the  Poet  kept  mute  conference 
With  his  still  soul.     At  night  the    pas- 
sion came, 


BRITISH  POETS 


Like  the  fierce  fiend  of  a  distempered 
dream 

And  shook  him  from  his  rest,  and  led 
him  forth 

Into  the  darkness.— As  an  eagle,  grasped 

In  folds  of  the  green  serpent,  feels  her 
breast 

Burn  with  the  poison,  and  precipitates 

Through  night  and  day,  tempest,  and 
calm,  and  cloud, 

Frantic  with  dizzying  anguish,  her  blind 
flight 

O'er  the  wide  aery  wilderness  :  thus 
driven 

By  the  bright  shadow  of  that  lovely 
dream, 

Beneath  the  cold  glare  of  the  desolate 
night, 

Through  tangled  swamps  and  deep  pre- 
cipitous dells, 

Startling  with  careless  step  the  moon- 
light snake, 

He  fled.  Red  morning  dawned  upon  his 
flight, 

Shedding  the  mockery  of  its  vital  hues 

Upon  his  cheek  of  death.  He  wandered 
on 

Till  vast  Aornos  seen  from  Petra's 
steep, 

Hung  o'er  the  low  horizon  like  a  cloud  ; 

Through  Balk,  and  where  the  desolated 
tombs 

Of  Parthian  kings  scatter  to  every  wind 

Their  wasting  dust,  wildly  he  wandered 
on, 

Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of   hours, 

Bearing  within  his  life  the  brooding  care 

That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame. 

And  now  his  limbs  were  lean  ;  his  scat- 
tered hair 

Sered  by  the  autumn  of  strange  suffer- 
ing 

Sung  dirges  in  the  wind :  his  listless 
hand 

Hung  like  dead  bone  within  its  withered 
skin  ; 

Life,  and  the  lustre  that  consumed  it, 
shone 

As  in  a  furnace  burning  secretly 

From  his  dark  eyes  alone.  The  cot- 
tagers. 

Who   ministered   with    human   charity 

His  human  wants,  beheld  with  wonder- 
ing awe 

Their  fleeting  visitant.  The  moun- 
taineer, 

Encountering  on  some  dizzy    precipice 

That  spectral  form,  deemed  that  the 
Spirit  of  wind 


With  lightning  eyes,  and  eager   breath, 

and  feet 
Disturbing  not  the    drifted   snow,   had 

paused 
In  its  career:  the  infant  would  conceal 
His  troubled  visage  in  his  mother's  robe 
In  terror  at  the  glare  of  those  wild  eyes. 
To   remember    their    strange    light   in 

many  a   dream 
Of  after-times  ;  but  youthful   maidens, 

taught 
By  nature,  would  interpret  half  the  woe 
That  wasted  him,  would  call   him   with 

false  names 
Brother,   and   friend,    wTould    press   his 

pallid  hand 
At   parting,   and   watch,    dim   through 

tears,  the  path 
Of   his    departure    from    their   father's 

door. 

At  length  upon  the   lone   Chorasmian 

shore 
He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 
Of   putrid   marshes.     A  strong  impulse 

urged 
His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.     A  swan  was 

there, 
Beside    a  sluggish   stream   among   the 

reeds. 
It  rose  as  he  approached,  and  with  strong 

wings 
Scaling  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright 

course 
High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 
His  eyes    pursued  its  flight.  — "  Thou 

hast  a  home, 
Beautiful   bird  ;  thou   voyagest  to  thine 

home, 
Where  thy  sweet  mate   will   twine   her 

downy  neck 
With   thine,   and   welcome   thy   return 

with  eyes 
Bright  in  the   lustre  of  their  own   fond 

joy. 
And   what   am  I  that   I   should    linger 

here, 
With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying 

notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more 

attuned 
To    beauty,    wasting    these   surpassing 

powers 
In  the  deaf  air,  to  the   blind  earth,  and 

heaven 
That    echoes     not    my     thoughts?"  A 

gloomy  smile 
Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quiver- 
ing lips. 


SHELLEY 


2&] 


For  sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relent- 
lessly 

Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death 
exposed, 

Faithless  perhaps  as  sleep,  a  shadowy 
lure, 

With  doubtful  smile  mocking  its  own 
strange  charms. 

Startled     by     his    own    thoughts    he 

looked  around. 
There  was  no  fair  fiend  near  him,  not  a 

sight 
Or  sound  of  awe    but   in   his   own   deep 

mind. 
A  little  shallop  floating  near  the  shore 
Caught  the  impatient  wandering  of  his 

gaze. 
It  had  been  long  abandoned,  for  its  sides 
Gaped  wide   with   many  a  rift,  and  its 

frail  joints 
Swayed  with  the  undulations  of  the  tide. 
A  restless  impulse  urged  him  toemb.uk 
And    meet    lone    Death    on    the    drear 

ocean's  waste  ; 
For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  Shadow 

loves 
The  slimy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  day  was  fair  and  sunny,  sea  and 
sky 

Drank  its  inspiring  radiance,  and  the 
wind 

Swept  strongly  from  the  shore,  blacken- 
ing the  waves. 

Following  his  eager  soul,  the  wanderer 

Leaped  in  the  boat,  he  spread  his  cloak 
aloft 

On  the  bare  mast,  and  took  his  lonely 
seat, 

And  felt  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tran- 
quil sea 

Like  a  torn  cloud  before  the  hurricane. 

As  one  tbat  in  a  silver  vision  floats 
Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  odorous  winds 
Upon  resplendent  clouds,  so  rapidly 
Along  the  dark  and  ruffled  waters  fled 
The  straining  boat. — A  whirlwind  swept 

it  on, 
With  fierce  gusts  and  precipitating  force, 
Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed 

sea. 
The   waves   arose.      Higher  and  higher 

still 
Their  fierce  necks  writhed  beneath  the 

tempest's  scourge 
Like  serpents  struggling  in  a  vulture's 

grasp. 


Calm  and  rejoicing  in  the  fearful  war 
Of  wave  ruining  on  wave,  and  blast  on 

blast 
Descending,  and  black  flood  on   whirl- 
pool driven 
With  dark  obliterating  course,  he  sate  : 
As  if  their  genii  were  the  ministers 
Appointed  to  conduct  him  to  the  light 
Of  those  beloved  eyes,  the  Poet  sate 
Holding    the    steady    helm.       Evening 

came  on, 
The   beams  of  sunset  hung  their  rain- 
bow hues 
High  'mid  the  shifting  domes  of  sheeted 

spray 
That  canopied  his  path  o'er  the  waste 

deep ; 
Twilight,   ascending  slowly  from    the 

east, 
Entwined  in  duskier  wreaths  her  braided 

locks 
O'er  the  fair  front  and  radiant  eyes  of 

day  ; 
Night   followed,   clad   with  stars.      On 

every  side 
More  horribly  the  multitudinous  streams 
Of  ocean's  mountainous  waste  to  mutual 

war 
Rushed  in  dark  tumult   thundering,    as 

to  mock 
The  calm  and  spangled  sky.     The  little 

boat 
Still  fled    before  the    storm ;  still   fled, 

like  foam 
Down  the  steep   cataract   of  a   wintry 

river ; 
Now  pausing  on  the  edge  of  the  riven 

wave ; 
Now   leaving  far   behind   the   bursting 

mass 
That    fell,    convulsing    ocean.      Safely 

fled— 
As  rf  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form, 
Had  been  an  elemental  god. 

At  midnight 
The  moon   arose  :  and   lo !   the   ethereal 

cliffs 
Of  Caucasus,  whose  icy  summits  shone 
Among    the    stars    like    sunlight,    and 

around 
Whose   caverned   base    the    whirlpools 

and  the  waves 
Bursting  and  eddying  irresistibly 
Rage  and  resound  for  ever. — Who  shall 

save  ? — 
The  boat  fled  on, — the  boiling  torrent 

drove, — 
The  crags  closed  round  with  black  and 

jagged  arms, 


BRITISH  POETS 


The  shattered  mountains  overhung  the 

sea, 
And  faster  still,  beyond  all  human  speed, 
Suspended  on  the  sweep  of  the  smooth 

wave, 
The  little  boat  was  driven.      A  cavern 

there 
Yawned,  and  amid  its   slant  and  wind- 
ing depths 
Ingulfed  the  rushing  sea.     The  boat  fled 

on 
With    unrelaxing  speed. — "Vision  and 

Love  ! " 
The  Poet  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  beheld 
The  path  of  thy  departure.      Sleep  and 

death 
Shall  not  divide  us  long  !  " 

The  boat  pursued 
The  windings  of  the  cavern.      Daylight 

shone 
At  length  upon  that  gloomy  river's  flow  ; 
Now,  where  the  fiercest  war  among  the 

waves 
Is  calm,  on  the  unfathomable  stream 
The   boat   moved   slowly.       Where   the 

mountain,  riven, 
Exposed  those  black  depths  to  the  azure 

sky, 
Ere  yet  the  flood's  enormous  volume  fell 
Even  to  the  base  of  Caucasus,  with  sound 
That  shook  the  everlasting  rocks,   the 

mass 
Filled  with  one  whirlpool  all  that  ample 

chasm  ; 
Stair  above  stair  the  eddying  water  rose, 
Circling  immeasurably  fast,  and  laved 
With  alternating  dash  the  gnarled  roots 
Of   mighty  trees,    that  stretched   their 

giant  arms 
In  darkness  over  it.    I'  the  midst  was  left, 
Reflecting,  yet  distorting  every  cloud, 
A  pool  of  treacherous  and  tremendous 

calm. 
Seized   by   the   sway   of   the   ascending 

stream, 
With  dizzy  swiftness,  round,  and  round, 

and  round, 
Ridge   after  ridge     the   straining   boat 

arose, 
Till  on  the  verge  of  the  extremest  curve, 
Where,  through  an  opening  of  the  rocky 

bank, 
The  waters  overflow,  and  a  smooth  spot 
Of  glassy  quiet  mid  those  battling  tides 
Is  left,  the  boat  paused  shuddering. — 

Shall  it  sink 
Down   the  abyss?      Shall  the  reverting 

stress 
Of  that  resistless  gulf  embosom  it? 


Now  shall  it  fall  ? — A  wandering  stream 

of  wind, 
Breathed  from  the  west,  has  caught  the 

expanded  sail, 
And,  lo  !  witli  gentle  motion,  between 

banks 
Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream, 
Beneath  a  woven  grove  it  sails,  and  hark  ! 
The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar, 
With    the    breeze    murmuring    in   the 

musical  woods. 
Where  the    embowering  trees  recede, 

and  leave 
A  little  space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 
Is    closed     by    meeting     banks,    whose 

yellow  flowers 
For  ever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes, 
Reflected  in  the  crystal  calm.     The  wave 
Of  the  boat's  motion  marred  their  pen- 
sive task, 
Which    nought    but    vagrant   bird,   or 

wanton  wind, 
Or  falling    spear-grass,    or    their  own 

decay 
Had   erer  disturbed  before.      The  Poet 

longed 
To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  with- 
ered hair, 
But  on  his  heart  its  solitude  returned, 
And  he  forebore.   Not  the  strong  impulse 

hid 
In  those  flushed  cheeks,  bent  eyes,   and 

shadowy  frame 
Had  yet  performed  its  ministry  :  it  hung 
Upon  his  life,  as  lightning  in  a  cloud 
Gleams,  hovering  ere  it  vanish,    ere  the 

floods 
Of  night  close  over  it. 

The  noonday  sun 
Now  shone  upon   the   forest,   one   vast 

mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose   brown   mag- 
nificence. 
A  narrow  vale  embosoms.     There,  huge 

caves, 
Scooped  in  the  dark  base   of   their   aery 

rocks 
Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  for 

ever, 
The    meeting    boughs    and    implicated 

leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  Poet's  path,  as  led 
By  love,  or  dream,  or  god,   or  mightier 

Death, 
He  sought  in  Nature's   dearest  haunt, 

some  bank, 
Her  cradle,  and  his  sepulchre.   More  dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate.     The 

oak. 


SHELLEY 


2S3 


Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms, 

Embraces  the  light  beech.  The  pyra- 
mids 

Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching  frame 

Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far 
below, 

Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky, 

The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 

Tremulous  and  pale.  Like  restless  ser- 
pents, clothed 

In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 

Starred  with  ten  thousand  blossoms, 
flow  around 

The  gray  trunks,  and,  as  gamesome  in- 
fants' eyes. 

With  gentle  meanings,  and  most  in- 
nocent wiles, 

Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of 
those  that  love, 

These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the 
wedded  boughs 

Uniting  their  close  union ;  the  woven 
leaves 

Make  network  of  the  dark  blue  light  of 
day, 

And  the  night's  noontide  clearness, 
mutable 

As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.  Soft 
mossy  lawns 

Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their 
swells, 

Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and 
eyed  with  blooms 

Minute  yet  beautiful.     One  darkest  glen 

Sends  from  its  woods  of  musk-rose, 
twined  with  jasmine, 

A  soul-dissolving  odor,  to  invite 

To  some  more  lovely  mystery.  Through 
the  dell, 

Silence  and  Twilight  here,  twin-sisters, 
keep 

Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among 
the  shades, 

Like  vaporous  shapes  half  seen  ;  beyond, 
a  well, 

Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent 
wave, 

Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above, 

And  each  depending  leaf,  and  every 
speck 

Of  azure  sky,  darting  between  their 
chasms  ; 

Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 

Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 

Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling 
fair. 

Or  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the 
moon. 

Or  gorgeous  insect  floating  motionless, 


Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of 
noon. 

Hither  the  Poet  came.     His  eyes  be- 
held 
Their   own  wan  light  through    the  re- 
flected lines 
Of  his  thin   hair,    distinct   in   the   dark 

depth 
Of   that   still    fountain ;  as  the   human 

heart, 
Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave, 
Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there. 

He  heard 
The  motion  of  the  leaves,  the  grass  that 

sprung 
Startled  and  glanced  and  trembled  even 

to  feel 
An    unaccustomed    presence,    and    the 

sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret 

springs 
Of   that   dark   fountain   rose.     A  Spirit 

seemed 
To  stand  beside  him — clothed  in  no  bright 

robes 
Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light, 
Borrowed  from  aught  the  visible  world 

affords 
Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery  ; — 
But  undulating  woods,  and  silent  well, 
And  leaping  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 
Now   deepening   the    dark   shades,    for 

speech  assuming, 
Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 
Were  all  that  was, — only  .  .  .  when  his 

regard 
Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness,  .  .  . 

two  eyes, 
Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of 

thought, 
And  seemed  with  their  serene  and  azure 

smiles 
To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 
That  shone  within    his   soul,  he    went, 

pursuing 
The  windings  of  the  dell. — The  rivulet 
Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a  green 

ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flowed.     Sometimes 

it  fell 
Among  the  moss  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and  profound.    Now  on  the  polished 

stones 
It  danced  ;  like  childhood  laughing  as  it 

went : 


284 


BRITISH  POETS 


Then    through    the    plain     in    tranquil 

wanderings  crept, 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  its  quietness. — "O  stream  1 
Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  profound, 
Whither  do  th}-  mysterious  waters  tend  ? 
Thou  imagest  my  life.     Thy    darksome 

stillness, 
Thy  dazzling  waves,  thy  loud  and  hollow 

gulfs, 
Thy  searchless    fountain,    and   invisible 

course 
Have  each  their  type   in   me  :  and  the 

wide  sky, 
And  measureless  ocean  may  declare  as 

soon 
What  oozy  cavern  or   what    wandering 

cloud 
Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 
Tell  where  these  living  thoughts  reside, 

when  stretched 
Upon   thy   flowers   my   bloodless   limbs 

shall  waste 
I'  the  passing  wind  ! " 

Beside  the  grassy  shore 
Of  the   small   stream   he   went ;  he   did 

impress 
On  the  green  moss  his  tremulous  step, 

that  caught 
Strong    shuddering    from    his     burning 

limbs.     As  one 
Roused   by   some  joyous  madness  from 

the  couch 
Of  fever,  he  did  move ;  yet  not  like  him 
Forgetful  of   the    grave,   wiiere,   when 

the  flame 
Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent, 
He  must  descend.     With  rapid  steps    he 

went 
Beneath  the  shade  of  trees,  beside  the 

flow 
Of  the  wild  babbling  rivulet ;  and  now 
The     forest's    solemn     canopies     were 

changed 
For  the  uniform  and  lightsome   evening 

sky. 
Gray  rocks  did  peep  from  the  spare  moss, 

and  stemmed 
The    struggling    brook :  tall    spires  of 

windlestrae 
Threw   their    thin    shadows   down    the 

rugged  slope, 
And  nought  but  gnarled  roots  of  ancient 

pines 
Branchless  and   blasted,  clenched   with 

grasping  roots 
The  unwilling  soil.     A  gradual  change 

was  here, 


Yet  ghastly.     For,   as  fast  years  flow 

away, 
The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the   hair 

grows  thin 
And  white,  and  where  irradiate  dewy 

eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs  : — so  from 

his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  beauti- 
ful shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odor- 
ous winds 
And  musical  motions.      Calm,  he   still 

pursued 
The  stream,  that  with  a  larger  volume 

now 
Rolled    through    the   labyrinthine  dell, 

and  there 
Fretted  a  path   through   its   descending 

curves 
With  its  wintry  speed.     On  every  side 

now  rose 
Rocks,  which,  in  unimaginable  forms, 
Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In  the  light  of  evening,  and.  its  precipice 
Obscuring  the   ravine,  disclosed  above, 
Mid   toppling   stones,   black   gulfs    and 

yawning  caves, 
Whose    windings    gave     ten    thousand 

various  tongues   , 
To  the  loud  stream.    Lo  !  where  the  pass 

expands 
Its   stony   jaws,   the    abrupt    mountain 

breaks, 
And  seems,  with  its  accumulated  crags, 
To  overhang  the  world  :  for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars  and   descending 

moon 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty 

streams, 
Dim     tracts    and     vast,    robed  in   the 

lustrous  gloom 
Of  leaden-colored  even,  and  fiery  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on 

the  verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.     The  near  scene, 
In  naked  and  severe  simplicity, 
Made   contrast   with   the   universe.      A 

pine, 
Rock-rooted,     stretched     athwart      the 

vacancy 
Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant 

blast 
Yielding  one  only  response,  at  each  pause 
In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl 
The  thunder  and   the   hiss   of  homeless 

streams 
Mingling  its  solemn   song,   whilst  the 

broad  river, 


SHELLEY 


285 


Foaming   and   hurrying   o'er  its  rugged 

path, 
Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void 
Scattering    its    waters    to    the   passing 

winds. 

Yet  the  gray  precipice    and  solemn 

pine 
And   torrent  were   not  all  ; — one   silent 

nook 
Was  there.     Even  on   the  edge  of  that 

vast  mountain, 
Upheld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks, 
It  overlooked  in  its  serenity 
The  dark  earth,  and  the  bending  vault 

of  stars. 
It  was  a  tranquil  spot,  that  seemed  to 

smile 
Even  in  the  lap  of  horror.      Ivy  clasped 
The  fissured  stones  with  its   entwining 

arms, 
And  did  embower  with  leaves  for  ever 

green, 
And  berries  dark,  the  smooth  and  even 

space 
Of  its  inviolated  floor,  and  here 
The  children  of  the  autumnal  whirlwind 

bore, 
In   wanton   sport,   those   bright   leaves, 

whose  decay, 
Red.  yellow,  or  ethereally  pale, 
Rivals   the  pride  of   summer.     'Tis  the 

haunt 
Of  every  gentle  wind,  whose  breath  can 

teach 
The    wilds    to    love    tranquillity.     One 

step, 
One  human  step  alone,  has  ever  broken 
The  stillness  of  its  solitude  : — one  voice 
Alone   inspired   its   echoes ;— even   that 

voice 
Which  hither  came,  floating  among  the 

winds, 
And   led    the    loveliest    among   human 

forms 
To  make  their  wild  haunts  the  deposi- 
tory 
Of  all  the  grace  and  beauty  that  endued 
Its  motions,  render  up  its  majesty, 
Scatter     its    music     on    the     unfeeling 

storm, 
And  to  the  damp  leaves  and  blue  cavern 

mould, 
Nurses  of  rainbow  flowers  and  branch- 
ing moss, 
Commit    the    colors    of     that    varying 

cheek, 
That    snowy    breast,    those     dark    and 

drooping  eyes. 


The  dim  and  horned  moon  hung  low, 

and  poured 
A   sea  of  lustre  on  the  horizon's  verge 
That  overflowed  its  mountains.     Yellow 

mist 
Filled  the  unbounded  atmosphere,  and 

drank 
Wan  moonlight  even  to  fulness  :  not  a 

star 
Shone,  not  a  sound  was  heard  ;  the  very 

winds, 
Danger's  grim  playmates,  on  that  preci 

pice 
Slept,  clasped  in  his  em  brace. — O,  storm 

of  death  ! 
Whose  sightless  speed  divides  this  sullen 

night : 
And  thou,  colossal  Skeleton,  that,  still 
Guiding  its  irresistible  career 
In  thy  devastating  omnipotence, 
Art  king  of  this  frail  world,  from  the 

red  field 
Of    slaughter,    from    the   reeking    hos- 
pital, 
The   patriot's   sacred   couch,  the  snowy 

bed 
Of    innocence,    the    scaffold    and     the 

throne, 
A    mighty    voice    invokes    thee.     Ruin 

calls 
His  brother  Death.      A  rare  and  regal 

prey- 
He  hath  prepared,  prowling  around  the 

world  ; 
Glutted  with  which  thou  mayst  repose, 

and  men 
Go  to  their  graves  like  flowers  or  creep- 
ing worms, 
Nor  ever  more  offer  at  thy  dark  shrine 
The  unheeded  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

When  on  the  threshold  of  the  green 

recess 
The  wanderer's  footsteps  fell,  he  knew 

that  death' 
Was  on  him.     Yet  a  little,  ere  it  fled, 
Did  he  resign  his  high  and  holy  soul 
To  images  of  the  majestic  past, 
That  paused  within  his    passive    being 

now, 
Like  winds  that  bear  sweet  music,  when 

they  breathe 
Throng. 1   some   dim  latticed    chamber. 

He  did  place 
His    pale  lean  hand  upon    the   rugged 

trunk 
Of  the  old  pine.     Upon  an  ivied  stone 
Reclined  his  languid  head,  his  limbs  did 

rest, 


286 


BRITISH    POETS 


Diffused  and  motionless,  on  the  smooth 

brink 
Of  that  obsourest  chasm  ; — and  thus  he 

lay. 
Surrendering  fco  their  final  impulses 
The  hovering  powers  of  life.     Hope  and 

despair. 
The  torturers,  slept  ;  no  mortal  pain  or 

fear 
Marred  his  repose,  the  influxes  of  sense, 
And  Ins  own  being  unalloyed  by  pain. 
Vet  feebler  and  more  feeble,  calmly  fed 
The  stream  of  thought,  till  he  lay  breath- 
ing there 
At  peace,  and  faintly  smiling  : — his  last 

sight 
Was  the  great  moon,   which  o'er  the 

western  line 
Of  the  wide  world  her  mighty  horn  sus- 
pended. 
With  whose  dun  beams  inwoven  dark- 
ness seemed 
To  mingle.     Now  upon  the  jagged  hills 
It  rests,  and  still  as  the  divided  frame 
Of  the  vast  meteor  sunk,  the  Poet's  blood, 
That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 
With  nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler 

still : 
And  when  two  lessening  points  of  light 

alone 
Gleamed  through  the  darkness,  the  alter- 
nate gasp 
Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 
The  stagnate  night  : — till  the  minutest 

ray 
Was  quenched,  the  pulse  yet  lingered  in 

his  heart. 
It      paused — it     fluttered.      But     when 

heaven  remained 
Utterly   black,    the    murky    shades  in- 
volved 
An  image,  silent,  cold,  and  motionless, 
As  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant 

air. 
Even  as  a  vapor  fed  with  golden  beams 
That  ministered  on  sunlight,  ere  the  west 
Eclipses   it,     was    now   that    wondrous 

frame — 
No  sense,  no  motion,  no  divinity — 
A   fragile   lute,    on    whose    harmonious 

strings 
The   breath   of   heaven    did   wander — a 

bright  stream 
Once   fed  with  many-voiced  waves — a 

dream 
Of  youth,  which   night   and   time   have 

quenched  forever. 
Still,  dark,  and  dry,  and  unremembered 


O.  for  Medea's  wondrous  alchemy, 
Which  wheresoe'er  it  fell  made  the  earth 

gleam 
With    bright   flowers,    and   the   wintry 

boughs  exhale 
From    vernal  blooms  fresh    fragrance ! 

O, that  God, 
Profuse  of  poisons,  would   concede  the 

chalice 
Which  but  one  living  man  has  drained, 

who  now 
Vessel  of  deathless  wrath,  a  slave  that 

feels 
No  proud   exemption   in   the  blighting 

curse 
He  bears,  over  the  world   wanders  for 

ever, 
Lone  as  incarnate  death !     O,  that  the 

dream 
Of  dark  magician  in  his  visioned  cave, 
Raking  the  cinders  of  a  crucible 
For  life  and  power,  even  when  his  feeble 

hand 
Shakes  in  its  last  decay,  were  the  true 

law 
Of  this  so  lovelv  world  !     But  thou  art 

fled 
Like  some   frail  exhalation  ;    which   the 

dawn 
Robes  in   its  golden  beams, — ah  !  thou 

hast  fled  ! 
The  brave,  the  gentle,  and  the  beautiful , 
The  child  of  grace  and   genius.     Heart- 
less things 
Are  done  and  said  i'  the   world,   and 

many  worms 
And  beasts  and  men  live  on,  and  mighty 

Earth 
From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilder- 
ness, 
In  vesper  low  or  joyous  orison, 
Lifts  still    its  solemn  voice  : — but  thou 

art  fled — 
Thou  canst  no  longer   know  or   love  the 

shapes 
Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to 

thee 
Been  purest  ministers,  who  are,  alas  ! 
Now  thou  art   not.     Upon  those  pallid 

lips 
So  sweet  even  in  their  silence,  on  those 

eyes 
That   image  sleep   in  death,  upon  that 

form 
Yet  safe  from  the  worm's  outrage,  lei 

no  tear 
Be   shed — not   even   in   thought.      Nor 

when  those  hues 
Are  gone,  and  those  divinest  lineaments 


SHELLEY 


287 


Worn   by  the  senseless  wind,  shall  live 

alone 
In  the  frail  pauses  of  this  simple  strain, 
Let     not     high     verse,    mourning    the 

memory 
Of  that  which  is  no  more,  or  painting's 

woe 
Or  sculpture,  speak  in  feeble  imagery 
Their  own  cold  powers.     Art  and  elo- 
quence. 
And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world  are  frail 

and  vain 
To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  lights  to 

shade. 
It  is  a  woe  too  "  deep  for   tears.-'  when 

all 
Is  reft   at   once,  when  some  surpassing 

Spirit, 
Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around 

it.  Leaves 
Those  who  remain  behind,  not  sobs  or 

groans. 
The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope  ; 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity. 
Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human 

things. 
Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they 

were. x    ~       1815.     March,  1816. 

e  of  Shelley's  poems  is  more  character- 
istic than  this.  The  solemn  spirit  that  - 
throughout,  the  worship  of  the  majesty  of  na- 
ture, the  broodings  of  a  poet's  heart  in  solitude 
—  the  mingling  of  the  exulting:  joy  which  the 
varioi.  I  the  visible  universe  inspires 

with  the  sad  and  -  utags  which  human 

passion  imparts — give  a  tout:      |  I  to  the 

whole.  The  death  which  he  had  often  c 
plated  during  the  last  months  as  certain  and 
near  he  here  represented  in  such  colors  as  had, 
in  his  lonely  musings,  soothed  his  soul  to  peace. 
The  versification  sustains  the  solemn  spirit 
which  breathes  throughout:  it  is  peculiarly 
melodious.    The  p  rather  to  be  con- 

sidered didactic  than  narrative  :  it  was  the  out- 
pouring of  his  own  emotions,  embodied  in  the 
purest  form  he  could  conceive,  painted  in  the 
ideal  hues  which  his  brilliant  imagination  in- 
spired, and  softened  by  the  recent  anticipation 
of  death.     (Mrs.  Sfhelletfa  ru  I 

Tne  deeper  meaning  of  Alastor  is  to  be  found, 
not  in  the  thought  of  death  nor  in  the  poet's 
recent  communings  with  nature,  but  in  the 
motto  from   St.  Augustine  placed  upon  its  title- 

.nd  in  the  Hymn    to  Intellectual  J- 
composed    about   a  er.     Enamored    of 

ideal     lovelin  .    his    vision 

.";  the  universe,  vainly 
<-st   which    :  in    his 

lirdy  longing  for  some   mortal  real- 
ization of  his  love.    Alastor,  like  Epipsychidion, 

.'■■<-    which    Shelley   ma 
thinking  that  the  idea  of  beauty  could    be 
incarnate  for  him   in   any  earthly  form  :  while 
theJBysM  to IntelL    I  Uy  recognia 

truth  that  such   realization   of  tne   idea]  . 
possible.    The  very  last  letter  written  by  SI 

onceptton  in  its  proper  light  :  "I 
think  one  is  always  in  love  with  something  or 


HYMN  TO   INTELLECTUAL 
BEAUTY 

1 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats     fcho'     unseen    amongst    us,— 

visiting 
This  various  world  with  aa  inconstant 
wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower 

to  flower. — 
Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny 
mountain  shower, 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance  ; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening. — 
Like    clouds    in     starlight     widely 

spread, — 
Like  memory  of  music  fled, — 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

II 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 
With  thine   own   hues   all  thou   dost 

shine  upon 
Of  human  thought    or   form, — where 
art  thou  g 
Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our 

state, 
This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and 
desolate? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain 
river. 
Why   aught    should  fail  and  fade  that 
once  is  shown. 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and 

birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
SuHi  gloom, — why  man  has   such   a 
scope 
For   love   and    hate,   despondency    and 
hope? 

Ill 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath 
ever 
Tm    sage    or    poet  these    rfj-p' 

en — 
Therefore    the    names     of    Demon, 
Ghost,  and  Heaven, 

other:  the  error,  and  I  c  ,-y  for 

in  Besh  an  I  blood  to  avoid   i> 
sist^  in  seeking  in  a  morl  le  likeness  of 

eternal."  Shelley 

discovered  only  with  "  the  years  that  bring  th^ 
philosophic  mind,''  and   when   he  was  upon  the 
very  verge   of  his   untimely  death. 
Life  of  Shelley.) 


BRITISH    POETS 


Remain    the   records   of   their    vain  en- 
deavor. 
Frail  spells — whose  uttered  charm  might 
not  avail  to  sever, 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone — like   mist   o'er   moun- 
tains driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent. 
Thro'  strings  of   some    still    instru- 
ment, 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 
Gives  grace  and  truth   to   life's  unquiet 
dream. 


Love,  Hope,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds 
depart 
And      come,    for      some      uncertain 

moments  lent. 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent, 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou 

art, 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state 
within  his  heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies. 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes — 
Thou — that     to     human     thought     art 
nourishment, 
Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame  ! 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came, 
Depart  not — lest  the  grave  should  be, 
"ike  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 


While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and 
sped 
Thro'  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave 

and  ruin, 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps 
pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk   with   the   departed 

dead. 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which 
our  youth  is  fed  ; 
I  was  not  heard — I  saw  them  not — 
When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  the   sweet   time   when   winds 
are  wooing 
All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming, — 
Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me  ; 
i  shrieked,   and  clasped  my   hands  in 
ecstasy ! 

VI 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 
To  thee  and  thine — have  I  not  kept  the 
vow  ? 


With    beating    heart    and   streaming 
eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each    from    his    voiceless  grave  :  they 
have  in  visioned  bowers 
Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Outwatched    with    me  the    envious 
night — 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my 
brow 
Unlinked     with    hope    that     thou 

wouldst  free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery, 
That  thou— O  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  can- 
not express. 

VII 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past — there  is  a  har- 
mony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 
Which  thro'  the  summer  is  not  heard  or 

seen, 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ! 
Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the 

truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 
Its  calm — to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee, 
Whom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells   did 
bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind, 
IS  16.     1817 

MONT  BLANC » 

LINES   WRITTEN   IN   THE   VALE   OF 
CHAMOUNI 

The  everlasting  universe  of  things 
Flows  through  the  mind,  and  rolls  its 
rapid  waves, 

1  Mont  Blanc  was  inspired  by  a  view  of  that 
mountain  and  its  surrounding  peaks  and  val- 
leys, as  he  lingered  on  the  Bridge  of  Arve  on  his 
way  through  the  Valley  of  Chamouni.  Shelley 
makes  the  following  mention  of  this  poem  in  his 
publication  of  the  History  of  a  Six  Weeks'  Ton?-, 
and  Letters  from  Switzerland:  "The  poem  en- 
titled Mont  Blanc  is  written  by  the  author  of 
the  two  letters  from  Chamouni  and  Vevai.  It 
was  composed  under  the  immediate  impression 
of  the  deep  and  powerful  feelings  excited  by  the 
objects  which  it  attempts  to  describe  ;  and,  as 
an  undisciplined  overflowing  of  the  soul,  rests 
its  claim  to  approbation  on  an  attempt  to 
imitate  the  untamable  wildness  and  inaccessible 
solemnity  from  which  those  feelings  sprang." 
(From  Mrs.  Shelley's  Note  on  the  Poems  of  1816.) 
Compare  Coleridge's  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in 


SHELLEY 


289 


Now  dark — hovt  glittering — now  reflect- 
ing gloom — 
Now  lending  splendor,  where  f rom  secret 

springs 
The  source  of  human  thought  its  tribute 

brings 
Of  waters, — with  a  sound  but  half  its 

own, 
Such  as  a  feeble  brook  will  oft  assume 
In  the  wild  woods,  among  the  mountains 

lone, 
Where  waterfalls  around  it  leap  for  ever, 
Where  woods  and  winds  contend,  and  a 

vast  river 
Over  its   rocks  ceaselessly   bursts    and 

raves. 

Thus  thou,  Ravine  of  Arve — dark,  deep 

Ravine — 
Thou   many-colored,  many-voiced  vale, 
Over  whose  pines,  and  crags,  and  caverns 

sail 
Fast    cloud    shadows     and     sunbeams  : 

awful  scene, 
Where  Power  in  likeness  of  the  Arve 

comes  down 
From  the  ice  gulfs  that  gird  his  secret 

throne, 
Bursting  through  these  dark  mountains 

like  the  flame 
Of  lightning  thro'  the  tempest  ; — thou 

dost  lie, 
Thy  giant  brood  of  pines   around   thee 

clinging, 
Children  of  elder  time,  in  whose  devotion 
The  chainless  winds  still  come  and  ever 

came 
To  drink  their  odors,  and  their  mighty 

swinging 
To  hear — an  old  and  solemn  harmony  ; 
Thine  earthly  rainbows  stretched  across 

the  sweep 
Of  the  ethereal  waterfall,  whose  veil 
Robes  some   unsculptured   image  ;    the 

strange  sleep 
Which  when  the  voices  of  the  desert  fail 
Wraps  all  in  its  own  deep  eternity  ; — 
Thy  caverns  echoing  to  the  Arve's  com- 
motion, 
A  loud,  lone  sound  no  other  sound  can 

tame  ; 
Thou   art  pervaded  with  that   ceaseless 

motion, 
Thou   art   the   path   of   that    unresting 

sound — 

the  Vale  of  Chamouni  (p.  06).  Coleridge  had 
never  been  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni,  and  drew 
the  suggestion  and  part  of  the  substance  of  his 
Hymn  from  a  poem  by  Frederike  Brun. 

*9 


Dizzy  Ravine  !  and  when  I  gaze  on  thee 
I  seem  as  in  a  trance  sublime  and  strange 
To  muse  on  my  own  separate  phantasy, 
My   own,  my  human   mind,  which   pas- 
sively 
Now  renders  and  receives  fast  influenc- 

.  ings, 
Holding  an  unremitting  interchange 
With  the  clear  universe  of  things  around  ; 
One    legion    of    wild    thoughts,    whose 

wandering  wings 
Now  float  above  thy  darkness,  and   now 

rest 
Where   that  or   thou    art   no   unbidden 

guest, 
In  the  still  cave  of  the  witch  Poesy, 
Seeking  among  the   shadows  that   pass 

by 

Ghosts  of  all  things  that  are,  some  shade 

of  thee, 
Some  phantom,  some   faint   image  ;  till 

the  breast 
From  which  they  fled  recalls  them,  thou 

art  there ! 

Some  say  that  gleams  of  a  remoter  world 
Visit    the    soul  in  sleep, — that  death   is 

slumber. 
And  that  its  shapes  the  busy  thoughts 

outnumber 
Of  those  who  wake  and  live. — I  look  on 

high ; 
Has  some   unknown    omnipotence    un- 
furled 
The  veil  of  life  and  death  ?  or  do  I  lie 
In  dream,  and  does  the  mightier  world 

of  sleep 
Spread  far  around  and  inaccessibly 
Its  circles  ?     For  the  very  spirit  fails. 
Driven  like  a  homeless  cloud  from  steep 

to  steep 
That  vanishes  among  the  viewless  gales  ! 
Far,  far  above,  piercing  the  infinite  sky, 
Mont  Blanc  appears, — still,  snowy,  and 

serene — 
Its  subject   mountains   their   unearthly 

forms 
Pile  around  it,  ice  and  rock  ;  broad  vales 

between   ' 
Of  frozen  floods,  unfathomable  deeps, 
Blue  as  the   overhanging   heaven,    that 

spread 
And     wind     among     the     accumulated 

steeps ; 
A  desert  peopled  by  the  storms  alone, 
Save  when  the  eagle  brings  some  hunter's 

bone, 
And    the   wolf   tracks   her    there — how 

hideously 


290 


BRITISH   POETS 


Ii>    shapes    are    heaped   around  I   rude, 

bare,  and  high, 
Ghastly,  and  scarred,  and  riven. — Is  this 

the  scene 
Where     the      old      Earthquake-demon 

taught  her  young 
Ruin?    Were  these  their  toys?  or   did 

a  sea 
Of  fire  envelope  once  this  silent  snow? 
None  can  reply — all  seems  eternal  now. 
The  wilderness  has  a  mysterious  tongue 
Which  teaches  awful  doubt,  or  faith  so 

mild, 
So  solemn,  so  serene,  that  man   may  be 
But    for    such    faith    with    nature   re- 
conciled ; 
Thou  hast  a  voice,  great  Mountain,   to 

repeal 
Large  codes  of    fraud    and    woe  ;  not 

understood 
By  all,  but  which  the  wise,  and   great, 

and  good 
Interpret,  or  make  felt,  or  deeply  feel. 

The  fields,  the  lakes,  the  forests,  and  the 

streams. 
Ocean,  and  all   the    living    things    that 

dwell 
Within  the  daedal  earth  ;  lightning  and 

rain, 
Earthquake,  and  fiery  flood,  and  hurri- 
cane, 
The  torpor    of    the    year    when    feeble 

dreams 
Visit  the  hidden  buds,  or  dreamless  sleep 
Holds  every   future  leaf  and  flower; — 

the  bound 
With  which   from  that  detested   trance 

they  leap  ; 
The  works  and  ways  of  man,  their  death 

and  birth, 
And  that  of  him  and  all  that  his  may  be  ; 
All  things  that  move  and  breathe  with 

toil  and  sound 
Are  born  and  die  ;  revolve,  subside  and 

swell. 
Power  dwells  apart  in  its  tranquillity 
Remote,  serene,  and  inaccessible  : 
And   this,   the    naked    countenance   of 

earth, 
On  which  I  gaze,  even  these  primeval 

mountains 
Teacli  the  adverting  mind.     The  glaciers 

creep 
Like  snakes  that  watch  their  prey,  from 

their  far  fountains, 
Slow  rolling  on  ;  there,  many  a  precipice, 
Frost   and   the   Sun  in  scorn  of  mortal 

power 


Have  piled :  dome,  pyramid,  and  pin- 
nacle, 

A  city  of  death,  distinct  with  many  a 
tower 

And  wall  impregnable  of  beaming  ice. 

Yet  not  a  city,  but  a  flood  of  ruin 

Is  there,  that  from  the  boundaries  of 
the  sky 

Rolls  its  perpetual  stream  ;  vast  pines 
are  strewing 

Its  destined  path,  or  in  the  mangled  soil 

Branchless  and  shattered  stand  ;  •  the 
rocks,  drawn  down 

From  yon  remotest  waste,  have  over- 
thrown 

The  limits  of  the  dead  and  living  world, 

Never  to  be  reclaimed.  The  dwelling- 
place 

Of  insects,  beasts,  and  birds,  becomes 
its  spoil  ; 

Their  food  and  their  retreat  for  ever 
gone, 

So  much  of  life  and  joy  is  lost.     The  race 

Of  man,  flies  far  in  dread  ;  his  work  and 
dwelling 

Vanish,  like  smoke  before  the  tempest's 
stream, 

And  their  place  is  not  known.  Below, 
vast  caves 

Shine  in  the  rushing  torrents'  restless 
gleam, 

Which  from  those  secret  chasms  in 
tumult  welling 

Meet  in  the  vale,  and  one  majestic  River, 

The  breath  and  blood  of  distant  lands, 
for  ever 

Rolls  its  loud  waters  to  the  ocean  waves, 

Breathes  its  swift  vapors  to  the  circ- 
ling air. 

Mont   Blanc  yet  gleams  on  high  : — the 

power  is  there, 
The  still  and  solemn  power  of  many 

sights, 
And  many  sounds,  and  much  of  life  and 

death. 
In   the   calm   darkness  of  the  moonless 

nights, 
In    the   lone  glare  of  day,   the  snows 

descend 
Upon    that     Mountain ;     none    beholds 

them  there, 
Nor  when  the  flakes  burn  in  the  sinking 

sun, 
Or  the  star-beams  dart  through  them  : 

— Winds  contend 
Silently  there,  and  heap  the  snow  with 

breath 
Rapid  and  strong,  but  silently  !  Its  home 


SHELLEY 


291 


The  voiceless  lightning  in  these  solitudes 
Keeps  innocently,  and  like  vapor  broods 
Over  the  snow.     The  secret  strength  of 

things 
Which  governs  thought,  and  to  the  in- 
finite dome 
Of  heaven  is  as  a  law,  inhabits  thee  ! 
And  what  were  thou,  and  earth,  and 

stars,  and  sea, 
if  to  the  human  mind's  imaginings 
Silence  and  solitude  were  vacancy  ? 

July  23,  1816.     1817. 

TO  MARY 

DEDICATION  OP  THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 

So  now  my  summer  task  is  ended,  Mary, 
And  I  return  to  thee,  mine  own  heart's 
home  ; 
As  to  his  Queen  some  victor  Knight  of 
Faery, 
Earning    bright    spoils    for    her    en- 
chanted dome  ; 
Nor  thou  disdain  that,  ere  my  fame 
become 
A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night, 
If  it  indeed  may  cleave  its  natal  gloom. 
Its  doubtful  promise  thus  I  would  unite 
With  thy  beloved  name,  thou  Child  of 
love  and  light. 

The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many 

an  hour 

Is  ended — and  the  fruit  is  at  thy  feet  ! 

No  longer  where  the  woods  to  frame  a 

bower 

With    interlaced    branches    mix   and 

meet, 
Or  where,  with  sound  like  many  voices 
sweet, 
Waterfalls    leap    among    wild    islands 
green 
Which   framed   for  my   lone   boat    a 
lone  retreat 
Of  moss-grown  trees  and  weeds,  shall  I 

be  seen  : 
But  beside   thee,  where  still  my  heart 
has  ever  been. 

Thoughts  of  great  deeds    were    mine, 
dear  Friend,  when  first 
The   clouds   which   wrap    this   world 
from  youth  did  pass. 
I   do   remember   well   the   hour    which 
burst 
My  spirit's  sleep  :  a  fresh  Maydawn  it 

was, 
When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glitter- 
ing grass, 


And  wept,  I  knew  not  why  :  until  there 

rose 
From    the    near    schoolroom    voices 

that,  alas  ! 
Were  but  one  echo  from    a  world  of 

woes — 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants 

and  of  foes. 

And    then    I    clasped   my  hands,   and 
looked  around,  % 

But    none    was    near    to    mock    my 
streaming  eyes, 
Which    poured    their    warm    drops   on 
the  sunny  ground — 
So,  without  shame,  I  spake: — "  I  will 

be  wise, 
And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me 
lies 
Such  power,  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyran- 
nize 
Without   reproach   or   check.''      I  then 

controlled 
My  tears,  my   heart  grew  calm,  and   I 
was  meek  and  bold. 

And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest 
thought 
Heap      knowledge      from     forbidden 
mines  of  lore. 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or 
taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret 

store 
Wrought  linked  armor  for   my   soul, 
before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  man- 
kind ; 
Thus  power  and  hope  were  strength- 
ened more  and  more 
Within   me,  till   there   came   upon   my 

mind 
A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which 
I  pined. 

Alas  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and 
snare 
To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in 
one  ! — 
Such  once  I  sought  in  vain  ;  then  black 
despair, 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was 

thrown 
Over  the   world    in    which  I  moved 
alone : 
Yet  never  found  I  one  not  false  to  me, 
Hard   hearts,  and   cold,  like   weights 
of  icy  stone 


292 


BRITISH   POETS 


Which    crushed    and     withered    mine, 

that  could  not  be 
Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog,  until  revived 

by  thee. 

Thou    Friend,    whose   presence    on   my 
wintry  heart 
Fell,    like   bright   Spring    upon   some 
herbless  plain, 
How  beautiful  and  calm  and  free  thou 
wert 
In    thy    young    wisdom,    when     the 

mortal  chain 
Of  Custom  thou  didst  buret  and  rend 
in  twain, 
And  walk  as  free  as  light   the    clouds 
among, 
Which   many  an   envious  slave  then 
breathed  in  vain 
From    his   dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit 

sprung 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which  had 
begirt  it  long  1 

No    more    alone    through    the    world's 
wilderness, 
Although   I   trod   the   paths   of   high 
intent, 
I  journeyed  now  :  no  more  companion- 
less, 
Where     solitude     is    like    despair,    I 

went. — 
There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  stern  content 
When  Poverty  can  blight  the  just  and 
good, 
When   Infamy    dares    mock    the   in- 
nocent, 
And   cherished   friends   turn    with   the 

multitude 
To  trample :  this  was  ours,  and  we  un- 
shaken stood  1 

Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour, 
And,  with  inconstant  fortune,  friends 
return  ; 
Though  suffering  leaves  the  knowledge 
and  the  power 
Which  says  "  Let  scorn  be  not  repaid 

with  scorn." 
And   from   thy  side  two  gentle  babes 
are  born 
To  fill  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus 
are  we 
Most  fortunate  beneath  life's  beaming 
morn  : 
And  these  delights,  and  thou,  have  been 

to  me 
The  parents  of  the  Song  I  consecrate  to 
thee. 


Is  it  that  now  my  inexperienced  fingers 

But   strike  the    prelude  of  a  loftier 

strain  ? 

Or  must  the  lyre  on  which  my  spirit 

lingers 

Soon  pause  in  silence,  ne'er  to  sound 

again, 
Though   it   might   shake   the  Anarch 
Custom's  reign, 
And  charm  the  minds  of  men  to  Truth's 
own  sway. 
Holier  than  was  Amphion's?    I  would 
fain 
Reply  in  hope— but  I  am  worn  away, 
And  Death  and  Love  are  yet  contending 
for  their  prey. 

And  what  art  thou?    I  know,  but  dare 
not  speak : 
Time  may  interpret  to  his  silent  years. 
Yet   in   the   paleness  of  thy  thoughtful 
cheek, 
And   in   the   light   thine   ample  fore- 
head wears, 
And   in   thy  sweetest   smiles,  and   in 
thy  tears, 
And  in  thy   gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 
Is  whispered,  to  subdue  my  fondest 
fears : 
And,  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy 

soul  I  see 
A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 

They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely   from 
thy  birth, 
Of    glorious    parents,    thou    aspiring 
Child. 
I   wonder   not — for   One   then   left  this 
earth 
Whose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet 

mild, 
Which  clothed  thee  in  the  radiance 
undefiled 
Of  its  departing  glory  ;  still  her  fame 
Shines  on  thee,  through  the  tempests 
dark  and  wild 
Which   shake  these    latter    days ;    and 

thou  canst  claim 
The  shelter,  from  thy  Sire,  of  an  im- 
mortal name. 

One  voice  came    forth    from    many  a 
might}'  spirit 
Which  was  the  echo  of  three-thousand 
years  : 
And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute 
to  hear  it, 
As  some  lone  man   who  in  a  desert 
hears 


SHELLEY 


293 


The   music    of  his  home  : — unwonted 
fears 
Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race, 
And    Faith    and    Custom     and     low- 
thoughted  cares, 
Like   thunder-stricken    dragons,    for    a 

space 
Left   the  torn   human  heart,  their  food 
and  dwelling-place. 

Truth's  deathless   voice    pauses  among 
mankind  ! 
If  there  must  be  no  response  to  my 
cry— 
If  men  must  rise  and  stamp,  with  fury 
blind, 
On  his  pure  name  who  loves  them — 

thou  and  I, 
Sweet    friend  !     can    look    from    our 
tranquillity 
Like  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestuous 
night, — 
Two  tranquil  stars,  while  clouds  are 
passing  by 
Which  wrap  them  from  the  foundering 

seaman's  sight, 
That  burn  from  year  to  year  with  unex- 
tinguished light. 

1817.     1818. 

OZYMANDIAS 

I    MET    a    traveller    from    an     antique 

land 
"Who  said  :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs 

of  stone 
Stand   in   the   desert.      Near  them,   on 

the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose 

frown. 
And    wrinkled    lip,   and  sneer   of   cold 

command. 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions 

read 
Which   yet   survive,  stamped   on    these 

lifeless  things, 
The   hand   that   mocked  them  and  the 

heart  that  fed  : 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear  : 
"  My    name    is    Ozymandias,    king    of 

kings  : 
Look   on    my    works,   ye    Mighty,   and 

despair !  " 
Nothing    beside    remains.     Round    the 

decay 
Of  that  colossal   wreck,  boundless  and 

bare 
The   lone   and   level  sands   stretch   far 

away.  1817.     1818. 


ON  A  FADED  VIOLET 

The  odor  from  the  flower  is  gone 

Which  like  thy  kisses  breathed  on  me  ; 

The  color  from  the  flower  is  flown 

Which  glowed  of  thee  and  only  thee  ! 

A  shrivelled,  lifeless,  vacant  form, 
It  lies  on  my  abandoned  breast, 

And  mocks  the  heart  which  yet  is  warm 
With  cold  and  silent  rest. 

I  weep, — my  tears  revive  it  not  t 
I  sigh, — it  breathes  no  more  on  me  ; 

Its  mute  and  uncomplaining  lot 
Is  such  as  mine  should  be. 

1818.     1821. 

LINES  WRITTEN  AMONG  THE 
EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 

In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery, 

Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 

Never  thus  could  voyage  on 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track  ; 

Whilst  above  the  sunless  sky, 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 

And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 

Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Death  from  the  o'er-hrimming  deep  ; 

And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  through  eternity  ; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will, 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

What,  if  thei-e  no  friends  will  greet  ; 

What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat ; 

Wander  wheresoe'er  he  may. 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  refuge  from  distress 

In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress! 

Then  'twill  wreak  him  little  woe 

Whether  such  there  be  or  no  : 

Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold, 

Which  relenting  love  would  fold  ; 

Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 


294 


BRITISH   POETS 


Which  tin'  pulse  of  pain  did  fill; 

Every  little  living  nerve 

That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 

Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow, 

Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now 

Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea 

Which  tempests  shake  eternally, 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep, 

Lies  a  solitary  heap, 

One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones, 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones, 

Where  a  few  gray  rushes  stand, 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  land  : 

Nor  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews,  as  they  sail 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale  ; 

Or  the  whirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a  slaughtered  town, 

When  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides  : 

Those  unburied  bones  around 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound  ; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him, 

Like  a  sunless  vapor,  dim, 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 

Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony  : 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 

My  bark  by  soft  winds  piloted  : 

'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 

I  stood  listening  to  the  paean, 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical ; 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 

Thro'  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 

Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  sky, 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain, 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 

Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 

Thro'  the  broken  mist  they  sail, 

And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 

Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 

Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still, 

Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair  ; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, 


A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright, 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire, 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise, 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
WThere  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City,  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen  ; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thjr  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne,  among  the  waves' 
Wilt  thou  be,  w  hen  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 
Save  where  many  a  palace  gate 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 
Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 
Quivering  through  aerial  gold, 
As  I  now  behold  them  here, 
Would  imagine  not  they  were 
Sepulchres,  where  human  forms, 
Like  pollution-nourished  worms 
To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling. 
Murdered,  and  now  mouldering  : 
But  if  Freedom  should  awake 
In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 
From  the  Celtic  Anarch's  hold 


SHELLEY 


2Q  C 


All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold, 

Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 

Chained  like  thee,  ingloriously, 

Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 

Might  adorn  this  sunny  land, 

Twining  memories  of  old  time 

With  new  virtues  more  sublime  ; 

If  not,  perish  thou  and  they, 

Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 

By  her  sun  consumed  away, 

Earth  can  spare  ye  :   while  like  flowers, 

In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours, 

From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 

With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

Perish — let  there  only  be 

Floating  o'er  thy  hearthless  sea 

As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 

Clothes  the  world  immortally, 

One  remembrance,  more  sublime 

Than  the  tattered  pall  of  time, 

Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan  ; — 

That  a  tempest-cleaving  Swan  ' 

Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 

Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 

By  the  might  of  evil  dreams, 

Found  a  nest  in  thee  ;  and  Ocean 

Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 

That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung 

From  his  lips  like  music  flung 

O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit 

Chastening  terror  : — what  though  jet 

Poesy's  unfailing  River, 

Which  thro'  Albion  winds  for  ever 

Lashing  with  melodious  wave 

Many  a  sacred  Poet's  grave, 

Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled  ? 

What  though  thou  with  all  thy  dead 

Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 

Aught  thine  own?  oh,  rather  say, 

Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 

Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul? — 

As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 

Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs  ; 

As  divinest  Shakespere's  might 

Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light 

Like  omniscient  power  which  he 

Imaged  'mid  mortality  ; 

As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn, 

Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 

A  quenchless  lamp  by  which  the  heart 

Sees  things  unearthly  ; — so  thou  art 

Mighty  spirit — so  shall  be 

The  City  that  did  refuge  thee. 

Lo.  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky 
Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 
Till  the  universal  light 
Seems  to  level  plain  and  height ; 

1  Byron. 


From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread, 
And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 
On  the  towers  of  Venice  now, 
Like  its  glory  long  ago. 
By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 
Many-domed  Padua  proud 
Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 
'Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain, 
Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 
In  the  garner  of  his  foe, 
And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow 
With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 
Heaped  upon  the  creaking  wain, 
That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 
Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will ; 
And  the  sickle  to  the  sword 
Lies  unchanged,  though  many  a  lord. 
Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison, 
Overgrows  this  region's  foison, 
Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 
To  destruction's  harvest  home  : 
Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow, 
Force  from  force  must  ever  flow, 
Or  worse  ;  but  'tis  a  bitter  woe 
That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 
The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge6 

Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 
Those  mute  guests  at  festivals, 
Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 
Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 
Till  Death  cried,  "  I  win,  I  win  ! " 
And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager, 
But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her, 
That  he  would  petition  for 
Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 
When  the  destined  years  were  o'er, 
Over  all  between  the  Po 
And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow, 
Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 
Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can, 
And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before, 
Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore, 
That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 
Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow, 
As  Repentance  follows  Crime, 
And  as  changes  follow  Time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning  ; 

Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day, 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray : 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth  : 

Now  new  fires  from  antique  light 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might 


296 


BRITISH   POETS 


But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee. 
Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

e  Norway  woodman  quells, 
In  the  deptli  of  piny  dells, 
One  light  dame  among  the  brakes, 
While  the  boundless  forest  shakes. 
And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 
By  the  tire  thus  lowly  horn  : 
The  spark  beneath  las  feet  is  dead, 
He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 
Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 
With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 
And  sinks  down  in  fear  :  so  thou, 
O  Tyranny,  beholdest  now 
Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hear--' 
The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearesl  : 
Grovel  on  the  earth  :  ay.  hide 
In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride  ! 

N     a  descends  around  me  now  : 
the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist- 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star 

_  :ng  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound. 
Fills  the  overflowing  sky  : 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden 
"Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 
With  his  morning-winged  feet. 
Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  vet  ; 

I  golden  vines. 
Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 
The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness  . 
The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  l<  ss, 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air  :  the  flower 
Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 
Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine, 
In  the  south  dimly  islanded  ; 
And  the  Alps,  -whose  snows  are  s] 
High  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 
And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 
And  my  spirit  which  so  1 
Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song. 

trated  lie 
By  the  glory  of  the  sky  : 
Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

-   ul  of  all 
Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 
Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 
ling  the  lone  unive:  -   . 

Is,  and  after  noon 
Autun  g  meets  me  soon, 

gtbe  infantine  m 
And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 


Almost  see  ins  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs: 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

'Mid  remembered  agonies. 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 

ss,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 
And  its  ancient  pilot.  Pain, 
Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 

Iti  the  sea  of  life  and  agony  : 

Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulf  :  even  now.  perhaps, 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 

With  folded  wings  they  waitii  a 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it- 

-     ae  calm  and  blooming  cove, 
Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 
May  a  windh  ss  er  be  built. 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 
In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  hills. 
Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills. 
And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 
Of  old  forests  echoing  round. 
And  the  light  and  smell  divine 
Of  all  flow  ers  that  breathe  and  shine  : 
We  may  live  so  happy  there, 
That  the  spirits  of  the  air. 
Envying  us.  may  even  entice 
To  our  healing  paradise 
The  polluting  multitude  : 
But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 
By  that  clime  divine  and  calm. 
And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 
On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 
Under  which  the  bright  sea  heave-  : 
While  each  breathless  interval 
In  their  whisperings  musical 
The  inspired  soul  supplies 
With  its  own  deep  melodies. 
And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 
Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life. 
All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 
With  its  own  mild  brotherhood: 
They,  not  it.  would  change  :  and  soon 
Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 
Would  repent  its  envy  vain. 
And  the  earth  crow  young  acain. 

October,  :    18.     1819. 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN*    IX   DEJECTION,   NEAR    NAPLES 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear. 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright 


SHELLEY 


Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might. 
The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light, 

Around  its  unexpanded  buds  : 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 

The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Soli- 
tude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With     green     and     purple     seaweeds 
strown  : 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light   dissolved    in  star-showers. 

thrown  : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone. 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 

Is  flashing  round  me.  and  a  tone 
Arises  From  its  measured  motion. 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in 
my  emotion. 

Alas  !    I  have  nor  hope  nor  health. 

e  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found. 
And     walked     with      inward      glory 
iwned — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leis- 
ure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 
Smiling   they    live,  and   call  life  pleas- 
ure : — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another 
measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild. 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child. 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 

Which    I  have    borne    and   yet    must 
bear. 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me. 

And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cl  _  I,  and  hear  th< 

Breathe   o'er   my    dying   brain   its 
monotony. 

Borne  might  lament  that  I  were  cold. 

As  I.  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost   heart,  too   soon   grown 
old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan  ; 

They  might  lament — for  I  am  one 
Whom  men  Jove  not,— and  yet  regret. 

Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set. 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in 
memory  ?.    1824. 


SONNET  :    ENGLAND  IN  1819 

An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised,  and  dying 

king- 
Princes,  the   dregs   of  their  dull  race 

who  flow 
Through    public    scorn, — mud    from    a 

muddy  spring. — 
Rulers    who   neither   see.    nor   feel,  nor 

know. 
But  leech-like  to  their  fainting  country 

cling, 
Till  they  drop,  blind  in  blood,  without  a 

blow, — 
A  people   starved   and  stabbed   in   the 

unfilled  field. — 
An  army,  which  liberticide  and  prey 
Makes  as  a  two-edged  sword  to  all  who 

wield 
Golden  and  sanguine  laws  which  tempt 

and  slay  ; 
Religion     Christless,    Godless — a     book 

sealed  : 
A  Senate,— Time's  worst  statute   unre- 
pealed.— 
Are     graves,    from     which    a    glorious 

Phantom  may 
Burst,  to  illumine  our  tempestuous  day. 

■•     1S39." 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND  » 

I 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of 
Autumn's  being. 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the 
leaves  dead 

Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  en- 
chanter fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic 

red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:  Othou. 
Who  chariot e^t  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold 
and  low, 

1  This  poem  -was  conceived  and  chiefly  written 
in  a  wood  that  skirts  the  Arno,  near  Florence, 
and  on  a  day  when  that  tempestuous  wind, 
whose  temperature  is  at  once  mild  and  animat- 
ing-, was  collecting  i lie  vapors  which  pour  down 
the  autumnal  rains.    Ti  • 

at  sunset  with  a  violent  '  I  .liland  rain, 

attended  by  that  maerninVent  ihunder  and  light- 
ning peculiar  to  the  Cisalpine  regions. 

The  phenomenon  alluded  to  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  third  stanza  is  well  known  to  naturalists. 
The  vegetation  at  the  bottom  "f  the  sea.  of 
rivers,  and  of  lakes,  sympathizes  with  tl 
the  land  in  1he  chancre  of  seasons,  and  is  conse- 
quently influenced  by  the  winds  which  announce 
Urp's  note.) 


BRITISH    POETS 


Each  like  ;i  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion   o'er   the    dreaming   earth, 

and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed 

in  air) 
With  living  lines  and  odors  plain  and 

hill ; 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  every- 
where ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver  ;  hear,  Oh  hear  I 


Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep 

sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves 

are  shed, 
Shook    from    the    tangled    boughs    of 

Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  :  there  are 

spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the 

head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the 

dim  verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 
The    locks    of  the  approaching  storm. 

Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing 

night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst : 
Oh  hear  I 

III 

Thou   who  didst  waken  from  his  sum- 
mer dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled    by  the    coil    of  his  crystalline 

streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baise's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering   within   the   wave's   intenser 
day, 

All  overgrown  with    azure    moss    and 

flowers 
So    sweet,    the    sense    faints  picturing 

them  !  Thou 


For    whose    path    the    Atlantic's    level 
powers 

Cleave   themselves  into  chasms,  while 

far  below 
The    sea-blooms    and    the    oozy   woods 

which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with 

fear, 
And  tremble  and   despoil  themselves': 

Oh  hear  I 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear  ; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and 
share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !  If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could   be 

The  comrade    of  thy  wanderings  over 

heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision  ;     I  would   ne'er 

have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore 

need. 
Oli  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !     I  bleed  1 

A   heavy  weight  of  hours  has   chained 

and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee  :   tameless,   and  swift, 
and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is  : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal 

tone, 
Sweet  though  in    sadness.        Be   thou, 

spirit   fierce, 
My  spirit  !   Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new 

birth  ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,     as    from    an  unextinguished 

hearth 
Ashes    and    sparks,    my    words  among 

mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 


SHELLEY 


!99 


The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  1    O,   wind, 
If  Winter  conies,   can  Spring  be  far  be- 
hind ?  1819.     1820. 


THE    INDIAN  SERENADE 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hatli  led  me — who  knows  how  ! 
To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet  ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream— 
And  the  Champak  odors  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart  ; — 
As  I  must  on  thine, 

0  !  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

Oh  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

1  die  I    I  faint  1     I  fail  t 


Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alasi 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; — 
Oh  !   press  it  to  thine  own  again, 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

'  1819.     1822. 

LOVE-S  PHILOSOPHY 

The  Fountains  mingle  with  the  River 

And  the  Rivers  with  the  Ocean, 
The  winds  of  Heaven  mix  for  ever 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single  ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  spirit  meet  and  mingle. 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ?— 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  Heaven 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another  ; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother, 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea : 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ?    ■  1810.     1819. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND1 

A  LYRICAL  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

ATJDISNE   HAEG  AMPHIARAE,  SUB  TERRAM  ABDITE? 


DRAMATIS  PERSON JE 


Prometheus 
Demogorgon 


Mercury 
Hercules 


VOceanides 


Jupiter  Asia 

The  Earth  Panthea 

Ocean  Ione 

Apollo  the  Phantasm  of  Jupiter 
The  Spirit  op  the  Earth 
The  Spirit  op  the  Moon 
Spirits  op  the  Hours 
Spirits.    Echoes.    Fauns.    Furies 

ACT  I 


Scene— A  Ravine  of  Icy  Rocks  in  the 
Indian  Caucasus. 

Prometheus  is  discovered  bound  t<>  I  lie 
Precipice.  Panthea  and  Ione  are 
seated  at  Ms  feet.  Time,  night.  I  tar- 
ing the  Scene,  morning  slowly  breaks. 

1  See  note  at  the  end  of  the  poem. 


Prometheus.      Monarch  of  Gods  and 

Demons,  and  all  Spirits 
But  One,  who  throng   those  bright  and 

rolling  worlds 
Which  Thou  and  I  alone  of  living  things 
Behold  with  sleepless  eyes  !   regard  this 

Earth 
Made   multitudinous   with    thy   slaves, 

whom  thou 
Requitest  for  knee-worship,  prayer,  and 

praise, 
And     toil,    and   hecatombs    of    broken 

hearts. 
With  fear  and  self-contempt  and  barren 

hope. 
Whilst  me,  who  am  thy  foe,  eyeless  in 

hate, 
Hast  thou  made  reign  and  triumph,  to 

thy  scorn 
O'er   mine   own   misery   and  thy    vain 

revenge. 


JOO 


BRITISH  POETS 


Three  thousand  years  of  sleep-unshel- 
tered hours. 

And  moments  aye  divided  by  keen  pangs 

Till  they  seemed  years,  torture  and  soli- 
tude, 

Scorn  and  despair,  —  these  are  mine 
empire  ; — 

More  glorious  far  than  that  which  thou 
surveyest 

From  thine  unenvied  throne,  O,  Mighty 
God! 

Almighty,  had  I  deigned  to  share  the 
shame 

Of  thine  ill  tyranny,  and  hung  not  here 

Nailed  to  this  wall  of  eagle-baffling 
mountain, 

Black,  wintry,  dead,  unmeasured  ;  with- 
out herb, 

Insect,  or  beast,  or  shape  or  sound  of 
life. 

Ah  me  !  alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever  ! 

No  change,  no  pause,  no  hope  !    Yet  I 

endure. 
I  ask  the  Earth,  have  not  the  mountains 

felt? 
I  ask  yon  Heaven,  the  all-beholding  Sun, 
Has  it  not  seen  ?      The  Sea,  in  storm  or 

calm, 
Heaven's  ever-changing  Shadow,  spread 

below, 
Have  its  deaf  waves  not  heard  my  agony? 
Ah  me !  alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever  ! 

The  crawling  glaciers  pierce  me  with 

the  spears 
Of    their    moon-freezing  crystals,    the 

bright  chains 
Eat  with   their   burning   cold   into   my 

bones, 
Heaven's  winged  hound,  polluting  from 

thy  lips 
His  beak  in  poison  not  his  own,  tears  up 
My   heart ;    and   shapeless  sights  come 

wandering  by, 
The  ghastly   people    of    the    realm    of 

dream, 
Mocking  me  :  and  the  Earthquake-fiends 

are  charged 
To  wrench  the  rivets  from  my  quivering 

wounds 
When  the  rocks  split  and  close  again  be- 
hind : 
While  from  their  loud  abysses  howling 

throng 
The  genii  of  the  storm,  urging  the  rage 
Of  whirlwind,  and  afflict   me  with  keen 

hail. 
A.nd  yet  to  me  welcome  is  day  and  night, 


Whether  one  breaks  the  hoar   frost  of 

the  morn, 
Or  starry,    dim,   and    slow,    the  othet 

climbs 
The  leaden-colored  east ;  for  then  they 

lead 
The  wingless,  crawling  hours, one  among 

whom 
— As  some  dark  Priest  hales  the  reluc- 
tant victim — 
Shall  drag  thee,  cruel  King,  to  kiss  the 

blood 
From  these  pale  feet,  which  then  might 

trample  thee 
If  they  disdained  not  such  a  prostrate 

slave. 
Disdain  !     Ah  no  1     I  pity   thee.     What 

ruin 
Will    hunt  thee   undefended  thro'  the 

wide  Heaven! 
How  will  thy  soul,  cloven  to  its  depth 

with  terror, 
Gape    like  a    hell  within  !    I    speak  in 

grief, 
Not  exultation,  for  I  hate  no  more, 
As  then  ere  misery  made  me  wise.    The 

curse 
Once  breathed  on  thee   I   would   recall. 

Ye  Mountains, 
Whose  many-voiced  Echoes,  through  the 

mist 
Of  cataracts,  flung  the   thunder  of  that 

spell  ! 
Ye  icy  Springs,  stagnant  with  wrinkling 

frost, 
Which  vibrated  to  hear  me,   and  then 

crept 
Shuddering  thro'  India  !     Thou  serenest 

Air, 
Thro'    which    the   Sun    walks   burning 

without  beams ! 
And  ye  swift  Whirlwinds,  who  on  poised 

wings 
Hung    mute    and    moveless    o'er    yon 

hushed  abyss, 
As  thunder,  louder  than  your  own,  made 

rock 
The  orbed   world  !     If  then   my   words 

had  power, 
Though  I  am  changed  so  that  aught  evil 

wish 
Is  dead  within  ;  although  no  memory  be 
Of  what  is  hate,  let  them  not  lose  it  now! 
What  was  that  curse  ?  for  ye   all  heard 

me  speak. 

First  Voice  (from  the  Mountains) 
Thrice  three  hundred  thousand  years 


SHELLEY 


301 


.    O'er  the    Earthquake's    couch    we 

stood  : 
Oft,  as  men  convulsed  with  fears, 
We  trembled  in  our  multitude. 

Second  Voice  (from  the  Springs) 

Thunderbolts  had  parched  our  water, 
We    had  been  stained   with  bitter 
blood, 
And  had  run  mute,   'mid  shrieks  of 
slaughter, 
Thro' a  city  and  a  solitude. 

Third  Voice  (from  the  Air) 

I  had  clothed,  since  Earth  uprose, 
Its  wastes   in  colors  not  their  own, 

And  oft  had  my  serene  repose 
Been  cloven    by    many    a  rending 
groan. 

Fourth  Voice  (from  the  Whirlwinds) 

We  had  soared  beneatli   these   moun- 
tains 
Unresting  ages  ;  nor  had  thunder, 

Nor  yon  volcano's  naming  fountains, 
Nor  any  power  above  or  under 
Ever  made  us  mute  with  wonder. 

First  Voice 

But  never  bowed  our  snowy  crest 
As  at  the  voice  of  thine  unrest. 

Second  Voice 

Never  such  a  sound  before 
To  the  Indian  waves  we  bore. 
A  pilot  asleep  on  the  howling  sea 
Leaped  up  from  the  deck  in  agony, 
And  heard,  and  cried,  "Ah,  woe  is  me!  " 
And  died  as  mad  as  the  wild  waves  be. 

Tliird  Voice 

By  such    dread   words   from  Earth  to 

Heaven 
My  still  realm  was  never  riven  ; 
When  its  wound  was  closed,  there  stood 
Darkness  o'er  the  day  like  blood. 

Fourth  Voice 

And  we  shrank  back;  for  dreams  of  ruin 
To  frozen  caves  our  flight  pursuing 
Made  us  keep  silence — thus — and  thus — 
Though  silence  is  a  hell  to  us. 

Tlie  Earth.      The  tongueless  Caverns 
of  the  craggy  hills 


Cried     "Misery!"     then;     the     hollow 

Heaven  replied, 
"Misery!"    and    the     Ocean's    purple 

waves, 
Climbing  the  land,  howled  to  the  lash- 
ing winds, 
And  the  pale  nations  heard  it,  "  Misery!  " 
Prometheus.     I  hear  a  sound  of  voices : 

not  the  voice 
Which  I  gave  forth.     Mother,  thy  sons 

and  thou 
Scorn  him,  without  whose  all-enduring 

will 
Beneath  the  fierce  omnipotence  of  Jove, 
Both  they  and  thou  had  vanished,  like 

thin  mist 
Unrolled  on  the  morning  wind.     Know 

ye  not  me, 
The  Titan  ?     He  who  made  his  agony 
The  barrier  to  your  else  all-conquering 

foe? 
Oh,  rock-embosomed  lawns,  and  snow- 
fed  streams, 
Now  seen  athwart    frore    vapors,  deep 

below, 
Thro'    whose     o'ershadowing    woods    I 

wandered  once 
With  Asia,  drinking  life  from  her  loved 

eyes ; 
Why  scorns  the  spirit  which  informs  ye, 

now 
To  commune  with  me  ?   me  alone,  who 

checked, 
As    one    who    checks    a    fiend-drawn 

charioteer, 
The  falsehood  and  the  force  of  him  who 

reigns 
Supreme,  and  with  the  groans  of  pining 

slaves 
Fills  your  dim  glens  and  liquid  wilder- 
nesses : 
Why  answer  ye  not,  still?    Brethren  ! 
The  Earth.  They  dare  not. 

Prometheus.     Who  dares  ?  for  I  would 

hear  that  curse  again. 
Ha,  what  an  awful  whisper  rises  up  ! 
'Tis  scarce  like  sound  ;   it  tingles  thro' 

the  frame 
As   lightning    tingles,    hovering  ere   it 

strike. 
Speak,    Spirit !     from    thine    inorganic 

voice 
I  only  know  that  thou  art  moving  near 
And  love.     How  cursed  I  him  ? 

Tlie  Earth.  How  canst  thou  hear 

Who  knowest  not  the  language  of  the 

dead? 
Prometheus.    Thou  art  a  living  spirit , 

speak  as  they. 


302 


BRITISH   POETS 


The  Earth.     1  dare  not  speak  like  life, 

Lest  1  leaven's  fell  King 
Should  hear,  and  link  me  to  some  wheel 

of  pain 
More  torturing  than  the  one  whereon  I 

roll. 
Subtle  thou  art  and  good,  and  tho'  the 

Gods 
Hear  .not  this  voice,  yet  thou  art  more 

than  God 
Being  wise  and  kind  :  earnestly  hearken 

now. 
Prometheus.         Obscurely     thro'    my 

brain,  like  shadows  dim, 
Sweep  awful  thoughts,  rapid  and  thick. 

I  feel 
Faint,  like   one  mingled  in   entwining 

love  ; 
Yet  'tis  not  pleasure. 

The  Earth.     No,  thou  canst  not  hear  ; 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is 

known 
Only  to  those  who  die. 

Prometheus.     And  what  art  thou, 
O,  melancholy  Voice  ? 

The  Earth.     I  am  the  Earth, 
Thy  mother  ;    she  within  whose  stony 

veins, 
To  the  last  fibre  of  the  loftiest  tree 
Whose    thin    leaves    trembled    in    the 

frozen  air, 
Joy  ran.  as  blood  within  a  living  frame, 
When  thou  didst  from  her  bosom,  like  a 

cloud, 
Of  glory,  arise,  a  spirit  of  keen  joy  ! 
And  at  thy  voice  her  pining  sons  uplifted 
Their  prostrate  brows  from  the  polluting 

dust, 
And   our  almighty   Tyrant   with   fierce 

dread 
Grew   pale,  until  his   thunder   chained 

thee  here. 
Then,  see  those  million  worlds  which 

burn  and  roll 
Around  us  :  their  inhabitants  beheld 
My  sphered  light  wane  in  wide  Heaven ; 

the  sea 
Was  lifted  by  strangejtempest,  and  new 

fire 
From   earthquake-rifted    mountains  of 

bright  snow 
Shook     its     portentous    hair     beneath 

Heaven's  frown  ; 
Lightning  and    Inundation  vexed    the 

plains ; 
Blue  thistles  bloomed  in  cities ;  foodless 

toads 
Within   voluptuous    chambers    panting 

crawled : 


When  Plague  had   fallen  on  man,  and 

beast  and  worm, 
And  Famine  ;  and  black  blight  on  herb 

and  tree  ; 
And  in  the  corn,  and  vines,  and  meadow- 
grass, 
Teemed  ineradicable  poisonous  weeds 
Draining    their    growth,    for    my   wan 

breast  was  dry 
With  grief  ;  and  the  thin  air,  my  breath, 

was  stained 
With  the  contagion  of  a  mother's  hate 
Breathed  on  her  child's  destroyer ;  aye, 

I  heard 
Thy  curse,  the  which,  if  thou  reraem- 

berest  not, 
Yet  my  innumerable  seas  and  sti'eams, 
Mountains,  and  caves,  and  winds,  and 

yon  wide  air, 
And    the    inarticulate    people    of    the 

dead, 
Preserve,  a  treasured  spell.  We  meditate 
In  secret  joy  and  hope  those  dreadful 

words 
But  dare  not  speak  them. 

Prometheus.     Venerable  mother ! 
All  else  who  live  and  suffer  take  from 

thee 
Some  comfort ;  flowers,  and  fruits,  and 

happy  sounds, 
And  love,  though  fleeting ;  these   may 

not  be  mine. 
But  mine  own  words,  I  pray,  deny  me 

not. 
The  Earth.     They  shall  be  told.     Ere 

Babylon  was  dust, 
The  Magus  Zoroaster,  my  dead  child, 
Met  his  own  image  walking  in  the  gar- 
den. 
That  apparition,  sole  of  men,  he  saw. 
For  know  there  are  two  worlds  of  life 

and  death  : 
One  that  which  thou  beholdest ;  but  the 

other 
Is  underneath  the  grave,  where  do  in- 
habit 
The  shadows  of  all  forms  that   think 

and  live 
Till  death   unite   them  and  they   part 

no  more ; 
Dreams    and    the    light   imaginings  of 

men, 
And  all  that  fate  creates  or  love  desires, 
Terrible,  strange,  sublime  and  beauteous 

shapes. 
There  thou  art,  and  dost  hang,  a  writh- 
ing shade, 
'Mid  whirlwind-peopled  mountains  ;  all 

the  gods 


SHELLEY 


3°3 


Are  there,  and  all  the  powers  of  name- 
less worlds, 

Vast,  sceptred  phantoms;  heroes,  men, 
and  beasts  ; 

And  Demogorgon,  a  tremendous  gloom  ; 

And   he,    the    supreme   Tyrant,   on    his 
throne 

Of    burning   gold.      Son,   one  of  these 
shall  utter 

The  curse   which  all  remember.      Call 
at  will 

Thine  own  ghost,  or  the  ghost  of  Jupiter, 

Hades  or  Typhon,  or  what  mightier  Gods 

From  all-prolific  Evil,  since  thy  ruin 

Have  sprung,  and  trampled  on  my  pros- 
trate sons. 

Ask,  and  they  must  reply  :  so  the  revenge 

Of  the  Supreme  may  sweep  thro'  vacant 
shades, 

As  rainy  wind  thro'  the  abandoned  gate 

Of  a  fallen  palace. 

Prometheus.     Mother,   let   not   aught 

Of  that  which  may  be  evil,  pass  again 

My  lips,  or  those  of  aught  resembling  me. 

Phantasm  of  Jupiter,  arise,  appear  t 

lone 

My  wings  are  folded  o'er  mine  ears  : 

My  wings  are  crossed  o'er  mine  eyes : 
Yet  thro'  their  silver  shade  appears, 

And  thro'  their  lulling  plumes  arise, 
A  Shape,  a  throng  of  sounds  ; 

May  it  be  no  ill  to  thee 
O  thou  of  many  wounds  ! 
Near  whom,    for  our  sweet  sister's  sake, 
Ever  thus  we  watch  and  wake. 

Panthea 

The  sound  is  of  whirlwind  underground 
Earthquake,  and  fire,  and  mountains 
cloven  ; 
The  shape  is  awful  like  the  sound, 

Clothed  in  dark  purple,  star-inwoven. 
A  sceptre  of  pale  gold 
To  stay  steps  proud,  o'er    the  slow 
cloud 
His  veined  hand  dotli  hold. 
Cruel  he  looks,  but  calm  and  strong, 
Like  one  who  does,  not  suffers   wrong. 
Pliantasm    of   Jupiter.      Why    have 
the  secret  powers  of  this   strange 
world 
Driven  me.  a  frail  and  empty   phantom, 

hither 
On  direst  storms  ?    What  unaccustomed 

sounds 
Are  hovering  on  my  lips,  unlike  the  voice 
Witli  winch  our  pallid  race  hold  ghastly 
talk 


In  darkness  ?    And,  proud  sufferer,  who 
art  thou  i 
Prometheus.     Tremendous    Image,  as 
thou  art  must  be 
He  whom  thou  shadowest  forth.     I   am 

his  foe, 
The    Titan.     Speak  the  words  which   I 

would  hear, 
Although     no     thought    inform    thine 
empty  voice. 
The  Earth.     Listen  !     And  tho'    your 
echoes  must  be  mute, 
Gray    mountains,    and  old  woods,  and 

haunted  springs, 
Prophetic    caves,    and  isle-surrounding 

streams, 
Rejoice  to  hear  what  yet  ye  cannot  speak. 
Phantasm.     A    spirit  seizes  me    and 
speaks  within : 
It  tears  me  as  fire  tears  a  thunder-cloud. 
Panthea.     See,  how  he  lifts  his  mighty 
looks,  the  Heaven 
Darkens  above. 
lone.  He  speaks !   O  shelter  me ! 

Prometheus.      I     see     the   curse    on 
gestures  proud  and  cold, 
And  looks  of  firm  defiance,  and  calm  hate, 
And  such  despair  as  mocks  itself  with 

smiles, 
Written  as  on  a  scroll  :      yet    speak : 
Oh,  speak! 

Phantasm 

Fiend,  I  defy  thee  I  with  a  calm,  fixed 
mind, 

All  that  thou  canst  inflict  I  bid  thee 
do; 

Foul  Tyrant  both  of  Gods  and  Human- 
kind, 
One    only    being    shalt    thou    not 
subdue. 

Rain  then  thy  plagues  upon  me  here, 

Ghastly  disease,    and  frenzying  fear  ; 

And  let  alternate  frost  and  fire 

Eat  into  me,  and  be  thine  ire 
Lightning,  and  cutting  hail,  and  legioned 

forms 
Of  furies,  driving  by  upon  the  wounding 
storms. 

Ay,   do    thy    worst.      Thou   art    om- 
nipotent. 
O'er   all   things  but   thyself  I  gave 
thee  power, 
And    my    own  will.      Be    thy    swift 
mischiefs  sent 
To  blast  mankind,  from  yon  ethereal 
tower. 
Let  thy  malignant  spirit  move 


3°4 


BRITISH    POETS 


In  darkness  over  those  I  love  : 
On  me  and  mine  I  imprecate 
The  utmost  torture  of  thy  hate  ; 
And  thus  devote  to  sleepless  agony, 
This  undeclining  head,  while  thou  must 
reign  on  high. 

But  thou,  who  art  the  God  and  Lord  : 
O, thou, 
Who  fillest  with  thy  soul  this  world 
of  woe, 
To   whom   all   things    of    Earth   and 
Heaven  do  bow 
In  fear  and  worship  :  all-prevailing 
foe! 
I  curse  thee  !  let  a  sufferer's  curse 
Clasp  thee,  his  torturer,  like  remorse  ; 
Till  thine  Infinity  shall  be 
A  robe  of  envenomed  agony  ; 
And  thine  Omnipotence  a  crown  of  pain, 
To  cling  like  burning  gold   round    thy 
dissolving  brain. 

Heap  on   thy  soul,  by  virtue  of  this 
Curse 
111  deeds,   then    be    thou    damned, 
beholding  good  ; 
Both  infinite  as  is  the  universe, 

And    thou,    and    thy  self-torturing 
solitude. 
An  awful  image  of  calm  power 
Though  now  thou  sittest,  let  the  hour 
Come,  when  thou  must  appear  to  be 
That  which  thou  art  internally. 
And  after  many   a   false   and   fruitless 

crime 
Scorn  track  thy  lagging  fall  thro' bound- 
less space  and  time. 

Prometheus.       Were  these  my  words, 

O,  Parent? 
The  Earth.  They  were  thine. 

Prometheus.  It  doth  repent  me  : 

words  are  quick  and  vain  ; 
Grief  for  awhile  is  blind,  and  so  was 

mine. 
I  wish  no  living  thing  to  suffer  pain. 

The  Earth 

Misery,  Oh  misery  to  me, 

That  Jove  at   length  should  vanquish 

thee. 
Wail,  howl  aloud,  Land  and  Sea, 
The   Earth's   rent  heart  shall  answer 
ye. 
Howl,  Spirits  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Your  refuge,  your  defence  lies  fallen  and 
vanquished. 


First  Echo 
Lies  fallen  and  vanquished  1 
Second  Echo 

Fallen  and  vanquished ! 

lone 

Fear  not :  'tis  but  some  passing  spasm, 

The  Titan  is  unvanquished  still. 
But  see,  where  thro'  the  azure  chasm 

Of  yon  forked  and  snowy  hill 
Trampling  the  slant  winds  on  high 

With    golden-sandalled     feet,    that 
glow 
Under  plumes  of  purple  dye, 
Like  rose-ensanguined  ivory, 

A  Shape  comes  now, 
Stretching  on  high  from  his  right  hand 
A  serpent-cinctured  wand. 
Panthea.     'Tis    Jove's  world-wander- 
ing herald,  Mercury. 

lone 

And  who  are  those  with  hydra  tresses 
And  iron  wings  that  climb  the  wind, 

Whom  the  frowning  God  represses 
Like  vapors  steaming  up  behind, 

Clanging  loud,  an  endless  crowd — 

Panthea 
These     are    Jove's     tempest-walking 
hounds, 
Whom  he  gluts  with  groans  and  blood, 
When  charioted  on  sulphurous  cloud 
He  bursts  Heaven's  bounds. 

lone 

Are  they  now  led,  from  the  thin  dead 
On  new  pangs  to  be  fed? 

Panthea 

The  Titan    looks    as  ever,   firm,   not 

proud. 
First  Fury.     Ha  !  I  scent  life  ! 
Second  Fury.     Let  me  but  look  into 

his  eyes ! 
Third  Fury.     The  hope  of  torturing 
him  smells  like  a  heap 
Of  corpses,  to  a  death-bird,  after  battle. 
First    Fury.     Darest    thou    delay,    O 
Herald  !  take  cheer,  Hounds 
Of  Hell :  what  if  the  Son  of  Maia  soon 
Should  make  us  food  and  sport— who 

can  please  long 
The  Omnipotent? 
Mercury.     Back    to    your    towers    of 
iron, 


SHELLEY 


3°5 


And  gnash,  beside  the  streams  of  fire 

and  wail, 
Your    foodless    teeth.     Geryon,    arise ! 

and  Gorgon, 
Chimsera,  and  thou  Sphinx,  subtlest  of 

fiends 
Who    ministered    to    Thebes    Heaven's 

poisoned  wine, 
Unnatural  love,    and    more    unnatural 

hate  : 
These  shall  perform  your  task. 

First  Fury.  On,  mercy  !  mercy! 

We   die  with  our  desire :  drive  us  not 

back ! 
Mercury.     Crouch  then  in  silence. 

Awful  Sufferer 
To  thee  unwilling,  most  unwillingly 
I  come,  by  the  great  Father's  will  driven 

down, 
To  execute  a  doom  of  new  revenge. 
Alas  !  I  pity  thee,  and  hate  myself 
That  I  can  do  no  more :  aye  from  thy 

sight 
Returning,  for  a  season,  Heaven  seems 

Hell, 
So  thy  worn  form  pursues  me  night  and 

day, 
Smiling  reproach.     Wise  art  thou,  firm 

and  good, 
But  vainly  wouldst  stand  forth  alone  in 

strife 
Against  the  Omnipotent ;  as  yon  clear 

lamps 
That   measure    and    divide    the   weary 

years 
From   which   there  is  no   refuge,   long 

have  taught 
And  long  must  teach.     Even  now  thy 

Torturer  arms 
With  the  strange  might  of  unimagined 

pains 
The  powers  who  scheme  slow  agonies  in 

Hell, 
And    my  commission   is   to  lead   them 

here, 
Or  what  more  subtle,   foul,   or  savage 

fiends 
People  the  abyss,   and  leave  them  to 

their  task. 
Be  it  not  so  !  there  is  a  secret  known 
To  thee,   and   to    none    else    of  living 

tilings, 
Which  may  transfer  the  sceptre  of  wide 

Heaven, 
The   fear   of  which    perplexes  the  Su- 
preme : 
Clothe  it  in  words,  and  bid  it  clasp  bis 

throne 
In  intercession  ;  bend  thy  soul  in  prayer, 
f.n 


And  like  a  suppliant  in  some  gorgeous 

fane, 
Let  the  will  kneel  within  thy  haughty 

heart : 
For  benefits  and  meek  submission  tame 
The  fiercest  and  the  mightiest. 

Prometheus.  Evil  minds 

Change  good   to  their  own  nature.     1 

gave  all 
He  has  ;  and  in  return  he  chains  me  here 
Years,   ages,   night  and  day :  whether 

the  Sun 
Split  my  parched  skin,  or  in  the  moony 

night 
The   crystal-winged   snow   cling  round 

my  hair : 
Whilst    my  beloved   race    is   trampled 

down 
By  his  thought-executing  ministers. 
Such  is  the  tyrant's  recompense :    'tis 

just  : 
He  who  is  evil  can  receive  no  good  ; 
And  for  a  world   bestowed,   or  a   friend 

lost, 
He  can  feel  hate,  fear,  shame  ;  not  gra- 
titude : 
He  but  requites  me  for  his  own  mis- 
deed. 
Kindness  to  such  is  keen  reproach,  which 

breaks 
With    bitter  stings  the   light  sleep  of 

Revenge. 
Submission,  thou  dost   know   I   cannot 

try  : 
For  what  submission  but  that  fatal  word, 
The  death-seal  of  mankind's  captivity, 
Like  the  Sicilian's  hair-suspended  sword, 
Which  trembles  o'er   his   crown,    would 

he  accept, 
Or  could  I  yield  ?    Which  yet  I  will  not 

yield. 
Let  others  flatter  Crime,  where  it  sits 

throned 
In  brief  Omnipotence  :  secure  are  they  : 
For    Justice,    when     triumphant,    will 

weep  down 
Pity,    not     punishment,     on    her    own 

wrrongs, 
Too  much  avenged  by  those  who  err. 

I  wait, 
Enduring  thus,  the  retributive  hour 
Which  since  we  spake  is  even  nearer 

now. 
But  hark,  the  hell-hounds  clamor  :  fear 

delay  : 
Behold !     Heaven     lowers     under     thy 

Father's  frown. 
Mercury.         Oh,   that  we  might  be 

spared  :  I  to  inflict 


3°6 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  thou  to  suffer  1  Once  more  answer 

me  : 
Thou  knowest  not  the  period  of  Jove's 
power  ? 
Prometheus.      I  know  but  this,  that  it 

must  come. 
Mercury.  Alas ! 

Thou  canst  not  count  thy  years  to  come 
of  pain  ? 
Prometheus.      They    last  while  Jove 
must  reign  :  nor  more,  nor  less 
Do  I  desire  or  fear. 

Mercury.     Yet  pause,  and  plunge 
Into  Eternity,  where  recorded  time, 
Even  all  that  we  imagine,  age  on  age, 
Seems  but  a  point,  and  the  reluctant 

mind 
Flags  wearily  in  its  unending  flight, 
Till  it  sink,  dizzy,  blind,  lost,  shelter- 
less ; 
Perchance  it  has  not  numbered  the  slow 

years 
Which  thou  must  spend  in  torture,  un- 
reprieved  ? 
Prometheus.     Perchance  no  thought 

can  count  them,  yet  they  pass. 
Mercury.      If    thou    might 'st    dwell 
among  the  Gods  the  while 
Lapped  in  voluptuous  joy  ? 

Prometheus.  I  would  not  quit 

This   bleak    ravine,   these  unrepentant 
pains. 
Mercury.     Alas  !      I   wonder  at,  yet 

pity  thee. 
Prometheus.    Pity    the  self-despising 
slaves  of  Heaven, 
Not  me,  within  whose  mind   sits  peace 

serene, 
As  light  in  the  sun,  throned  :  how  vain 

is  talk  ! 
Call  up  the  fiends. 

lone.     O,  sister,  look  J    White  fire 
Has  cloven  to  the  roots  yon   huge  snow- 
loaded  cedar  ; 
How  fearfully  God's  thunder  howls  be- 
hind t 
Mercury.    I  must  obey  his  words  and 
thine  :   alas  I 
Most  heavily  remorse  hangs  at  my  heart! 
Panthea.     See    where    the    child  of 
Heaven,  with  winged  feet, 
Runs  down  the  slanted   sunlight   of  the 
dawn. 
lone.     Dear  sister,  close  thy  plumes 
over  thine  eyes 
Lest  thou  behold  and  die :  they  come : 

they  come 
Blackening  the  birth  of  day  with  count- 
less wings, 


And  hollow  underneath,  like  death. 
First  Fury.  Prometheus  ' 

Second  Fury.     Immortal  Titan  ! 
Third  Fury.  Champion  of 

Heaven's  slaves  ! 
Prometheus.     He  whom  some  dread- 
ful voice  invokes  is  here, 

Prometheus,  the  chained  Titan.  Horrible 
forms, 

What  and  who  are  ye?    Never  yet  there 
came 

Phantasms  so  foul  thro'  monster-teem- 
ing Hell 

From  the  all-miscreative  brain  of  Jove  ; 

Whilst  I  behold  such  execrable  shapes, 

Methinks  I  grow   like   what  I   contem- 
plate, 

And  laugh  and  stare  in  loathsome  sym- 
pathy. 
First  Fury.     We  are  the  ministers  of 
pain,  and  fear, 

And  disappointment,  and  mistrust,  and 
hate, 

And  clinging  crime ;   and  as  lean  dogs 
pursue 

Thro'  wood   and  lake  some  struck  and 
sobbing  fawn, 

We  track    all  things    that  weep,   and 
bleed,  and  live, 

When  the   great   King  betrays  them  to 
our  will. 
Prometheus.  Oh !  many  fearful  natures 
in  one  name, 

I  know  ye  ;    and  these  lakes  and  echoes 
know 

The  darkness  and  the  clangor  of   your" 
wings. 

But  why  more  hideous  than  your  loathed 
selves 

Gather  ye  up  in  legions  from  the  deep  ? 
Second  Fury.     We    knew  not    that  : 

Sisters,  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 
Prometheus.     Can  aught  exult  in  its 

deformity? 
Second  Fury.    The  beauty  of  delight 
makes  lovers  glad, 

Gazing  on  one  another :  so  are  we. 

As  from  the  rose  which  the  pale  priest- 
ess kneels 

To  gather  for  her  festal  crown  of  flowers 

The  aerial  crimson   falls,  flushing   her 
cheek, 

So  from  our  victim's  destined  agony 

The  shade  which  is  our  form  invests  us 
round, 

Else  we  are  shapeless    as    our    mother 
Night. 
Prometheus.     I  laugh  your  power,  and 
his  who  sent  you  here, 


SHELLEY 


3°7 


To  lowest  scorn.     Pour  forth  the  cup  of 

pain. 
First   Fury.     Thou   thinkest   we   will 

rend  thee  bone  from  bone, 
And  nerve  from  nerve,  working  like  fire 

within  ? 
Prometheus.     Pain  is  my  element,  as 

hate  is  thine  ; 
Ye  rend  me  now  :  I  care  not. 

Second  Fury.  Dost  imagine 

We  will  but  laugh  into  thy  lidless  eyes  ? 
Prometheus.     I  weigh  not  what  ye  do, 

but  what  ye  suffer, 
Being  evil.     Cruel  was  the  power  which 

called 
You,  or  aught   else   so  wretched,   into 

light. 
Third  Fury.     Thou   think  'st  we  will 

live  thro'  thee,  one  by  one, 
Like  animal  life,  and  tho'  we  can  obscure 

not 
The  soul  which  burns  within,  that  we 

will  dwell 
Beside  it,  like  a  vain  loud  multitude 
Vexing  the  self-content  of  wisest  men  : 
That  we  will  be  dread  thought  beneath 

thy  brain, 
And  foul  desire  1'ound  thine  astonished 

heart, 
And  blood  within  thy  labyrinthine  veins 
Crawling  like  agony. 

Prometheus.     Why,  ye  are  thus  now  ; 
Yet  am  I  king  over  myself,  and  rule 
The   torturing  and  conflicting   throngs 

within, 
As  Jove  rules   you  when    Hell    grows 

mutinous. 

Chorus  of  Furies 

From  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth, 
Where  the  night  has  its  grave  and  the 
morning  its  birth, 
Come,  come,  come! 
Oh,  ye  who  shake  hills  with  the  scream 

of  your  mirth, 
When  cities  sink  howling  in  ruin  ;  and 

ye 
Who  with   wingless    footsteps  trample 

the  sea, 
And  close  upon  Shipwreck  and  Famine's 

track, 
Sit  chattering  with  joy  on  the  foodless 
wreck, 
Come,  come,  come ! 
Leave  the  bed,  low,  cold  and  red, 
Strewed  beneath  a  nation  dead; 
Leave  the  hatred,  as  in  ashes 
Fire  is  left  for  future  burning : 


It  will  burst  in  bloodier  fashion, 
When  ye  stir  it,  soon  returning: 
•  Leave  the  self-contempt  implanted 
In  young  spirits,  sense-enchanted, 

Misery's  yet  unkindled  fuel : 
Leave  Hell's  secrets  half  unchanted 

To  the  maniac  dreamer  ;   cruel 
More  than  ye  can  be  with  hate 
Is  he  with  fear. 
Come,  come,  come ! 
We  are  steaming  up   from  Hell's  wide 
gate, 
And  we    burthen    the    blast    of    the 

atmosphere, 
But  vainly  we  toil  till  ye  come  here. 
lone.     Sister,  I  hear  the  thunder  of 

new  wings. 
Panthea.      These      solid      mountains 
quiver  with  the  sound 
Even  as  the  tremulous  air  :  their  shadows 

make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more  black 
than  night. 

First  Fury 

Your  call  was  as  a  winged  car 
Driven  on  whirlwinds  fast  and  far; 
It  rapt  us  from  red  gulf  of  war. 

Second  Fury 
From  wide  cities,  famine-wasted  ; 

Third  Fury 
Groans  half,  heard,  and  blood  untasted  ; 

Fourth  Fury 
Kingly  conclaves  stern  and  cold, 
Where  blood  with  gold  is  bought  and 
sold ; 

Fifth  Fury 

From  the  furnace,  white  and  hot, 
In  which — ■ 

A  Fury 

Speak  not :   whisper  not 
I  know  all  that  ye  would  tell, 
But  to  speak  might  break  the  spell 
Which  must  bend  the  Invincible, 

The  stern  of  thought ; 
He    yet    defies    the    deepest    power  of 
Hell. 

Fury 
Tear  the  veil  1 

Another  Fury 

It  is  torn. 

Chorus 

The  pale  stars  of  the  morn 
Shine  on  a  misery,  dire  to  be  borne. 


3o8 


BRITISH    POETS 


Dost  thou   faint,  mighty  Titan?     We 

Laugh  thee  to  scoi-n. 
Dost  thou   boast  the  clear  knowledge 

thou  waken'dst  for  man? 
Then  was   kindled  within  him  a  thirst 

which  outran 
Those  perishing  waters ;  a  thirst  of  fierce 

fever, 
Hope,   love,    doubt,   desire,  which  con- 
sume him  for  ever. 
One  came  forth  of  gentle  worth 
Smiling  on  the  sanguine  earth ; 
His  words   outlived  him,   like  swift 
poison, 
Withering  up  truth,  peace,  and  pity. 
Look  !  where  round  the  wide  horizon 

Many  a  million-peopled  city_ 
Vomits  smoke  in  the  bright  air. 
Mark  that  outcry  of  despair  ! 
'Tis  his  mild  and  gentle  ghost 

Wailing  for  the  faith  he  kindled : 
Look  again,  the  flames  almost 
To     a     glow-worm's      lamp     have 
dwindled : 
The  survivors  round  the  embers 
Gather  in  dread. 
Joy, joy, joy  I 
Past  ages  crowd  on  thee,  but  each  one 

remembers, 
And  the  future  is  dark,  and  the  present 

is  spread  I 

Like  a  pillow  of  thorns  for  thy  slumber- 
less  head. 

Semichorus  I 

Drops  of  bloody  agony  flow 

From  his  white  and  quivering  brow. 

Grant  a  little  respite  now  : 

See  a  disenchanted  nation 

Springs  like  day  from  desolation  ; 

To  Truth  its  state  is  dedicate, 

And  Freedom  leads  it  forth,  her  mate; 

A  legioned  band  of  linked  brothers 

Whom  Love  calls  children — 

Semichorus  II 

'Tis  another's : 
See  how  kindred  murder  kin  : 
'Tis  the  vintage  time  for  death  and  sin ; 
Blood,  like  new  wine,  bubbles  within  ; 
Till  Despair  smothers 
The  struggling  world,  which  slaves  and 
tyrants  win. 
[All  the  Furies  vanish,  except  one. 
lone.     Hark,  sister !    what   a  low  yet 
dreadful  groan. 
Quite   unsuppressed   is   tearing   up   the 
heart 


Of  the   good  Titan,  as  storms  tear  the 

deep, 
And  beasts  hear  the  sea  moan  in  inland 

caves. 
Darest    thou    observe    how    the  fiends 
torture  him? 
Panthea.     Alas !  I  looked  forth  twice, 

but  will  no  more. 
lone.    What  didst  thou  see  ? 
Panthea.  A  wof ul  sight :  a  youth 

With  patient  looks  nailed  to  a  crucifix. 
lone.    What  next  ? 
Panthea.  The  heaven  around,  the 

earth  below 
Was  peopled  with  thick  shapes  of  human 

death, 
All  horrible,   and   wrought   by   human 

hands, 
And  some  appeared  the  work  of  human 

hearts, 
For  men  were  slowly  killed  by  frowns 

and  smiles : 
And  other  sights  too  foul  to  speak  and 

live 
Were  wandering  by.     Let  us  not  tempt 

worse  fear 
By  looking  forth  :  those  groans  are  grief 
enough. 
Fury.        Behold    an    emblem :    those 
who  do  endure 
Deep   wrongs  for   man,  and  scorn,  and 

chains,  but  heap 
Thousandfold    torment    on    themselves 
and  him. 
Prometheus.        Remit  the  anguish  of 
that  lighted  stare ; 
Close   those   wan   lips;   let   that  thorn- 
wounded  brow 
Stream  not  with  blood  ;  it  mingles  with 

thy  tears  ! 
Fix,  fix  those  tortured  orbs  in  peace  and 

death, 
So  thy  sick  throes  shake  not  that  cruci- 
fix, 
So  those  pale  fingers  play  not  with  thy 

gore. 
O,  horrible  !  Thy  name  I  will  not  speak, 
It  hath  become  a  curse.     I  see,  I  see 
The  wise,  the  mild,  the  lofty,  and  the 

just, 
Whom  thy  slaves  hate  for  being  like  to 

thee, 
Some  hunted  by  foul  lies  from  then- 
heart's  home, 
An  early-chosen,  late-lamented  home  ; 
As  hooded  ounces  cling  to  the  driven 

hind ; 
Some  linked  to  corpses  in  unwholesome 
cells : 


SHELLEY 


3°9 


Some — Hear  I  not  the  multitude  laugh 

loud  ?— 
Impaled  in  lingering  fire  :   and  mighty 

realms 
Float  by  my  feet,  like  sea-uprooted  isles, 
Whose  sons  are  kneaded  down  in  com- 
mon blood 
By  the  red  light  of  their  own  burning 

homes. 
Fury.     Blood  thou  canst  see,  and  fire ; 

and  canst  hear  groans  ; 
Worse  things,  unheard,  unseen,  remain 

behind. 
Prometheus.     Worse  ? 
Fury.  In  each  human  heart 

terror  survives 
The  ruin  it  has  gorged  :  the  loftiest  fear 
All   that   they   would  disdain   to   think 

were  true  : 
Hypocrisy  and  custom  make  their  minds 
The  fanes  of  many  a  worship,  now  out- 
worn. 
They  dare   not  devise  good   for  man's 

estate, 
And  yet  they  know  not  that  they  do  not 

dare. 
The   good    want    power,   but    to    weep 

barren  tears. 
The  powerful    goodness    want :    worse 

need  for  them. 
The   wise   want    love  ;  and    those   who 

love  want  wisdom  ; 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to 

ill. 
Many   are  strong  and  rich,  and  would 

be  just, 
But  live  among  their  suffering  fellow- 
men 
As  if  none  felt :  they  know   not  what 

they  do. 
Prometheus.     Thy  words  are    like    a 

cloud  of  winged  snakes  ; 
And  yet  I  pity  those  they  torture  not. 
Fury.      Thou   pitiest   them?  I    speak 

no  more  !  [Vanishes. 

Prometheus.  Ah  woe  ! 

Ah    woe  1   Alas!    pain,  pain    ever,    for 

ever ! 
I  close  my  tearless  eyes,  but  see  more 

clear 
Thy  works  within  my  woe-illumed  mind, 
Thou  subtle  tyrant !     Peace  is  in  the 

grave. 
The  grave  hides  all  things  beautiful  and 

good  : 
I  am  a  God  and  cannot  find  it  there, 
Nor  would  I  seek  it :  for,  though  dread 

revonu;*'. 
This  is  defeat,  fierce  king,  not  victory. 


The  sights  with   which   thou   torturest 

gird  my  soul 
With  new  endurance,  till  the  hour  arrives 
When  they  shall  be  no  types  of  things 

which  are. 
Panthea.     Alas !   what  sawest  thou  ? 
Prometheus.     There  are  two  woes  : 
To  speak,   and  to   behold ;   thou  spare 

me  one. 
Names  are  there,  Nature's  sacred  watch- 
words, they 
Were  borne  aloft  in  bright  emblazonry  ; 
The  nations  thronged  around,  and  cried 

aloud, 
As  with  one  voice,  Truth,  liberty,  and 

love  ! 
Suddenly     fierce    confusion   fell    from 

heaven 
Among  them  :  there  was  strife,  deceit, 

and  fear : 
Tyrants  rushed  in,  and   did  divide   the 

spoil. 
This  was  the  shadow  of  the  truth  I  saw. 
The  Earth.  I  felt  thy  torture,  son, 

with  such  mixed  joy 
As  pain  and  virtue  give.     To  cheer  thy 

state 
I  bid  ascend  those  subtle  and  fair  spirits, 
Whose  homes  are  the  dim  caves  of  human 

thought, 
And  who  inhabit,  as  birds  wing  the  wind, 
Its  world-surrounding  ether  :    they  be- 
hold 
Beyond  that  twilight  realm,  as  in  a  glass, 
The  future :  may    they    speak  comfort 

to  thee  ! 
Panthea.     Look,  sister,  where  a  troop 

of  spirits  gather, 
Like  flocks  of  clouds  in  spring's  delight- 
ful weather, 
Thronging  in  the  blue  air  ! 

Tone.  And  see  !  more  come, 

Like   fountain-vapors  when  the  winds 

are  dumb, 
That  climb  up  the  ravine  in  scattered 

lines. 
And,  hark  !  is  it  the  music  of  the  pines  ? 
Is  it  the  lake  ?     Is  it  the  waterfall  ? 
Panthea.       'Tis    something     sadder 

sweeter  far  than  all. 

Chorus  of  Spirits 

From  unremembered  ages  we 
Gentle  guides  and  guardians  be 
Of  heaven-oppressed  mortality  ; 
And  we  breathe,  and  sicken  not, 
The  atmosphere  of  human  thought . 
Be  it  dim,  and  dank,  and  gray, 
Like  a  storm-extinguished  day, 


3io 


BRITISH   POETS 


Travelled  o*er  by  dying  gleams; 

Be  it  bright  as  all  between 
Cloudless  skies  and  windless  streams, 

Silent,  liquid,  and  serene  ; 
As  tbe  birds  within  the  wind, 

As  the  fish  within  the  wave, 
As  the  thoughts  of  man's  own  mind 

Float  thro'  all  above  the  grave  ; 
We  make  there  our  liquid  lair, 
Voyaging  cloudlike  and  unpent 
Thro'  the  boundless  element : 
Thence  we  bear  the  prophecy 
"Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee  ! 

lone.     More  yet  come,  one  by  one 
the  air  around  them 
Looks  radiant  as  the  air  around  a  star. 

First  Spirit 

On  a  battle-trumpet's  blast 
I  fled  hither,  fast,  fast,  fast, 
'Mid  the  darkness  upward  cast. 
From  the  dust  of  creeds  outworn, 
From  the  tyrant's  banner  torn, 
Gathering  'round  me,  onward  borne, 
There  was  mingled  many  a  cry — 
Freedom  !  Hope  !  Death  !  Victory  ! 
Till  they  faded  thro'  the  sky  ; 
And  one  sound,  above,  around, 
One  sound  beneath,  around,  above, 
Was  moving  ;  'twas  the  soul  of  love ; 
Twas  the  hope,  the  prophecy, 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

Second  Spirit 

A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea, 
Which  rocked  beneath,  immovably  ; 
And  the  triumphant  storm  did  flee, 
Like  a  conqueror,  swift  and  proud, 
Between,  with  many  a  captive  cloud, 
A  shapeless,  dark  and  rapid  crowd, 
Each  by  lightning  riven  in  half  : 
I  heard  the  thunder  hoarsely  laugh  : 
Mighty  fleets  were  strewn  like  chaff 
And  spread  beneath  a  hell  of  death 
O'er  the  white  waters.     I  alit 
On  a  great  ship  lightning-split, 
And  speeded  hither  on  the  sigh 
Of  one  who  gave  an  enemy 
His  plank,  then  plunged  aside  to  die. 

Tidrd  Spirit 

I  sate  beside  a  sage's  bed, 
And  the  lamp  was  burning  red 
Near  the  book  where  he  had  fed, 
When  a  Dream  with  plumes  of  flame, 
To  his  pillow  hovering  came, 
And  I  knew  it  was  the  same 


Which  had  kindled  long  ago 
Pity,  eloquence,  and  woe  ; 
And  the  world  awhile  below 
Woi-e  the  shade  its  lustre  made. 
It  has  borne  me  here  as  fleet 
As  Desire's  lightning  feet ; 
I  must  ride  it  back  ere  morrow, 
Or  the  sage  will  wake  in  sorrow. 

Fourth  Spirit 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept  ; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses. 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that   haunt  thought's  wilder 

nesses. 
He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 
The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 
The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 
Nor  heed  nor  see,  what  things  they  be  ; 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 
Nurslings  of  immortality  ! 
One  of  these  awakened  me, 
And  I  sped  to  succor  thee. 

lone 

Behold'st  thou  not  two  shapes  from  the 

east  and  west 
Come,  as  two  doves  to  one  beloved  nest, 
Twin  nurslings  of  the  all-sustaining  air 
On  swift    still   wings  glide  down    the 

atmosphere  ? 
And,  hark  1  their  sweet,  sad  voices!    'tis 

despair 
Mingled  with  love  and  then  dissolved 

in  sound. 
Panthea.     Canst  thou  speak,  sister?  all 

my  words  are  drowned. 
lone.    Their  beauty  gives  me   voice. 

See  how  they  float 
On  their  sustaining  wings  of  skiey  grain, 
Orange  and  azure  deepening  into  gold  : 
Their  soft  smiles  light  the  air  like  a 

star's  fire. 

Chorus  of  Spirits 
Hast  thou  beheld  the  form  of  love  ? 

Fifth  Spirit 

As  over  wide  dominions 
I  sped,  like  some  swift  cloud  that  wings 

the  wide  air's  wildernesses, 
That  planet-crested  shape  swept  by  on 

lightning-braided  pinions, 
Scattering  the  liquid  joy  of  life  from  his 

ambrosial  tresses  : 


SHELLEY 


311 


His  footsteps  paved  the  world  with  light ; 

but  as  I  past  '  twas  fading, 
And  hollow  Ruin  yawned  behind :  great 

sages  bound  in  madness, 
And  headless  patriots,  and  pale  youths 

who  perished,   unupbraiding, 
Gleamed  in  the  night.     I  wandered  o'er, 

till  thou,  O  Kiug  of  sadness, 
Turned  by  thy  smile  the  worst  I  saw  to 
recollected  gladness. 

Sixth  Spirit 

Ah,  sister  !  Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing  : 
It  walks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floats  not  on 

the  air, 
But  treads   with    killing   footstep,   and 

fans  with  silent  wing 
The  tender  hopes  which  in   their  hearts 

the  best  and  gentlest  bear  ; 
Who,    soothed   to    false   repose  by   the 

fanning  plumes  above 
And  the   music-stirring   motion   of    its 

soft  and  busy  feet, 
Dream  visions  of  aerial  joy,  and  call  the 

monster,  Love, 
And  wake,  and  find   the  shadow  Pain, 

as  he  whom  now  we  greet. 

Chorus 

Tho'  Ruin  now  Love's  shadow  be, 
Following  him.  destroyingly, 

On  Death's  white  and  winged  steed 
Which  the  fleetest  cannot  flee. 

Trampling  down  both  flower  and  weed, 
Man  and  beast,  and  foul  and  fair, 
Like  a  tempest  thro'  the  air  ; 
Thou  shalt  quell  this  horseman  grim, 
Woundless  though  in  heart  or  limb. 

Prometheus.     Spirits  I    how   know  ye 
this  shall  be  ? 

Chorus 

In  the  atmosphere  we  breathe, 
As  buds  grow  red  when  the  snow-storms 
flee, 

From  spring  gathering  up  beneath, 
Whose  mild  winds  shake  the  elder  brake, 
And  the  wandering  herdsmen  know 
That  the  white-thorn  soon  will  blow  : 
Wisdom,  Justice,  Love,  and  Peace, 
When  they  struggle  to  increase, 

Are  to  us  as  soft  winds  be 

To  shepherd  boys,  the  prophecy 

Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

lone.     Where  are  the  Spirits  fled? 

Panthea.  Only  a  sense 

Remains  of  them,  like  the  omnipotence 
Of  music,  when  the  inspired   voice  and 
lute 


Languish,  ere  yet  the  responses  are  mute, 
Which  thro'  the  deep  and  labyrinthine 

soul, 
Like  echoes    thro'  long  caverns,   wind 

and  roll. 
Prometheus.     How  fair  these  airborn 

shapes  !  and  yet  I  feel 
Most  vain  all  hope  but  love  ;    and  thou 

art  far, 
Asia  !  who,  when  my  being  overflowed, 
Wert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 
Which   else   had  sunk  into  the  thirsty 

dust. 
All  things  are  still  :  alas !  how  heavily 
This    quiet   morning   weighs   upon   my 

heart ; 
Tho'  I  should  dream  I  could  even  sleep 

with  grief 
If  slumber  were  denied  not.    I  would  fain 
Be  what  it  is  my  destiny  to  be, 
The  savior  and  the  strength   of  suffer- 
ing man, 
Or  sink  into  the  original  gulf  of  things  : 
There  is  no  agony,  and  no  solace  left ; 
Earth  can  console,  Heaven  can   torment 

no  more. 
Panthea.     Hast     thou    forgotten    one 

who  watches  thee 
The  cold  dark   night,   and  never  sleeps 

but  when 
The  shadow  of  thy  spirit  falls  on  her  ? 
Prometheus.     I  said  all  hope  was  vain 

but  love  :  thou  lovest. 
Panthea.     Deeply   in   truth  ;   but  the 

eastern  star  looks  white, 
And  Asia  waits  in  that  far  Indian  vale 
The  scene  of  her  sad  exile  ;  rugged  once 
And  desolate  and  frozen,  like  this  ravine  ; 
But  now  invested  with  fair  flowers  and 

herbs, 
And  haunted  by  sweet  airs  and  sounds, 

which  flow 
Among  the  woods  and  waters,  from   the 

ether 
Of    her  transforming    presence,    which 

would  fade 
If    it    were    mingled    not    with    thine. 

Farewell ! 

ACT  II 

SCENE  I.— Morning.  A  lovely  Vale 
in  the  Indian  Caucasus.  Asia 
alone. 

Asia.     From  all  the  blasts  of  heaven 
thou  hast  descended  : 
Yes,  like  ;i  spirit,  like  a   thought,  which 
makes 


312 


BRITISH    POETS 


Unwonted  tears     throng   to   the   horny 

eyes, 
And  beatings  haunt  the  desolated  heart, 
Which  should  have  learnt   repose  :  thou 

hast  descended 
Cradled  in  tempests  ;  thou  dost  wake,  O 

Spring ! 
O  child  of  many  winds  !    As  suddenly 
Thou  comest  as  the  memory  of  a  dream, 
Which  now  is  sad  because  it  hath   been 

sweet ; 
Like  genius,  or  like  joy  which  risetli  up 
As  from  the  earth,  clothing  with  golden 

clouds 
The  desert  of  our  life. 
This  is  the  season,  this  the  day,  the  hour ; 
At  sunrise   thou  shouldst  come,  sweet 

sister  mine. 
Too    long    desired,  too    long    delaying, 

come  ! 
How    like     death-worms    the    wingless 

moments  crawl ! 
The  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering 

still 
Deep  in   the   orange   light   of  widening 

morn 
Beyond  the  purple    mountains  :  thro' a 

chasm 
Of  wind-divided  mist  the  darker  lake 
Reflects    it  :  now   it   wanes  :  it    gleams 

again 
As  the  waves  fade,  and  as  the  burning 

threads 
Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air  : 
'Tis  lost !  and  thro'  yon  peaks  of  cloud- 
like snow 
The  roseate  sunlight  quivers  :  hear  I  not 
The    iEolian    music    of    her    sea-green 

plumes 
Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn  ? 

[Panthea  enters. 

I  feel,  I  see 

Those  eyes  which  burn  thro'  smiles  that 

fade  in  tears, 
Like  stars  half  quenched  in  mists  of  silver 

dew. 
Beloved  and  most  beautiful,  who  wearest 
The  shadow  of  that  soul  by  which  I  live, 
How  late  thou  art !  the  sphered  sun  had 

climbed 
The  sea  :  my  heart  was  sick  with   hope, 

before 
The  printless  air  felt  thy  belated  plumes. 
Panthea.     Pardon,   great    Sister !  but 

my  wings  were  faint 
With    the     delight    of    a    remembered 

dream, 
As  are  the  noontide  plumes  of  summer 

winds 


Satiate  with  sweet  flowers.     I  was  wont 

to  sleep 
Peacefully,    and  awake   refreshed   and 

calm 
Before  the  sacred  Titan's  fall,  and  thy 
Unhappy  love,  had  made,  thro'  use  and 

pity, 

Both  love  and  woe  familiar  to  my  heart 
As  they  had  grown  to  thine  :  erewhile  I 

slept 
Under  the  glaucous  caverns  of  old  Ocean 
Within  dim  bowers  of  green  and  purple 

moss, 
Our  young  Ione's  soft  and  milky  arms 
Locked  then,  as  now,  behind  my  dark, 

moist  hair, 
While   my   shut   eyes   and   cheek   were 

pressed  within 
The  folded  depth  of  her  life-breathing 

bosom  : 
But  not  as  now,  since  I  am  made  the 

wind 
Which   fails  beneath  the  music  that  I 

bear 
Of  thy   most  wordless  converse  ;  since 

dissolved 
Into  the  sense  with  which  love  talks,  my 

rest 
Was  troubled  andyet sweet;  my  waking 

hours 
Too  full  of  care  and' pain. 

Asia.  Lift  up  thine  eyes, 

And  let  me  read  thy  dream. 

Panthea.  As  I  have  said 

With  our  sea-sister  at  his  feet  I  slept. 
The  mountain  mists,  condensing  at  our 

voice 
Under  the  moon,  had  spread  their  snowy 

flakes, 
From  the  keen  ice  shielding  our  linked 

sleep. 
Then  two  dreams  came.     One,  I  remem- 
ber not. 
But  in  the  other  his  pale  wound-worn 

limbs 
Fell  from   Prometheus,   and   the  azure 

night 
Grew  radiant  with  the  glory  of  that  form 
Which  lives  unchanged  within   and  his 

voice  fell 
Like  music  which  makes  giddy  the  dim 

brain, 
Faint  with  intoxication  of  keen  joy  : 
"  Sister  of  her  whose  footsteps  pave  the 

world 
With  loveliness — more  fair  than  aught 

but  her, 
Whose  shadow  thou  art — lift  thine  eyes 

on  me." 


SHELLEY 


31; 


I  lifted  them  :  the  overpowering  light 
Of  that  immortal  shape  was  shadowed 

o'er 
By  love  ;  which,  from  his  soft  and  flow- 
ing limbs, 
And  passion-parted  lips,  and  keen,  faint 

eyes, 
Steamed   forth   like    vaporous    fire ;  an 

atmosphere 
Which    wrapt   me  in  its  all-dissolving 

power, 
As  the  warm  ether  of  the  morning  sun 
Wraps  ere  it  drinks  some  cloud  of  wan- 
dering dew. 
I  saw  not,  heard  not,  moved  not,  only  felt 
His  presence  flow  and  mingle  thro'  my 

blood 
Till  it  became   his  life,   and  his  grew 

mine, 
A.nd  I  was  thus  absorbed,  until  it  passed, 
And  like  the  vapors  when  the  sun  sinks 

down. 
Gathering     again    in    drops    upon    the 

pines, 
And    tremulous    as  they,   in  the  deep 

night 
My  being  was   condensed  ;  and   as   the 

rays 
Of  thought  were  slowly  gathered,  I  could 

hear 
His  voice,  whose  accents  lingered   ere 

they  died 
Like    footsteps    of    weak    melody :  thy 

name 
Among  the  many  sounds  alone  I  heard 
Of  what  might  be  articulate  ;  tho'  still 
I  listened  thro'  the  night  when  sound 

was  none, 
lone  wakened  then,  and  said  to  me : 
"Canst  thou  divine  what   troubles  me 

to-night  ? 
I  always  knew  what  I  desired  before, 
Nor  ever  found  delight  to  wish  in  vain. 
Hut  now  I  cannot  tell  thee  what  I  seek  : 
I  know  not ;    something  sweet,  since  it 

is  sweet 
Even  to   desire ;    it  is  thy  sport,  false 

sister ; 
Thou  hast  discovered  some  enchantment 

old, 
Whose  spells  have  stolen  my  spirit  as  I 

slept 
And   mingled  it  with  thine :    for  when 

just  now 
We  kissed,  I    felt  within  thy  parted  lips 
The   sweet   air  that  sustained  me,  and 

the  warmth 
Of   the   life-blood,   for   loss   of  which  I 
faint, 


Quivered      between    our    intertwining 

arms." 
I  answered  not,  for  the  Eastern   star 

grew  pale, 
But  fled  to  thee. 

Asia.  Thou  speakest,  but  thy  words 
Are  as  the  air  :  I  feel  them  not :  Oh,  lift 
Thine  eyes,  that  I  may  read  his  written 

soul  t 
Panthea.     I  lift  them  tho'  they  droop 

beneath  the  load 
Of  that  they  would  express  :  what  canst 

thou  see 
But   thine   own  fairest  shadow  imaged 

there  ? 
Asia.     Thine  eyes  are  like  the  deep, 

blue,  boundless  heaven 
Contracted  to  two  circles  underneath 
Their  long,  fine  lashes  ;  dark,  far,  mea- 
sureless, 
Orb  within   orb,  and  line  thro'  line  in- 
woven. 
Panthea.     Why  lookest  thou  as  if  a 

spirit  past  ? 
Asia.       There   is  a   change  :    beyond 

their  inmost  depth 
I  see  a  shade,  a  shape  :    'tis  He,  arrayed 
In  the  soft  light  of  his  own  smiles, which 

spread 
Like  radiance  from  the  cloud-surrounded 

moon. 
Prometheus,  it  is  thine!  depart  not  yet  t 
Say  not  those  smiles  that  we  shall  meet 

again 
Within  that  bright  pavilion  which  their 

beams 
Shall  build  on  the  waste   world?    The 

dream  is  told. 
What  shape  is  that  between  us?    Its 

rude  haii- 
Roughens  the  wind    that    lifts    it,    its 

regard 
Ts  wild  and  quick,  yet  'tis  a  thing  of  air, 
For  thro'  its  gray  robe  gleams  the  golden 

dew 
Whose  stars  the  noon  has  quenched  not 
Dream.  Follow  !     Follow  ! 

Panthea.     It  is  mine  other  dream. 
Asia.  It  disappears. 

Panthea.      It    passes    now    into    my 

mind.     Methought 
As  we   sate   here,  the  flower-infolding 

buds 
Burst  on  yon  lightning-blasted  almond- 
tree, 
When   swift   from   the  white   Scythian 

wilderness 
!   A  wind  swept  forth  wrinkling  the  Earth 
with  frost : 


3*4 


BRITISH    POETS 


I    looked,   and    all    the   blossoms   were 

blown  down  ; 
But  on  each  leaf  was  stamped,  as  the 

blue  bells 
Of  Hyacinth  tell  Apollo's  written  grief, 
O,  FOLLOW,  FOLLOW  I 

Asia.  As  you  speak,  your  words 

Fill,  pause  by  pavise,  my  own  forgotten 

sleep 
With    shapes.     Methought    among    the 

lawns  together 
We  wandered,    underneath  the    young 

gray  dawn, 
And  multitudes  of   dense  white  fleecy 

clouds 
Were  wandering   in  thick  flocks   along 

the  mountains 
Shepherded     by    the     slow,    unwilling 

wind  ; 
And  the  white  dew  on  the  new  bladed 

grass, 
Just     piercing   the     dark   earth,    hung 

silently : 
And  there  was  more  which  I  remember 

not: 
But   on  the    shadows  of    the    morning 

clouds, 
Athwart  the  purple  mountain  slope,  was 

written 
Follow,  O,  follow  !  as  they  vanished 

by, 

And  on  each  herb,  from  which  Heaven's 
dew  had  fallen, 

The  like  was  stamped,  as  with  a  wither- 
ing fire, 

A  wind  arose  among  the  pines  ;  it  shook 

The  clinging  music  from  their  boughs, 
and  then 

Low,  sweet,  faint  sounds,  like  the  fare- 
well of  ghosts, 

Were  heard :  O,  follow,  follow, 
follow  me  ! 

And  then  I  said  :  "  Panthea,  look  on  me." 

But  in  the  depth  of  those  beloved  eyes 

Still  I  saw,  FOLLOW,  FOLLOW  1 

Echo.  Follow,  follow  ! 

Panthea.    The  crags,  this  clear  spring 
morning,  mock  our  voices 
As  they  were  spirit-tongued. 

Asia.  It  is  some  being 

Around  the  crags.  What  fine  clear 
sounds  1    O,  list ! 

Echoes  (unseen) 

Echoes  we  :  listen  1 
We  cannot  stay  : 
As  dew-stars  glisten 
Then  fade  away — 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 


Asia.      Hark  1      Spirits    speak.     The 
liquid  responses 
Of  their  aerial  tongues  yet  sound. 
Panthea.  I  hear. 

Echoes 

O,  follow7,  follow, 

As  our  voice  recedeth 
Thro'  the  caverns  hollow, 

Where  the  forest  spreadeth  ; 

(More  distant) 

O,  follow,  follow  J 
Thro'  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew, 
Thro'  the  noontide  darkness  deep, 
By  the  odor-breathing  sleep 
Of  faint  night-flowers,  and  the  waves 
At  the  fountain-lighted  caves, 
While  our  music,  wild  and  sweet, 
Mocks  thy  gently  falling  feet, 
Child  of  Ocean ! 
Asia.     Shall  we  pursue  the  sound  ?   It 
grows  more  faint 
And  distant. 

Panthea.  List  I  the  strain  floats 

nearer  now. 

Echoes 

In  the  world  unknown 

Sleeps  a  voice  unspoken  ; 
By  thy  step  alone 

Can  its  rest  be  broken  ; 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 
Asia.     How  the  notes  sink  upon  the 
ebbing  wind  ! 

Echoes 

O,  follow,  follow  I 
Thro'  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
By  the  woodland  noontide  dew  ; 
By  the  forests,  lakes,  and  fountains 
Thro'  the  many-folded  mountains  ; 
To   the   rents,   and  gulfs,  and  chasms, 
Where  the  Earth  reposed  from  spasms, 
On  the  day  when  He  and  thou 
Parted,  to  commingle  now  ; 
Child  of  Ocean ! 
Asia.    Come,  sweet  Panthea,  link  thy 
hand  in  mine, 
And  follow,  ere  the  voices  fade  away. 

SCENE  II.— A  Forest,  intermingled 
with  Rocks  and  Caverns. 

Asia  and  Panthea  pass  into  it.  Two 
young  Fauns  are  sitting  on  a  Rock 
listening. 


SHELLEY 


3*5 


Semiehorus  I  of  Spirits 

The  path  thro'  which  that  lovely  twain 
Have  past,  by  cedar,  pine,  and  yew, 
And  each  dark  tree  that  ever  grew, 
Is  curtained  out  from  Heaven's  wide 
blue  ; 
Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  wind,  nor  rain, 
Can  pierce  its  interwoven  bowers, 
Nor  aught,  save  where  some  cloud  of 
dew, 
Drifted  along  the  earth-creeping  breeze, 
Between  the  trunks  of  the  hoar  trees, 
Hangs  each  a     pearl   in    the    pale 
flowers 
Of  the  green  laurel,  blown  anew  ; 
And  bends,  and  then  fades  silently, 
One  frail  and  fair  anemone  : 
Or  when  some  star  of  many  a  one 
That    climbs    and    wandex's  thro'   steep 

night, 
Has  found  the  cleft  thro'  which  alone 
Beams  fall  from  high  those  depths  upon 
Ere  it  is  borne  away,  away, 
By  the  swift  Heavens  that  cannot  stay, 
It  scatters  drops  of  golden  light, 
Like  lines  of  x-ain  that  ne'er  unite  : 
And  the  gloom  divine  is  all  around. 
And  underneath  is  the  mossy  ground. 

Semiehorus  II 

There  the  voluptuous  nightingales, 
Are  awake  thro'  all  tlxe  broad  noon- 
day. 
When  one  with  bliss  or  sadness  fails, 
And  thro'  the  windless  ivy-boughs, 
Sick  with    sweet  love,   droops  dying 
away 
On  its  mate's  music-panting  bosom  ; 
Another  from  the  swinging  blossom, 
Watching  to  catch  the  languid  close 
Of  the  last   strain,  then    lifts  on  high 
The  wings  of  the  weak  melody, 
Till  some  new  strain  of  feeling  bear 

The  song,  and  all  the  woods  are  mute  ; 
When  there  is  heard  thro'  the  dim  air 
The  rush  of  wings,  and  rising  there 

Like  many  a  lake-surrounded  flute, 
Sounds  overflow  the  listener's  brain 
So  sweet,  that  joy  is  almost  pain. 

Semiehorus  I 

There  those  enchanted  eddies  play 
Of     echoes,     music-tongued,      which 

draw, 
By  Denxogorgon's  mighty  law, 
With  melting  rapture,  or  sweet  awe, 

All  spirits  on  that   secret  way  ; 

As  inland  boats  ax-e  driven  to  Ocean 


Down  streams  made  strong  with  moun- 
tain-thaw : 
And  first  there  comes  a  gentle  souxxd 
To  those  in  talk  or  slumber  bound 
And  wakes  the  destined.  Soft  emotion 
Attracts,  impels  them  :  those  who   saw 
Say  from  the  breathing  earth  behind 
There  steams  a  plume-uplifting  wind 
Which  drives  them  on  their  path,  while 

they 
Believe  their  own  swift  wings  and  feet 
The  sweet  desires  within  obey  : 
And  so  they  float  upon  their  way, 
Until,  still  sweet,  but  loud  and  strong, 
The  storm  of  sound  is  driven  along, 
Sucked    up    and   hurrying :    as    they 

fleet 
Behind,  its  gathering  billows  meet 
And  to  the  fatal  mountain  bear 
Like  clouds  amid  the  yielding  air. 
First    Faun.        Canst    thou  imagine 

where  those  spirits  live 
Which  xxiake  such  delicate  music  in  the 

woods  ? 
We  haunt  within  the  least  frequented 

caves 
And  closest  coverts,  and  we  know  these 

wilds, 
Yet  never  meet  them,  tho'  we  hear  them 

oft: 
Where  may  they  hide  themselves  ? 

Second  Faun.  Tis  hard  to  tell : 

I   have  heard   those     more    skilled    in 

spirits  say, 
The  bubbles,  which  the  enchantment  of 

the  sun 
Sucks  from  the  pale  faint  water-flowers 

that  pave 
The  oozy    bottom  of    clear    lakes  and 

pools, 
Are  the  pavilions  where  such  dwell  and 

float 
Under  the  green  and  golden  atmosphere 
Which  noontide  kindles  thro'  the  woven 

leaves  ; 
And  when  these  burst,  and  the  thin  fiery 

air, 
The  which  they  breathed  within   those 

lucent  domes, 
Ascends  to  flow  like  meteors  thro'   the 

night, 
They  ride  on  them,  and  rein  their  head- 
long speed, 
And  bow  their  burning  crests,  and  glide 

in  fire 
Under  the  waters  of  the  earth  again. 
First  Faun.     If  such  live  thus,   have 

others  other  lives, 
Under  pink  blossoms  or  within  the  bells 


3*6 


BRITISH    POETS 


Of  meadow  flowers,   or  folded   violets 
deep, 

Or    on  their   dying   odors,    when   they 
die, 

Or  in  the  sunlight  of  the  sphered  dew  ? 
Second  Faun.     Ay,  many  more  which 
we  may  well  divine. 

But,  should  we  stay  to  speak,  noontide 
would  come. 

And  thwart  Silenus  find  his  goats  un- 
drawn, 

And  grudge  to  sing  those  wise  and  lovely 
songs 

Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  God,  and  Chaos 
old, 

And  Love,  and  the  chained  Titan's  woe- 
ful doom, 

And  how  he  shall  be  loosed,  and  make 
the  earth 

One     brotherhood  :     delightful    strains 
which  cheer 

Our  solitary  twilights,  and  which  charm 

To  silence  the  unenvying  nightingales. 

SCENE  III.— A  Pinnacle  of  Rock 
among  Mountains.  Asia  and  Pan- 
thea. 

Panthea.     Hither  the  sound  has  borne 

us — to  the  realm 
Of  Demogorgon,  and  the  mighty  portal, 
Like  a  volcano's  meteor-breathing  chasm , 
Whence  the  oracular  vapor  is  hurled  up 
Which  lonely  men  drink    wandering   in 

their  youth, 
And  call  truth,  virtue,  love,   genius,  or 

joy, 
That    maddening    wine  of  life,   whose 

dregs  they  drain 
To  deep  intoxication  ;  and  uplift, 
Like  Maenads  who  cry  loud,  Evoe  !  Evoe  ! 
The   voice   which    is   contagion   to  the 

world. 
Asia.     Fit  throne  for  such  a  power  ! 

Magnificent ! 
How  glorious  art  thou,  Earth  !     And   if 

thou  be 
The  shadow  of  some  spirit  lovelier  still, 
Though  evil  stain  its  work,  and  it  should 

be 
Like  its  creation,  weak  yet  beautiful, 
I  could  fall  down  and  worship  that  and 

thee. 
Even  now  my  heart  adoreth  :  Wonder- 
ful ! 
Look,   sister,   ere    the    vapor    dim    thy 

brain  : 
Beneath  is  a  wide  plain  of  billowy  mist, 
As  a  lake,  paving  in  the  morning  sky, 


With  azure  waves  which  burst  in  silver 

light, 
Some  Indian  vale.     Behold  it,  rolling  on 
Under  the  curdling  winds,  and  islanding 
The  peak  whereon   we   stand,    midway, 

around, 
Encinctured  by  the  dark  and  blooming 

forests, 
Dim    twilight-lawns,    and    stream-illu- 
mined caves, 
And  wind-enchanted  shapes  of  wander- 
ing mist  ; 
And  far  on  high  the   keen   sky-cleaving 

mountains 
From  icy  spires  of  sun-like  radiance  fling 
The    dawn,   as  lifted  Ocean's  dazzling 

spray, 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  scattered  up, 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamp-like  water- 
drops. 
The  vale  is  girdled  with  their   walls,   a 

howl 
Of  cataracts    from    their  thaw-cloven 

ravines, 
Satiates  the  listening  wind,   continuous, 

vast, 
Awful  as  silence.      Hark  !    the  rushing 

snow  ! 
The  sun-awakened    avalanche  !    whose 

mass, 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gathered 

there 
Flake  after    flake,    in    heaven-defying 

minds 
As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some 

great  truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round, 
Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  do  the  mountains 

now. 
Panthea.     Look  how  the  gusty  sea  of 

mist  is  breaking 
In  crimson  foam,  even  at  our  feet !     it 

rises 
As  Ocean  at  the  enchantment  of  the 

moon 
Round  foodless  men  wrecked  on  some 

oozy  isle. 
Asia.    The  fragments  of  the  cloud  are 

scattered  up  ; 
The  wind   that   lifts  them  disentwines 

my  hair  ; 
Its  billows  now  sweep  o'er  mine  eyes  ; 

my  brain 
Grows  dizzy  ;    I  see  thin   shapes  within 

the  mist. 
Panthea.  A  countenance  with  beckon- 
ing smiles :  there  burns 
An  azure  fire  within  its  golden  locks  ! 
Another  and  another  :  hark  !  they  speak  ! 


SHELLEY 


3i7 


Song  of  Sjiirits 

To  the  deep,  to  the  deep, 

Down,  down  t 
Through  the  shade  of  sleep, 
Through  the  cloudy  strife 
Of  Death  and  of  Life  ; 
Through  the  veil  and  the  bar 
Of  things  winch  seem  and  are 
Even  to  the  steps  of  the  remotest  throne, 

Down,  down  ! 

"While  the  sound  whirls  around, 

Down,  down  ! 
As  the  fawn  draws  the  hound, 
As  the  lightning  the  vapor, 
As  the  weak  moth  the  taper  ; 
Death,  despair  ;  love,  sorrow  ; 
Time  both  ;  to-day,  to-morrow  ; 
As  steel  obeys  the  spirit  of  the  stone, 

Down,  down  ! 

Through  the  gray,  void  abysm, 

Down,  down  I 
Where  the  air  is  no  prism, 
And  the  moon  and  stars  are  not, 
And  the  cavern-crags  wear  not 
The  radiance  of  Heaven, 
Nor  the  gloom  to  Earth  given. 
Where  there  is  one  pervading,  one  alone, 

Down,  down  1 

In  the  depth  of  the  deep, 

Down,  down ! 
Like  veiled  lightning  asleep, 
Like  the  spark  nursed  in  embers, 
The  last  look  Love  remembers, 
Like  a  diamond,  which  shines 
On  the  dark  wealth  of  mines, 
A  spell  is  treasured  but  for  thee  alone, 

Down,  down ! 

We  have  bound  thee,  we  guide  thee  ; 

Down,  down  ! 
With  the  bright  form  beside  thee  ; 
Resist  not  the  weakness, 
Such  strength  is  in  meekness 
That  the  Eternal,  the  Immortal, 
Must  unloose  through  life's  portal 
The  snake-like  Doom  coiled  underneath 
Ins  throne 

By  that  alone. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Cave  op 
Demogorgon.     Asia  and  Panthea. 

Panthea.     What  veiled  form  sits  on 

that  ebon  throne  ? 
Asia.     The  veil  lias  fallen. 
Panthea.  I  see  a  mighty  darkness 


Filling  the  seat  of  power,  and  rays  of 

gloom 
Dart  round,  as  light  from  the  meridian 

sun, 
Ungazed   upon   and   shapeless  ;   neither 

limb, 
Nor  form,  nor  outline  ;  yet  we  feel  it  is 
A  living  Spirit. 
Demogorgon.    Ask  what  thou  wouldst 

know. 
Asia.     What  canst  thou  tell  ? 
Demogorgon.  All  things  thou 

dar'st' demand. 
Asia.     Who  made  the  living  world? 
Demogorgon.  God. 

Asia.  Who  made  all 

That    it    contains  ?     thought,    passion, 

reason,  will, 
Imagination  ? 

Demogorgon.       God  :    Almighty  God. 
Asia.     Who  made  that  sense   which, 
when  the  winds  of  spring 
In  rarest  visitation,  or  the  voice 
Of  one  beloved  heard  in  youth  alone, 
Fills  the  faint  eyes  with  falling  tears 

which  dim 
The  radiant  looks  of  unbe wailing  flowers, 
And  leaves  this  peopled  earth  a  solitude 
When  it  returns  no  more  ? 
Demogorgon.  Merciful  God. 

Asia.    And  who  made  terror,  madness, 
crime,  remorse, 
Which  from  the  links  of  the  great  chain 

of  things, 
To  every   thought   within   the  mind  of 

man 
Sway  and  drag  heavily,  and  each  one 

reels 
Under    the    load    towards    the    pit    of 

death  ; 
Abandoned  hope,  and  love  that  turns  to 

hate  ; 
And  self-contempt,   bitterer    to    drink 

than  blood  ; 
Pain,    whose    unheeded    and    familiar 

speech 
Is  howling,  and  keen  shrieks,  day  after 

day; 
And  Hell,  or  the  sharp  fear  of  Hell? 
Demogorgon.  He  reigns. 

Asia     Utter  his  name  :  a  world  pining 
in  pain 
Asks  but  his  name :  curses  shall  drag 
him  down. 
Demogorgon.     He  reigns. 
Asia.^  I  feel,  I  know  it  :  who? 

Demogorgon.  He  reigns. 

Asia.      Who   reigns?    There    was  ths 
Heaven  and  Earth  at  first, 


3i8 


BRITISH  POETS 


And  Light  and  Love  ;  then  Saturn,  from 

whose  throne 
Time  fell,  an  envious  shadow  :  such  the 

state 
Of  the  earth's  primal  spirits  beneath  his 

sway, 
As  the  calm  joy  of  flowers  and  living 

leaves 
Before  the  wind   or  sun   has  withered 

them 
And  semivital  worms ;  but  he  refused 
The  birthright  of  their  being,  knowledge, 

power, 
The  skill  which  wields  the    elements, 

the  thought 
Which  pierces    this  dim  universe  like 

light, 
Self-empire,  and  the  majesty  of  love  ; 
For  thirst  of  which  they  fainted.     Then 

Prometheus 
Gave    wisdom,    which    is    strength,   to 

Jupiter, 
And  with  this  law  alone,  ' '  Let  man  be 

free," 
Clothed  him  with  the  dominion  of  wide 

Heaven, 
To  know  nor  faith,  nor  love,  nor  law  ;  to 

be 
Omnipotent  but  friendless,  is  to  reign  ; 
And  Jove  now  reigned  ;  for  on  the  race 

of  man 
First  famine,   and   then   toil,  and  then 

disease, 
Strife,  wounds,  and  ghastly  death  unseen 

before, 
Fell ;    and    the    unseasonable     seasons 

drove 
With  alternating  shafts  of  frost  and  fire, 
Their  shelterless,  pale  tribes  to  mountain 

caves : 
And  in  their  desert  hearts  fierce  wants 

he  sent, 
And  mad  disquietudes,  and  shadows  idle 
Of  unreal   good,    which  levied   mutual 

war, 
So  ruining  the  lair  wherein  they  raged. 
Prometheus  saw,  and  waked  the  legioned 

hopes 
Which    sleep    within    folded    Elysian 

flowers, 
Nepenthe,    Moly,    Amaranth,    fadeless 

blooms, 
That   they   might   hide   with  thin   and 

rainbow  wings 
The  shape  of  Death  ;  and  Love  he  sent 

to  bind 
The  disunited  tendrils  of  that  vine 
Which  bears  the  wine  of  life,  the  human 

heart ; 


And  he   tamed   fire    which,    like  some 

beast  of  prey, 
Most  terrible,  but  lovely,  played  beneath 
The  frown  of  man  ;  and  tortured  to  his 

will 
Iron  and  gold,  the  slaves  and  signs  of 

power, 
And  gems  and  poisons,  and  all  subtlest 

forms 
Hidden  beneath  the  mountains  and  the 

waves. 
He  gave  man  speech,  and  speech  created 

thought, 
Which  is  the  measure  of  the  universe  ; 
And  Science  struck  the  thrones  of  earth 

and  heaven, 
Which    shook,   but  fell  not ;    and  the 

harmonious  mind 
Poured  itself  forth  in  all-prophetic  song  ; 
And  music  lifted  up  the  listening  spirit 
Until  it  walked,   exempt   from  mortal 

care, 
Godlike,  o'er  the  clear  billows  of  sweet 

sound  ; 
And  human   hands  first  mimicked  and 

then  mocked, 
With  moulded  limbs  more  lovely  than 

its  own, 
The    human    form,   till    marble  grew 

divine  ; 
And  mothers,   gazing,    drank   the   love 

men  see 
Reflected    in    their    race,   behold,  and 

perish. 
He  told  the  hidden  power  of  herbs  and 

springs, 
And  Disease  drank  and  slept.     Death 

grew  like  sleep. 
He  taught  the  implicated  orbits  woven 
Of  the   wide-wandering  stars  ;  and  how 

the  sun 
Changes  his   lair,  and   by   what  secret 

spell 
The  pale  moon  is  transformed,  when  her 

broad  eye 
Gazes  not  on  the  interlunar  sea  : 
He  taught   to  rule,  as  life   directs  the 

limbs, 
The    tempest-winged    chariots    of  the 

Ocean, 
And  the  Celt  knew  the  Indian.     Cities 

then 
Were  built,  and  through  their  snow-like 

columns  flowed 
The  warm  winds,  and  the  azure  aethetf 

shone, 
And  the  blue  sea  and  shadowy  hills  wer<r 

seen. 
Such,  the  alleviations  of  his  state, 


SHELLEY 


3*9 


Prometheus  gave  to  man,  for  which  he 

hangs 
Withering   in   destined  pain  :  but  who 

rains  down 
Evil,   the    immedicable  plague,   which, 

while 
Man  looks  on  his  creation  like  a  God 
And  sees  that  it  is  glorious,  drives  him 

on 
The  wreck  of  his  own  will,  the  scorn  of 

earth , 
The  outcast,  the  abandoned,  the  alone  ? 
Not  Jove :   while   yet  his  frown  shook 

heaven,  ay  when 
His  adversary  from  adamantine  chains 
Cursed  him,  he  trembled  like  a  slave. 

Declare 
Who  is  his  master  ?    Is  he  too  a  slave  ? 
Demogorgon.     All  spirits  are  enslaved 

which  serve  things  evil  : 
Thou   knowest  if  Jupiter  be  such  or  no. 
Asia.    Whom  called'st  thou  God  ? 
Demogorgon.  I  spoke  but    as  ye 

speak, 

For  Jove  is  the  supreme  of  living  things. 

Asia.     Who  is  the  master  of  the  slave  ? 

Demogorgon.  If  the  abysm 

Could  vomit   forth  its  secrets.  .  .  But  a 

voice 
Is  wanting,  the  deep  truth  is  imageless  ; 
For  what  would  it  avail  to  bid  thee  gaze 
On  the  revolving   world  ?    What  to  bid 

speak 
Fate,    Time,    Occasion.     Chance,    and 

Change  ?     To  these 
All  things  are  subject  but  eternal  Love. 
Asia.     So  much  I  asked  before,  and 

my  heart  gave 
The  response  thou  hast  given  ;  and  of 

such  truths 
Each  to  itself  must  be  the  oracle. 
One  more  demand  ;  and  do  thou  answer 

me 
As  mine  own  soul  would   answer,  did  it 

know 
That    which  I  ask.     Prometheus  shall 

arise 
Henceforth    the   sun   of   this    rejoicing 

world  : 
When  shall  the   destined   hour   arrive  ? 
Demogorgon.  BehoM  ! 

Asia.     The    rocks     are    cloven,    and 

through  the  purple  night 
I  see   cars    drawn    by  rainbow-winged 

steeds 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds  :  in  each 

there  stands 
A  wikl-eved    charioteer    urging    their 

flight. 


Some   look    behind,  as  fiends    pursued 

them  there. 
And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen 

stars : 
Others,  with   burning  eyes,  lean  forth, 

and  drink 
With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own 

speed, 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 
And  now,   even   now,  they   clasped  it. 

Their  bright  locks 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair  :  they 

all 
Sweep  onward. 
Demogorgon.    These  are  the  immortal 

Hours, 
Of    whom    thou    didst     demand.     One 

waits  for  thee. 
Asia.     A  spirit  with  a  dreadful  coun- 
tenance 
Checks  its   dark   chariot  by  the  craggy 

gulf. 
Unlike  thy  brethren,  ghastly  charioteer, 
Who  art  thou  ?     Whither   wouldst  thou 

bear  me  ?     Speak  ! 
Spirit.     I  am  the  shadow  of  a  destiny 
More  dread  than  is  my  aspect :  ere  yon 

planet 
Has  set.    the  darkness    which  ascends 

with  me 
Shall   wrap  in    lasting   night   heaven's 

kingless  throne. 
Asia.     What  meanest  thou  ? 
Panthea.  That    terrible    shadow 

floats 
Up  from  its   throne,  as   may  the   lurid 

smoke 
Of  earthquake-ruined  cities  o'er  the  sea. 
Lo  !  it  ascends  the  car  ;  the  coursers  fly 
Terrified  :  watch   its   path    among    the 

stars 
Blackening  the  night ! 
Asia.  Thus  I  am  answered  ; 

strange  ! 
Panthea.    See,  near  the  verge,  another 

chariot  stays  ; 
An  ivory  shell  inlaid  with   crimson  fire, 
Which  comes  and  goes  within  its  sculp- 
tured rim 
Of  delicate  strange  tracery  ;  the   young 

spirit 
That  guides  it  has  the   dovedike  eyes  of 

hope  ; 
How  its  soft  smiles  attract  the  soul !  as 

light 
Lures  winged  insects  through  the  lamp- 
less  air. 

Spirit 
My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning, 


32° 


BRITISH   POETS 


They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream, 
And  when  the  red  morning  is  brightning 

They  bathe  in  the  fresh  sunbeam  ; 

They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness 
I  deem, 
Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

I  desire  ;  and  their  speed  makes  night 
kindle  ; 
I  fear  :  they  outstrip  the  Typhoon  ; 

Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 
We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon  : 
We  shall  rest  from  long  labors  at  noon  : 

Then  ascend  with  me, daughter  of  Ocean. 

SCENE  V. — The  Car  pauses  within 
a  Cloud  on  the  Top  of  a  Snowy 
Mountain.  Asia,  Panthea,  and  the 
Spirit  of  the  Hour. 

Spirit 

On   the   brink    of    the    night    and    the 
morning 
My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire  ; 
But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  warn- 
ing 
That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than 

fire  : 
They    shall  drink  the   hot   speed   of 

desire  ! 
Asia.  Thou  breathest  on  their  nostrils, 
but  my  breath 
Would  give  them  swifter  speed. 
Spirit.  Alas  !  it  could  not. 

Panthea.     Oh  Spirit  !  pause,  and  tell 
whence  is  the  light 
Which   fills  the  cloud?  the  sun  is  yet 
unrisen. 
Spirit.     The   sun   will   rise   not  until 
noon.     Apollo 
Is  held  in  heaven  by  wonder ;  and  the 

light 

Which  fills  this  vapor,  as  the  aerial  hue 

Of  fountain-gazing  roses  fills  the  water, 

Flows  from  thy  mighty  sister. 

Panthea.  Yes,  I  feel — 

Asia.    What  is  it  with  thee,  sister  ? 

Thou  art  pale. 
Panthea.     How  thou  art  changed  !  I 
dare  not  look  on  thee  ; 
I  feel  but  see  thee  not.     I  scarce  endure 
The  radiance  of  thy  beauty.     Some  good 

change 
Is  working  in  the  elements,  which  suffer 
Thy  presence  thus  unveiled.  The  Ne- 
reids tell 
That  on  the  day  when  the  clear  hyaline 
Was  cloven  at  thy  uprise,  and  thou  didst 
stand 


Within  a  veined  shell,  which  floated  on 
Over  the  calm  floor  of  the  crystal  sea, 
Among   the  iEgean   isles,  and   by  the 

shores 
Which   bear  thy  name  ;  love,  like  the 

atmosphere 
Of  the  sun's  fire  filling  the  living  world, 
Burst   from   thee,   and  illumined  earth 

and  heaven 
And  the   deep  ocean  and  the    sunless 

caves 
And  all  that  dwells  within  them  ;  till 

grief  cast 
Eclipse   upon   the  soul   from    which   it 

came  : 
Such  art  thou  now  ;  nor  is  it  I  alone, 
Thy  sister,  thy  companion,   thine   own 

chosen  one, 
But  the  whole  world  which  seeks  thy 

sympathy. 
Hearest  thou  not  sounds  i'  the  air  which 

speak  the  love 
Of  all  articulate  beings  ?    Feelest  tbou 

not 
The  inanimate  winds  enamored  of  thee  ? 

List  !     {Music.) 
Asia.     Thy   words  are  sweeter   than 

aught  else  but  his 
Whose  echoes  they  are :  yet  all  love  is 

sweet, 
Given  or  returned.     Common   as  light 

is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever. 
Like  the  wide  heaven,  the  all-sustaining 

air, 
It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  God  : 
They  who  inspire  it  most  are  fortunate, 
As  I  am  now  ;  but  those  who  feel  it  most 
Are  happier  still,  after  long  sufferings, 
As  I  shall  soon  become. 
Panthea.  List !  Spirits  speak. 

Voice  in  the  Air  Singing 

Life  of  Life  !  thy  lips  enkindle 
With  their  love  the  breath  between 
them  ; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 
Make  the  cold  air  fire ;  then  screen 
them 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 
Thro'  the  vest   which  seems  to  hide 
them  ; 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 
Thro'  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them  ; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 


SHELLEY 


321 


Fair  are  others  ;  none  beholds  thee, 
Bat  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 
From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendor, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever  I 

Lamp  of  Earth  !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  bright- 
ness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbe wailing  ! 

Asia 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat, 

Which,   like  a   sleeping    swan,   doth 
float 
Upon    the   silver   waves  of  thy   sweet 
singing  ; 
And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 
Beside  a  helm  conducting  it, 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are 
ringing. 
It  seems  to  float  ever,  for  ever, 
Upon  that  many-winding  river, 
Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 
A  paradise  of  wildernesses ! 
Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 
Borne    to    the     ocean,    I    float    down, 

around, 
Into  a  sea   profound,  of  ever-spreading 
sound : 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 
In  music's  most  serene  dominions ; 
Catching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy 
heaven. 
And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 
Without  a  course,  without  a  star, 
But,   by  the   instinct  of    sweet    music 
driven  ; 
Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 
By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots, 
Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided, 
The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided  : 
Realms  where  the  air  we    breathe    is 

love, 
Which  in  the  winds  and  on  the  waves 

doth  move, 
Harmonizing  this  earth   with  what  we 
feel  above. 

We  have  pass'd  Age's  icy  caves, 
And    Manhood's    dark    and    tossing 
waves,  . 
And  Youth's  smooth  ocean,  smiling  to 
betray  : 
21 


Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee 
Gf  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner 
day  ; 
A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers, 
Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers, 
And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 
Wildernesses  calm  and  green, 
Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see, 
And    rest,    having     beheld ;   somewhat 

like  thee : 
Which  walk  upon  the  sea,   and  chant 
melodiously ! 

ACT  III 

SCENE  I.— Heaven.  Jupiter  on 
his  Throne  ;  Thetis  and  the  other 
Deities  assembled. 

Jupiter.    Ye  congregated  powers  of 

heaven,  wTho  share 
The  glory  and  the  strength  of  him  ye 

serve, 
Rejoice  !  henceforth  I  am  omnipotent. 
All  else  had  been  subdued  to  me  ;  alone 
The  soul  of  man,  like  unextinguished  fire, 
Yet  burns  towards   heaven   with   fierce 

reproach,  and  doubt, 
And  lamentation,  and  reluctant  prayer, 
Hurling  up  insurrection,    which   might 

make 
Our    antique  empire  insecure,    though 

built 
On  eldest  faith,  and  hell's  coeval,  fear  ; 
And  tho'  my  curses  thro'  the  pendulous 

air, 
Like  snow  on  herbless  peaks,   fall   flake 

by  flake, 
And  cling  to  it ;  tho'  under  my  wrath's 

night 
It  climbs  the  crags  of  life,  step  after  step, 
Which  wound  it,  as  ice   wounds  unsan- 

dalled  feet, 
It  yet  remains  supreme  o'er  misery, 
Aspiring,  unrepressed,  yet  soon  to  fall : 
Even  now  have  I  begotten   a    strange 

wonder, 
That  fatal  child,  the  terror  of  the  earth, 
Who  waits  but  till   the    destined   hour 

arrive, 
Bearing    from     Demogorgon's     vacant 

throne 
The  dreadful  might  of  ever-living  limbs 
Which   clothed     that    awful    spirit  un- 

beheld, 
To  redescend,  and  tram  pie  out  the  spark. 

Pour  forth  heaven's  wine,  Idaean  Gany- 
mede, 


322 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  let  it  fill  the  Dasdal  cups  like  fire, 
And  from  the  flower-inwoven  soil  divine 
Ye  all-triumphant  harmonies  arise, 
As  dew  from  earth   under  the    twilight 

stars  : 
Drink  !  be  the  nectar  circling  thro'  your 

veins 
The  soul  of  joy,  ye  ever-living  Gods, 
Till  exultation  burst  in  one  wide  voice 
Like  music  from  Elysian  winds. 

And  thou 
Ascend  beside  me,  veiled  in  the  light 
Of  the  desire  which  makes  thee  one  with 

me, 
Thetis,  bright  image  of  eternity  ! 
When    thou   didst    cry,     "Insufferable 

night  ! 
God  !   Spare  me  !  I  sustain  not  the  quick 

flames. 
The  penetrating  presence  ;  all  my  being. 
Like  him  whom  the  Numidian  seps  did 

thaw 
Into  a  dew  with  poison,  ig  dissolved. 
Sinking  thro'  its  foundations :  "  even  then 
Two  mighty  spirits,  mingling,  made  a 

third 
Mightier  than  either,  which,  unbodied 

now, 
Between  us  floats,  felt,   although  unbe- 

held, 
Waiting  the  incarnation,  which  ascends, 
(Hear  ye  the  thunder  of  the  fiery  wheels 
Griding  the  winds?)  f rom  Demogorgon's 

throne. 
Victory  !  victory  !     Feel'st  thou  not,   O 

world, 
The  earthquake  of  his   chariot  thunder- 
ing up 
Olympus  ? 

[The    Car    of    the    Hour   arrives. 

Demogorgon  descends,  and  moves 

towards  the  Throne  of  Jupiter. 

Awful  shape,  what  art  thou  ? 

Speak  ! 
Demogorgon.      Eternity.     Demand  no 
direr  name. 
Descend,  and  follow  me  down  the  abyss. 
I  am  thy  child,  as    thou    wert  Saturn's 

child  ; 
Mightier  than  thee  :  and  we  must  dwell 

together 
Henceforth  in  darkness.     Lift  thy  light- 
nings not. 
The  tyranny  of  heaven  none  may  retain, 
Or  reassume,  or  hold,  succeeding  thee  : 
Yet  if  thou  wilt,  as  'tis  the  destiny 
Of  trodden  worms  to    writhe    till    they 

are  dead. 
Put  forth  thy  might. 


Jupiter.  Detested  prodigy ! 

Even   thus   beneath   the   deep  Titanian 

prisons 
I  trample  thee  !  thou  lingerest  ? 

Mercy  !  mercy  ! 
No  pity,  no  release,  no  respite  !    Oh, 
That  thou  wouldst   make  mine  enemy 

my  judge, 
Even   where   he   hangs,    seared   by  my 

long  revenge, 
On  Caucasus !   he  would  not  doom  me 

thus. 
Gentle,  and  just,   and  dreadless,   is  he 

not 
The  monarch  of  the  world  ?    What  then 

art  thou  ? 
No  refuge  !  no  appeal  ! 

Sink  with  me  then, 
We  too  will  sink  on  the  wide  waves  of 

ruin, 
Even  as  a  vulture  and  a  snake  outspent 
Drop,  twisted  in  inextricable  fight, 
Into  a  shoreless  sea.     Let  hell  unlock 
Its  mounded  oceans  of  tempestuous  fire, 
And  whelm  on  them  into  the  bottomless 

void 
This  desolated  world,  and  thee,  and  me, 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquered,  and 

the  wreck 
Of  that  for  which  they  combated. 

Ai !  Ai ! 
The  elements  obey  me  not.     I  sink 
Dizzily  down,  ever,  for  ever,  down. 
And,  like  a  cloud,  mine  enemy  above 
Darkens  my  fall  with  victory  !     Ai,  Ai  ! 

SCENE  II.— The  Mouth  of  a  great 
River  in  the  Island  Atlantis.  Ocean 
is  discovered  reclining  near  the  Shore ; 
Apollo  stands  beside  him. 

Ocean.     He  fell,  thou  sayest,  beneath 

his  conqueror's  frown  ? 
Apollo.     Aye,  when    the    strife    was 
ended  which  made  dim 
The  orb  I  rule,  and  shook  the  solid  stars, 
The  terrors  of  his  eye  illumined  heaven 
With  sanguine  light,  through  the  thick 

ragged  skirts 
Of  the  victorious  darkness,  as  he  fell : 
Like  the  last  glare  of  day's  red  agony, 
Which,    from   a   rent   among   the   fiery 

clouds. 
Burns  far  along  the  tempest-wrinkled 
deep. 
Ocean.     He  sunk  to  the  abyss?  To  the 

dark  void  ? 
Apollo.     An  eagle  so  caught  in  some 
bursting  cloud 


SHELLEY 


323 


Dn  Caucasus,  his  thunder-baffled  wings 
Entangled   in   the    whirlwind,   and   his 

eyes 
Which   gazed  on   the  undazzling  sun, 

now  blinded 
By  the  white  lightning,  while  the  pon- 
derous hail 
Beats  on  his  struggling    form,    which 

sinks  at  length 
Prone,  and  the  aerial  ice  clings  over  it. 
Ocean.      Henceforth     the      fields    of 

Heaven-reflecting  sea 
Which  are  my  realm,  will  heave,  un- 
stained with  blood, 
Beneath  the  uplifting  winds,  like  plains 

of  corn 
Swayed  by  the  summer  air  ;  my  streams 

will  flow 
Round    many-peopled    continents,    and 

round 
Fortunate  isles  ;    and  from  their  glassy 

thrones 
Blue   Proteus  and    his   humid   nymphs 

shall  mark 
The  shadow  of  fair  ships,  as  mortals  see 
The    floating   bark   of    the   light -laden 

moon 
With  that  white  star,  its  sightless  pilot's 

crest, 
Borne  .down   the   rapid  sunset's  ebbing 

sea ; 
Tracking   their  path  no  more  by  blood 

and  groans, 
And  desolation,  and  the  mingled  voice 
Of   slavery  and   command  !    but   by  the 

light 
Of  wave-reflected   flowers,  and  floating 

odors, 
And  music  soft,  and  mild,  free,  gentle 

voices, 
And  sweetest  music,  such  as  spirits  love. 
Apollo.     And  I  shall  gaze  not  on  the 

deeds  which  make 
My  mind  obscure  with  sorrow,  as  eclipse 
Darkens  the  sphere  I  guide  ;  but  list,  I 

hear 
The  small,  clear,  silver  lute  of  the  young 

Spirit 
That  sits  i'  the  morning  star. 

Ocean.  Thou  must  away  ; 

Thy  steeds  will  pause  at  even,  till  when 

farewell : 
The  loud  deep  calls  me  home  even  now 

to  feed  it 
With  azure   calm  out   of  the  emerald 

urns 
Which  stand  for  ever  full   beside  my 

tli  rone. 
Behold  the  Nereids  under  the  green  sea, 


Their  wavering  limbs  borne  on  the  wind- 
like stream, 

Their  white  arms  lifted  o'er  their  stream- 
ing hair 

With  garlands  pied  and  starry  sea-flower 
crowns, 

Hastening  to  grace  their  mighty  sister's 
joy.      [^4.  sound  of  waves  is  heard. 

It  is  the  unpastured  sea  hungering  for 
calm. 

Peace,    monster ;    I  come    now.     Fare- 
well. 
Apollo.  Farewell. 

SCENE  III. — Caucasus.  Prometheus. 
Hercules,  Ione,  the  Earth,  Spir- 
its, Asia,  and  Panthea,  borne 
in  the  Car  with  the  Spirit  op  the 
Hour.  Hercules  unbinds  Prome- 
theus, who  descends. 

Hercules.     Most        glorious       among 

spirits,  thus  doth  strength 
To  wisdom,  courage,  and  long-suffering 

love, 
And  thee,  who  art  the  form  they  ani- 
mate, 
Minister  like  a  slave. 

Prometheus.  Thy  gentle  words 

Are  sweeter   even   than    freedom   long 

desired 
And  long  delayed. 

Asia,  thou  light  of  life, 
Shadow  of  beauty  un beheld  :  and  ye, 
Fair    sister    nymphs,    who    made   long 

years  of  pain 
Sweet  to  remember,  thro'  your  love  and 

care  : 
Henceforth  we  will  not  part.    There  is 

a  cave, 
All    overgrown    with  trailing    odorous 

plants, 
Which  curtain  out  the  clay  with  leaves 

and  flowers, 
And  paved  with  veined  emerald,  and  a 

fountain 
Leaps  in  the  midst  with  an  awakening 

sound. 
From  its  curved    roof  the  mountain's 

frozen  tears 
Like  snow,  or  silver,  or  long  diamond 

spires, 
Hang  downward,  raining  forth  a  doubt- 
ful light : 
And  there  is  heard  the  ever-moving  air, 
Whispering  without  from  tree  to  tree, 

and  birds, 
And    bees  ;  and  all  around  are  mossy 

seats, 


3-4 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  the  rough  walls  are  clothed  with 

long  soft  grass  ; 
A  simple  dwelling,   which  shall  be  our 

own  ; 
Where  we  will  sit  and  talk  of  time  and 

change, 
As  the  world  ebbs  and  ilows,  ourselves 

unchanged. 
"What  can  hide  man  from  mutability? 
And  if  ye  sigh,  then  I  will  smile  ;  and 

thou, 
lone,    shalt    chant    fragments    of    sea- 
music, 
Until  I  weep,  when  ye  shall  smile  away 
The  tears  she  brought,  which  yet  were 

sweet  to  shed. 
We  will  entangle  buds  and  flowers  and 

beams 
Which  twinkle  on  the  fountain's  brim, 

and  make 
Strange  combinations  out  of  common 

things, 
Like  human  babes  in  their  brief  inno- 
cence ; 
And   we   will    search,   with  looks  and 

words  of  love, 
For  hidden  thoughts,  each  lovelier  than 

the  last, 
Our  unexhausted  spirits  ;  and  like  lutes 
Touched  by  the  skill  of    the  enamored 

wind. 
Weave  harmonies  divine,  yet  ever  new, 
From   difference    sweet   where   discord 

cannot  be ; 
And  hither  come,  sped  on  the  charmed 

winds, 
Which    meet    from  all    the  points  of 

heaven,  as  bees 
From  every  flower  aerial  Enna  feeds, 
At  their  known  island-homes  in  Himera, 
The  echoes  of  the  human   world,  which 

tell 
Of  the   low   voice   of  love,  almost  un- 
heard, 
And  dove-eyed  pity's  murmured  pain, 

and  music, 
Itself  the  echo  of  the  heart,  and  all 
That  tempers  or  improves    man's  life, 

now  free  ; 
And  lovely  apparitions,  dim  at  first, 
Then     radiant,  as    the     mind,    arising 

bright 
From    the  embrace  of  beauty,  whence 

the  forms 
Of  which  these  are  the  phantoms,  cast 

on  them 
The  gathered  rays  which  are  reality, 
Shall  visit  us,  the  progeny  immortal 
Of  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  rapt  Poesy, 


And  arts,  tho'  unimagined,  yet  to  be. 
The  wandering  voices  and  the  shadows 

these 
Of  all  that  man  becomes,  the  mediators 
Of  that  best  worship  love,  by  him  and  us 
Given  and   returned  ;  swift  shapes  and 

sounds,  which  grow 
More  fair  and  soft  as  man  grows  wise 

and  kind, 
And,  veil  by  veil,  evil  and  error  fall : 
Such    virtue    has  the    cave  and  place 

around. 
[Turning  to  the  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 
For  thee,  fair   Spirit,  one   toil  remains. 

lone, 
Give  her  that  curved  shell,  which  Pro- 
teus old 
Made    Asia's    nuptial    boon,   breathing 

within  it 
A  voice  to  be  accomplished,  and  which 

thou 
Didst   hide   in  grass  under  the  hollow 

rock. 
lone.     Thou  most  desired  Hour,  more 

loved  and  lovely 
Than  all  thy  sisters,  this  is  the  mystic 

shell ; 
See  the  pale  azure  fading  into  silver 
Lining  it  with  a  soft  yet  glowing  light : 
Looks  it  not  like  lulled  music  sleeping 

there  ? 
Spirit.     It  seems  in  truth  the  fairest 

shell  of  Ocean  : 
Its  sounds  must  be  at  once  both  sweet 

and  strange. 
Prometheus.     Go,     borne     over     the 

cities  of  mankind 
On   whirlwind-footed    coursers  :     once 

again 
Outspeed  the  sun  around  the  orbed  world ; 
And  as  thy  chariot  cleaves  the  kindling 

air, 
Thou  breathe  into  the  many-folded  shell, 
Loosening  its  mighty  music  ;  it  shall  be 
As  thunder  mingled  with  clear  echoes  : 

then 
Return  ;  and  thou  shalt  dwell  beside  our 

cave. 
And  thou,  O,  Mother  Earth  !— 

The  Earth.  1  hear,  I  feel ; 

Thy  lips  are  on  me,  and  thy  touch  runs 

down 
Even  to  the  adamantine  central  gloom 
Along  these  marble  nerves  ;  'tis  life,  'tis 

j°y. 

And  through  my  withered,  old  and  icy 

frame 
The  warmth  of  an  immortal  youth  shoots 

down 


SHELLEY 


325 


Circling.     Henceforth  the  many  children 

fair 
Folded    in     my    sustaining    arms  ;    all 

plants, 
And  creeping  forms,  and   insects  rain- 
bow-winged, 
And   birds,   and   beasts,   and   fish,   and 

human  shapes, 
Which  drew  disease  and  pain  from  my 

wan  bosom, 
Draining  the   poison  of    despair,   shall 

take 
And  interchange  sweet  nutriment ;  to  me 
Shall  they  become  like  sister  antelopes 
By  one  fair  dam,  snow-white  and  swift 

as  wind, 
Nursed  among   lilies  near  a  brimming 

stream. 
The  dew-mists  of  my  sunless  sleep  shall 

float 
Under  the  stars  like  balm  .  night-folded 

flowers 
Shall   suck   unwithering  hues   in  their 

repose  : 
And  men   and  beasts  in  happy  dreams 

shall  gather 
Strength  for  the  coming  day,  and  all  its 

joy: 
And  death  shall  be  the  last  embrace  of 

her 
Who  takes  the  life  she  gave,  even  as  a 

mother 
Folding  her  child,  says,  "  Leave  me  not 

again." 
Asia.     Oh,  mother  !  wherefore  speak 

the  name  of  death  ? 
Cease   they    to    love,    and    move,    and 

breathe,  and  speak, 
Who  die  ? 

The  Earth.     It   would    avail    not    to 

reply  : 
Thou   art  immortal,  and   this  tongue  is 

known 
But  to  the  uncommunicating  dead. 
Death  is  the  veil  which   those  who  live 

call  life  : 
They  sleep,  and  it  is  lifted  :  and  mean- 
while 
In  mild  variety  the  seasons  mild 
With     rainbow-skirted     showers,     and 

odorous  winds, 
And   long   blue   meteors   cleansing   the 

dull  night, 
And  the  life-kindling  shafts  of  the  keen 

sun's 
All-piercing  bow,  and  the  dew-mingled 

rain 
Of  the  calm  moonbeams,  a  soft  influence 

mild. 


Shall  clothe  the  forests  and  the  fields, 

ay, even 
The  crag-built  deserts  of  the  barren  deep, 
With  ever-living  leaves,  and  fruits,  and 

flowers. 
And  thou  1  There  is  a  cavern  where  my 

spirit- 
Was  panted  forth  in  anguish  whilst  thy 

pain 
Made  my  heart  mad,  and  those  who  did 

inhale  it 
Became   mad  too,  and  built  a  temple 

there, 
And  spoke,  and  were  oracular,  and  lured 
The  erring  nations  round  to  mutual  war, 
And  faithless  faith,  such  as  Jove  kept 

with  thee  ; 
Which  breath  now  rises,  as  amongst  tall 

weeds 
A  violet's  exhalation,  and  it  fills 
With  a  serener  light  and  crimson  air 
Intense,  yet  soft,  the  rocks  and  woods 

around  ; 
It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  the  serpent 

vine, 
And  the  dark  linked  ivy  tangling  wild, 
And    budding,    blown,    or    odor-faded 

blooms 
Which   star   the   winds   with  points  of 

colored  light, 
As   they   rain    thro'   them,   and    bright 

golden  globes 
Of  fruit,   suspended  in  their  own  green 

heaven , 
And  thro'  their  veined  leaves  and  amber 

stems 
The    flowers  whose  purple  and  trans- 
lucid  bowls 
Stand  ever  mantling  with  aerial  dew, 
The  drink    of    spirits  :    and    it    circles 

round, 
Like  the  soft  waving  wings  of  noonday 

dreams, 
Inspiring  calm  and  happy  thoughts,  like 

mine, 
Now  thou  art  thus  restored.     This  cave 

is  thine. 
Arise  !    Appear  ! 

[A  Spirit  rises  in  the  likeness  oj 
a  winged  child. 

This  is  my  torch-bearer  : 
Who  let  his  lamp  out  in  old  time  with 

gazing 
On  eyes  from  which  lie  kindled  it  ant  .7 
With    love,     which    is    as     fire,   sweet 

daughter  mine, 
For  such  is  that  within  thine  own.    Run, 

wayward, 
And  guide  this  company  beyond  the  peak 


326 


BRITISH   POETS 


Of  Bacchic  Nysa,  Maenad-haunted  moun- 
tain, 
!And  beyond  Indus  and  its  tribute  rivers, 
Trampling  the  torrent  streams  and  glassy 

lakes 
With  feet  unwet,  unwearied,  undelaying, 
And  up  the  green  ravine,  across  the  vale, 
Beside  the  windless  and  crystalline  pool, 
Where  ever  lies,  on  unerasing  waves, 
The  image  of  a  temple,  built  above, 
Distinct  with  column,  arch,  and  archi- 
trave, 
And  palm-like  capital,  and  over- wrought 
And  populous  most  with  living  imagery, 
Praxitelean  shapes,  whose  marble  smiles 
Fill  the  hushed  air  with  everlasting  love. 
It  is  deserted  now,  but  once  ifc  bore 
Thy  name,  Prometheus  ;  there  the  emu- 
lous youths 
Bore  to  thy  honor  thro'  the  divine  gloom 
The   lamp   which    was  thine  emblem ; 

even  as  those 
Who   bear  the   untransmitted  torch  of 

hope 
Into  the  grave,  across  the  night  of  life. 
As  thou  hast  borne  it  most  triumphantly 
To  this  far  goal  of  Time.     Depart,  fare- 
well. 
Beside  that  temple  is  the  destined  cave. 

SCENE  IV.  A  Forest.  In  the  Back- 
ground a  Cave,  Prometheus,  Asia, 
Panthea,  Ione,  and  the  Spirit  op  the 
Earth. 

Ione.  Sister,  it  is  not  earthly  :  how  it 
glides 

Under  the  leaves  !  how  on  its  head  there 
burns 

A  light,  like  a  green  star,  whose  em- 
erald beams 

Are  twined  with  its  fair  hair !  how,  as 
it  moves, 

The  splendor  drops  in  flakes  upon  the 


grass 


Knowest  thou  it  ? 
Panthea.      It  is  the  delicate  spirit 

That  guides  the    earth    thro'    heaven. 
From  afar 

The  populous    constellations    call    that 
light 

The  loveliest  of  the  planets ;  and  some- 
times 

It  floats  along  the  spray  of  the  salt  sea, 

Or  makes  its  chariot  of  a  foggy  cloud, 

Or  walks  thro'  fields  or  cities  while  men 
sleep, 

Or  o'er  the  mountain  tops,  or  down  the 
rivers, 


Or  thro'  the  green  waste  wilderness,  as 

now, 
Wondering  at  all  it  sees.      Before  Jove 

reigned 
It  loved  our  sister  Asia,  and  it  came 
Each  leisure  hour  to  drink  the   liquid 

light 
Out   of  her  eyes,   for  which   it  said  it 

thirsted 
As  one  bit   by  a  dipsas,  and  with  her 
It  mad«  its  childish  confidence,  and  told 

her 
All  it  had   known  or  seen,   for  it   saw 

much, 
Yet  idly   reasoned    what  it  saw  ;  and 

called  her — 
For  whence  it  sprung  it  knew  not,    nor 

do  I— 
Mother,  dear  mother. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth   (running  to 

Asia).     Mother,  dearest  mother  ; 
May  I  then   talk   with   thee  as  I   was 

wont  ? 
May  I  then  hide  my  eyes  in  thy  soft 

arms, 
After  thy  looks  have  made  them  tired  of 

joy? 
May  I  then  play  beside  thee  the  long 

noons, 
When  work  is  none  in  the   bright  silent 

air  ? 
Asia.    I  love  thee,  gentlest  being,  and 

henceforth 
Can  cherish  thee    unenvied  :  speak,   I 

pray: 
Thy  simple  talk  once  solaced,   now   de- 
lights. 
Spirit  of  the  Earth.     Mother,   I  am 

grown  wiser,  though  a  child 
Cannot  be   wise   like  thee,  within  this 

day, 
And  happier  too  ;  happier  and  wiser  both. 
Thou  knowest  that  toads,  and  snakes, 

and  loathly  worms, 
And   venomous  and    malicious  beasts, 

and  boughs 
That  bore  ill  berries  in  the  woods,  were 

ever 
An  hindrance  to  my  walks  o'er  the  green 

world  : 
And  that,  among  the  haunts  of  human- 
kind, 
Hard-featured  men,  or  with  proud,  angry 

looks, 
Or  cold,  staid  gait,   or  false  and   hollow 

smiles, 
Or  the  dull  sneer  of  self-loved  ignorance, 
Or  other  such  foul  masks,   with   which 

ill  thoughts 


SHELLEY 


327 


Hide  that  fair    being  whom  we  spirits 

call  man  ; 
And  women  too,    ugliest  of  all  things 

evil. 
(Tho'  fair,  even  in  a   world  where   thou 

art  fair, 
When  good  and  kind,    free  and  sincere 

like  thee), 
When  false  or   frowning  made   me  sick 

at  heart 
To  pass  them,  tho'  they  slept,  and  I  un- 
seen. 
Well,  my  path  lately  lay   thro'  a  great 

city 
Into  the  woody  hills  surrounding  it : 
A  sentinel  was  sleeping  at  the  gate  : 
When  there  was  heard  a  sound,  so  loud 

it  shook 
The   towers   amid   the     moonlight,    yet 

more  sweet 
Than  any  voice   but  thine,   sweetest  of 

all; 
A  long,  long  sound,    as  it   would   never 

end  : 
And  all  the   inhabitants  leapt   suddenly 
Out  of  their  rest,    and   gathered   in   the 

streets, 
Looking  in  wonder  up  to  Heaven,  while 

yet 
The  music  pealed   along.     I  hid   myself 
Within  a  fountain  in  the  public  square, 
Where  I  lay  like  the  reflex  of  the  moon 
Seen  in  a  wave  under  green  leave,0  ;  and 

soon 
Those  ugly  human  shapes  and  visages 
Of  which  I  spoke  as  having  wrought  me 

pain, 
Passed  floating  thro'  the  air,  and  fading 

still 
Into  the  winds  that  scattered  them  ;  and 

those 
From  whom  they  passed  seemed  mild 

and  lovely  forms 
After  some  foul  disguise  had  fallen,  and 

all 
Were  somewhat  changed,  and  after  brief 

surprise 
And  greetings  of  delighted  wonder,  all 
Went  to   their   sleep   again :  and   when 

the  dawn 
Came,  would'st  thou  think   that  toads, 

and  snakes,  and  efts, 
Could  e'er  be  beautiful  ?  yet  so  they  were, 
And  that  with  little  change  of  shape  or 

hue : 
All  things  had  put  their  evil  nature  off  ; 
I  Qannot  tell  my  joy,  when  o'er  a  lake 
Upon  a    drooping    bough    with    night- 
shade twined, 


I  saw  two  azure  halcyons  clinging  down- 
ward 
And     thinning    one    bright    bunch    of 

amber  berries. 
With  quick  long  beaks,  and  in  the  deep 

there  lay 
Those  lovely  forms  imaged  as  in  a  sky  ; 
So,  with  my  thoughts  full  of  these  happy 

changes, 
We  meet  again,  the  happiest  change  of 

all. 
Asia.     And  never  will   we  part,  till 

thy  chaste  sister 
Who  guides  the  frozen  and  inconstant 

moon 
Will  look  on  thy  more  warm  and  equal 

light 
Till  her  heart  thaw  like  flakes  of  April 

snow 
And  love  thee. 
Spirit  of  the  Earth.  What ;  as 

Asia  loves  Prometheus  ? 
Asia.     Peace,   wanton,   thou  art  yet 

not  old  enough. 
Think  ye  by  gazing  on  each  other's  eyes 
To  multiply  your  lovely  selves,  and  fill 
With  sphered  fires  the  interlunar  air  ? 
Spirit  of    the   Earth.     Nay,   mother, 

while  my   sister   trims   her  lamp 
Tis  hard  I  should  go  darkling. 
Asia.  Listen ;  look  ! 

Tlie  Spirit  of  the  Hour  enters. 

Prometheus.     We  feel  what  thou  hast 

heard  and  seen  ;  yet  speak. 
Spirit  of  the  Hour.     Soon  as  the  sound 
had  ceased  whose  thunder  filled 

The  abysses  of  the  sky  and  the  wide  earth, 

There   was    a  change  :  the   impalpable 
thin  air 

And  the  all-circling  sunlight  were  trans- 
formed, 

As  if  the  sense  of  love  dissolved  in  them 

Had    folded   itself  round    the    sphered 
world. 

My  vision  then  grew  clear,   and  I  could 
see 

Into  the  mysteries  of  the  universe  : 

Dizzy  as  with  delight  I  floated  down  ; 

Winnowing  the  lightsome  air  with   lan- 
guid plumes, 

My  coursers  sought   their  birthplace  in 
the  sun, 

Where  they  henceforth  will  live  exempt 
from  toil 

Pasturing  flowers  of  vegetable  fire  ; 

And  where  my  moonlike  car  will  stand 
within 

A  temple,  gazed  upon  by  Phidian  forma 


328 


BRITISH   POETS 


Of  thee,  and  Asia,  and   the   Earth,   and 

me, 
And  you  fair   nymphs   looking  the  love 

we  feel, — 
In  memory  of  the  tidings  it  has  borne, — 
Beneath    a  dome    fretted  with    graven 

flowers, 
Poised  on  twelve  columns  of  resplendent 

stone, 
And  open  to  the  bright  and  liquid  sky. 
Yoked  to  it  by  an  amphisbenic  snake 
The  likeness  of  those  winged  steeds  will 

mock 
The  flight  from  which  they  find  repose. 

Alas, 
Whither  has  wandered   now  my  partial 

tongue 
When    all    remains    untold    which    ye 

would  hear  ? 
As  I  have  said  I  floated  to  the  earth  : 
It  was,  as  it  is  still,  the  pain  of  bliss 
To  move,  to  breathe,  to  be  ;  I  wander- 
ing went 
Among    the  haunts  and  dwellings    of 

mankind, 
And  first  was  disappointed  not  to  see 
Such  mighty  change  as  I  had  felt  within 
Expressed  in  outward  things  ;  but  soon 

I  looked, 
And  behold,  thrones  were  kingless,  and 

men  walked 
One  with  the  other  even  as  spirits  do, 
None   fawned,     none    trampled ;    hate, 

disdain,  or  fear, 
Self-love   or    self-contempt,   on   human 

browTs, 
No  more  inscribed,  as  o'er  the  gate  of 

hell, 
"  All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here  ;  " 
None   frowned,     none   trembled,     none 

with  eager  fear 
Gazed  on  another's  eye  of  cold  command, 
Until  the  subject  of  the  tyrant's  will 
Became,    worse   fate,   the  abject  of   his 

own, 
Which  spurred  him,   like    an  outspent 

horse,  to  death. 
None  wrought  his  lips  in  truth-entang- 
ling lines 
Which    smiled  the  lie   his   tongue   dis- 
dained to  speak  ; 
None,   with  firm  sneer,  trod  out  in  his 

own  heart 
The  sparks  of  love  and  hope  till  there 

remained 
Those  bitter  ashes,  a  soul  self-consumed, 
And  the  wretch  crept  a  vampire  among 

men. 
Infecting  all  with  his  own  hideous  ill ; 


None  talked  that  common,  false,   cold, 

hollow  talk 
Which  makes  the  heart  deny   the  yes  it 

breathes, 
Yet  question  that  unmeant  hypocrisy 
With  such   a  self-mistrust    as    has    no 

name. 
And  women,  too,  frank,  beautiful,  and 

kind 
As  the  free  heaven  which  rains  fresh 

light  and  dew 
On  the  wide  earth,  passed  ;  gentle  radi- 
ant forms, 
From  custom's  evil  taint    exempt  and 

pure  ; 
Speaking  the  wisdom  once  they  could 

not  think, 
Looking  emotions  once  they  feared  to 

feel, 
And  changed   to   all   which   once   they 

dared  not  be, 
Yet  being  now,  made  earth  like  heaven  ; 

nor  pride, 
Nor  jealousy,  nor  envy,  nor  ill  shame, 
The  bitterest  of  those  drops  of  treasured 

gall, 
Spoilt  the  sweet  taste  of  the  nepenthe, 

love. 

Thrones,    altars,     judgment-seats,    and 

prisons,  wherein, 
And    beside   which,   by  wretched   men 

were  borne 
Sceptres,   tiaras,    swords,    and    chains, 

and  tomes 
Of  reasoned  wrong,  glozed  on  by  ignor- 
ance, 
Were  like  those  monstrous  and  barbaric 

shapes, 
The  ghosts  of  a  no  more  remembered 

fame, 
Which,   from  their  unworn     obelisks, 

look  forth 
In  triumph  o'er  the  palaces  and  tombs 
Of  those   who   were   their   conquerors  : 

mouldering  round 
Those  imaged  to  the  pride  of  kings  and 

priests, 
A   dark  yet  mighty  faith,  a  power  as 

wide 
As  is  the  world  it  wasted,  and  are  now 
But  an  astonishment ;  even  so  the  tools 
And  emblems  of  its  last  captivity, 
Amid    the    dwellings    of    the     peopled 

earth, 
Stand,  not  o'erthrown,  but  unregarded 

now.  * 

And  those  foul  shapes,  abhorred  by  god 

and  man, 


SHELLEY 


329 


Which,  under  many  a  name  and  many  a 

form, 
Strange,     savage,     ghastly,    dark    and 

execrable, 
Were  Jupiter,  the   tyrant  of  the  world  ; 
And  which  the  nations,   panic-stricken, 

served 
With  blood,  and  hearts  broken  by  long 

hope,  and  love 
Dragged  to  his  altars  soiled  and  garland- 
less, 
And  slain  among  men's  unreclaiming 

tears, 
Flattering  the  thing  they   feared,  which 

fear  was  hate, 
Frown,     mouldering     fast,    o'er     their 

abandoned  shrines : 
Tbe  painted  veil,  by  those  who   were, 

called  life, 
Which   mimicked,  as   with   colors   idly 

spread, 
All   men   believed   and   hoped,   is    torn 

aside  ; 
The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen,  the  man 

remains 
Sceptreless,   free,   uncircumscribed,  but 

man 
Equal,  unclassed,  tribeless,  and  nation- 
less, 
Exempt  from  awe,  worship,  degree,  the 

king 
Over    himself  ;  just,  gentle,    wise  :  but 

man 
Passionless  ;  no,  yet  free  from   guilt   or 

pain, 
Which  were,  for  his  will  made  or  suffered 

them, 
Nor   yet   exempt,  tho'  ruling  them   like 

slaves, 
From  chance,  and  death,  and  mutability, 
The  clogs  of  that  which  else  might  over- 
soar 
The  loftiest  star  of  unascended  heaven, 
Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane. 

ACT  IV 

Scene,  a  Part  of  the  Forest  near  the 
Cave  of  Prometheus.  Panthea 
and  Ione  are  sleeping  :  they  awaken 
gradually  during  the  first  Song. 

Voice  of  unseen  Spirits 
The  pale  stars  are  gone  ! 
For  the  sun,  their  swift  shepherd, 
To  their  folds  them  compelling, 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn, 
Hastes,  in   meteor-eclipsing  array,   and 
they  flee 


Beyond  his  blue  dwelling, 

As  fawns  flee  the  leopard. 

But  where  are  ye  ? 

A  Train  of  dark  Forms  and  Shadows 
passes  by  confusedly,  singing. 

Here,  oh,  here : 

We  bear  the  bier 
Of  the  Father  of  many  a  cancelled  year  ! 

Spectres  we 

Of  the  dead  Hours  be, 
We  bear  Time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 

Strew,  oh,  strew 

Hair,  not  yew  2 
Wet  the  dusty  pall  with  tears,  not  dew  ! 

Be  the  faded  flowers 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 
Spread  on  the  corpse  of  the  King  of 
Hours  ! 

Haste,  oh,  haste  ! 

As  shades  are  chased. 
Trembling,  by  day,  from  heaven's  blue 
waste. 

We  melt  away, 

Like  dissolving  spray, 
From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day, 

With  the  lullaby 

Of  winds  that  die 
On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony  1 

Ione 
What  dark  forms  were  they  ? 

Panthea 
The  past  Hours  weak  and  gray, 
With  the  spoil  which  their  toil 

Raked  together 
From   the  conquest   but   One   coul<? 
foil. 

Ione 
Have  they  past  ? 
Panthea 

They  have  past  ; 
They  outspeeded  the  blast, 
While  'tis  said,  they  are  fled  : 

Ione 
Whither,  oh,  whither? 
Panthea 
To  the  dark,  to  the  past,  to  the  dead. 
Voice  of  unseen  Spirits 

Bright  clouds  float  in  heaven, 
Dew-stars  gleam  on  earth, 
Waves  assemble  on  ocean, 
They  are  gathered  and  driven 


33° 


BRITISH   POETS 


By  the  storm  of  delight,  by  the  panic  of 
glee! 
Tliey  shake  with  emotion, 
They  dance  in  their  mirth. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

The  pine  boughs  are  singing 
Old  songs  with  new  gladness, 
The  billows  and  fountains 
Fresh  music  are  flinging, 
Like  the  notes  of  a  spirit  from  land  and 
from  sea ; 
The  storms  mock  the  mountains 
With  the  thunder  of  gladness. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

lone.     What  charioteers  are  these  ? 
Panthea.  Where  are  their 

chariots  ? 

Semichorus  of  Hours 

The  voice  of  the  Spirits  of  Air  and  of 
Earth 
Have  drawn  back  the  figured  curtain 
of  sleep 
Which  covered  our  being  and  darkened 
our  birth 
In  the  deep. 

A  Voice 

In  the  deep  ? 

Semichorus  II 

Oh,  below  the  deep. 

Semichorus  I 

An  hundred  ages  we  had  been  kept 

Cradled  in  visions  of  hate  and  care, 
And  each  one  who  waked  as  his  brother 

slept, 
Found  the  truth — 

Semichorus  II 

Worse  than  his  visions  were  ! 

Semichorus  I 

We  have  heard  the  lute  of  Hope  in  sleep  ; 
We  have  known  the  voice  of  Love  in 
dreams, 
We  have  felt  the  wand  of  Power,  and 
leap — 

Semichorus  II 

As  the  billows  leap  in  the  morning 
beams ! 

Chorus 

Weave  the  dance   on  the  floor  of  the 
breeze, 
Pierce  with  song  heaven's  silent  light, 


Enchant  the  day  that  too  swiftly  flees, 
To  check  its  flight  ere  the  cave  of 
night. 

Once  the  hungry  Hours  wrere  hounds 
Which  chased  the  day  like  a  bleeding 
deer, 
And  it  limped  and  stumbled  with  many 
wounds 
Through    the    nightly    dells     of    the 
desert   year. 

But  now,  oh  weave  the  mystic  measure 

Of  music,  and  dance,  and   shapes  of 

light, 

Let  the  Hours,  and  the  spirits  of  might 

and  pleasure, 

Like  the  clouds  and  sunbeams,  unite. 

A  Voice 

Unite ! 
Panthea.     See,  where    the  Spirits  of 
the  human  mind 
Wrapt  in  sweet  sounds,  as  in  bright  veils, 
approach. 

Chorus  of  Spirits 

We  join  the  throng 

Of  the  dance  and  the  song, 
By   the    whirlwind   of    gladness   borne 
along ; 

As  the  flying-fish  leap 

From  the  Indian  deep, 
And  mix  with  the  sea-birds,  half  asleep. 

Chorus  of  Hours 

Whence  come  ye,  so  wild  and  so  fleet, 
For   sandals  of  lightning  are   on   your 

feet, 
And  your  wings  are  soft  and  swift   as 

thought, 
And  your  eyes  are  as  love  which  is  veiled 

not? 

Chorus  of  Spirits 

We  come  from  the  mind 

Of  human  kind 
Which  was  late  so  dusk,  and  obscene, 
and  blind. 

Now  'tis  an  ocean 

Of  clear  emotion, 
A  heaven  of  serene  and  mighty  motion  ; 

From  that  deep  abyss 

Of  wonder  and  bliss, 
Whose  caverns  are  crystal  palaces  : 

From  those  skiey  towers 

Where  Thought's  crowned  powers 
Sit    watching    your    dance,    ye  happy 
Hours  ! 


SHELLEY 


33l 


From  the  dim  recesses 
Of  woven  caress.es, 
Where  lovers  catch  ye  by  your  loose 
tresses ; 
From  the  azure  isles, 
Where  sweet  Wisdom  smiles, 
Delaying    your    ships    with    her    siren 
wiles. 

From  the  temples  high 

Of  Man's  ear  and  eye, 
Roofed  over  Sculpture  and  Poesy  ; 

From  the  murmurings 

Of  the  unsealed  springs 
Where  Science  bedews  his  Daedal  wings. 

Years  after  years, 
Through  blood,  and  tears, 
And  a  thick  hell  of  hatreds,  and  hopes, 
and  fears  ; 
We  waded  and  flew. 
And  fhe  islets  were  few 
Where  the  bud-blighted  flowers  of  hap- 
piness grew. 

Our  feet  now,  every  palm, 

Are  sandalled  with  calm, 
And  the  dew  of  our  wings  is  a  rain  of 
balm  ; 

And,  beyond  our  eyes, 

The  human  love  lies 
Which  makes  all  it  gazes  on  Paradise. 

Chorus  of  Sjiirits  and  Hours 

Then  weave   the  web  of  the   mystic 

measure  ; 
From  the  depths  of  the  sky  and  the  ends 

of  the  earth, 
Come,  swift  Spirits  of  might  and  of 

pleasure, 
Fill  the  dance  and  the  music  of  mirth, 
As  the  waves  of  a   thousand   streams 

rush  by 
To  an  ocean  of  splendor  and  harmony  ! 

Chorus  of  S2>irits 

Our  spoil  is  won, 

Our  task  is  done, 
We  are  free  to  dive,  or  soar,  or  run  ; 

Beyond  and  around, 

Or  within  the  bound 
Which  clips   the   world    with   darkness 
round. 

We'll  pass  the  eyes 
Of  the  starry  skies 
(nto  the  hoar  deep  to  colonise  : 
Death,  Chaos,  and  Night, 


From  the  sound  of  our  flight, 
Shall  flee,  like   mist   from  a  tempest's 
might. 

And  Earth,  Air,  and  Light, 
And  the  Spirit  of  Might, 
Which  drives  round  the  stars  in   their 
fiery  flight ; 
And  Love,  Thought,  and  Breath, 
The  powers  that  quell  Death, 
Wherever  we  soar  shall  assemble  be- 
neath. 

And  our  singing  shall  build 
In  the  void's  loose  field 
A  world  for  the   Spirit  of   Wisdom  to 
wield : 
We  will  take  our  plan 
From  the  new  world  of  man, 
And  our  work  shall  be  called   the   Pro- 
methean. 

Chorus  of  Hours 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song  ; 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain. 

Semichorus  I 
We,  beyond  heaven,  are  driven  along  ! 

Semichorus  II 
Us  the  enchantments  of  earth  retain  : 

Semichorus  I 

Ceaseless,  and  rapid,  and  fierce,  and  free, 
With  the  Spirits  which  build  a  new  earth 

and  sea, 
And  a  heaven  where  yet  heaven  could 

never  be. 

Semichorus  II 

Solemn,  and  slow,  and  serene,  and  bright, 
Leading  the    Day  and  outspeeding  the 

Night, 
With  the  powers  of  a  world  of  perfect 

light. 

Semichorus  I 

We  whirl,  singing  loud,  round  the  gather- 
ing sphere, 

Till  the  trees,  and  the  beasts,  and  the 
clouds  appear 

Fiom  its  chaos   made  calm  by  love,  not 
fear. 

Semichorus  TL 

We  encircle  the  ocean  and  mountains  of 

earth, 
And  the   happy  forms   of  its   death  and 

birth 


332 


BRITISH  POETS 


Change  to  the  music  of  our  sweet  mirth. 
Chorus  of  Hours  and  Spirits 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song, 

Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain, 
Wherever  we  fly  we  lead  along 
In   leashes,    like    starbeams,     soft    yet 
strong, 
The  clouds  that  are  heavy  with  love's 
sweet  rain. 

Panthea.     Ha  !  they  are  gone  ! 
lone.  Yet  feel  you  no  delight 

From  the  past  sweetness? 

Panthea.  As  the  bare  green  hill 

When  some  soft  cloud  vanishes  into  rain, 
Laughs  with  a  thousand  drops  of  sunny 

water 
To  the  un pavilioned  sky  ! 

lone.  Even  whilst  we  speak 

New  notes  arise.     What  is  that  awful 

sound? 
Panthea.     '  Tis  the  deep  music  of  the 

rolling  world 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved 

air, 
iEolian  modulations. 

lone.  Listen  too, 

How  every  pause  is  filled  with   under 

notes, 
Clear,  silver,  icy,  keen,  awakening  tones, 
Which  pierce  the  sense,  and  live  within 

the  soul, 
As  tlie  sharp  stars  pierce  winter's  crystal 

air 
And  gaze  upon  themselves  within  the  sea. 
Panthea.     But  see  where  through  two 

openings  in  the  forest 
Which    hanging    branches  overcanopy, 
And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet, 
Between  the  close  moss  violet-inwoven, 
Have   made   their  path  of   melody,  like 

sisters 
Who  part  with  sighs  that  they  may  meet 

in  smiles, 
Turning  their  dear  disunion  to  an  isle 
Of  lovely   grief,  a  wood  of  sweet  sad 

thoughts  ; 
Two  visions  of  strange  radiance  float 

upon 
The  ocean-like  enchantment  of  strong 

sound, 
Which  flows  intenser,  keener,  deeper  yet 
Under  the  ground  and  through  the  wind- 
less air. 
lone.     I  see  a  chariot  like  that  thinnest 

boat, 
In  which  the   mother  of  the  months  is 

borne 


By  ebbing  night  into  her  western  cave, 

When    she    upsprings  from    interlunai 
dreams, 

O'er  which  is  curved  an  orblike  canopy 

Of  gentle  darkness,    and  the  hills  and 
woods 

Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk  airy 
veil, 

Regard   like   shapes  in  an   enchanter's 
glass  ; 

Its   wheels  are   solid  clouds,  azure  and 
gold. 

Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunderstorm 

Pile  on  the  floor  of  the  illumined  sea 

When  the  sun  rushes  under  it  ;  they  roll 

And  move  and  grow  as  with  an  inward 
wind  ; 

Within  it  sits  a  winged  infant,  white 

Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of 
bright  snow, 

Its  plumes  areas  feathers  of  sunny  frost, 

Its  limbs  gleam  white,  through  the  wind 
flowing  folds 

Of  its  white  robe,  woof  of  ethereal  pearl. 

Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white 
Light 

Scattered   in  strings ;  yet  its  two  eyes 
are  heavens 

Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 

Within  seems  pouring,   as  a  storm   is 
poured 

From  jagged  clouds,  out  of  their  arrowy 
lashes, 

Tempering    the  cold    and  radiant    ail- 
around, 

With  fire  that  is  not  brightness  :  in  its 
hand 

It  sways  a  quivering  moonbeam,    from 
whose  point 

A   guiding   power  directs  the  chariot's 
prow 

Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  which  as  they 
roll 

Over  the  grass,  and  flowers,  and  waves, 
wake  sounds, 

Sweet  as  a  singing  rain  of  silver  dew. 
Panthea.     And  from  the  other  open- 
ing in  the  wood 

Rushes,  with  loud  and  whirlwind  har- 
mony, 

A  sphere,   which  is   as  many  thousand 
spheres, 

Solid  as  crystal,  yet  through  all  its  mass 

Flow,  as  through  empty  space,   music 
and  light : 

Ten   thousand    orbs   involving    and   in- 
volved, 

Purple  and  azure,  white,  and  green,  and 
golden, 


SHELLEY 


333 


Sphere  within  sphere  ;  and  every  space 
between 

Peopled  with  unimaginable  shapes, 

Such  as  ghosts  dream  dwell  in  the  lamp- 
less  deep, 

Yet  each   inter- transpicuous,  and  they 
whirl 

Over  each  other  with  a  thousand  motions, 

Upon  a  thousand   sightless   axles   spin- 
ning, 

And   with   the   force   of  self-destroying 
swiftness, 

Intensely,  slowly,  solemnly  roll  on, 

Kindling    with    mingled    sounds,    and 
many  tones, 

Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 

With  mighty   whirl  the    multitudinous 
orb 

Grinds  the  bright  brook  into  an  azure 
mist 

Of  elemental  subtlety,  like  light ; 

And  the  wild  odor  of  the  forest  flowers, 

The  music  of  the  living  gi-ass  and  air, 

The     emerald     light    of    leaf-entangled 
beams 

Round  its    intense  yet    self-conflicting 
speed , 

Seem  kneaded  into  one  aerial  mass 

Which  drowns  the   sense.     Within   the 
orb  itself, 

Pillowed  upon  its  alabaster  arms, 

Like  to  a  child  o'erwearied  with  sweet 
toil, 

On  its  own  folded  wings,  and  wavy  hair, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  is  laid  asleep, 

And  you  can  see  its  little  lips  are  moving, 

Amid  the  changing  light  of  their  own 
smiles, 

Like  one  who  talks  of  what  he  loves  in 
dream. 
lone.     'T  is  only  mocking    the  orb's 

harmony. 
Panthea.     And  from  a  star  upon  its 
forehead,  shoot, 

Like   swords    of  azure  fire,   or  golden 
spears 

With  tyrant-quelling  myrtle  overtwined, 

Embleming   heaven    and   earth    united 
now, 

Vast  beams  like  spokes  of  some  invisible 
wheel 

Which  whirl  as  the  orb  whirls,  swifter 
than  thought, 

Filling  the  abyss  with  sun-like  lighten- 
ing*, 

And  perpendicular  now,  and  now  trans- 
verse, 

Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  pierce 
and  pass, 


Make  bare  the  secrets  of  the  earth's  deep 

heart ; 
Infinite  mine  of  adamant  and  gold, 
Valueless  stones,  and  unimagined  gems, 
And    caverns    on    crystalline    columns 

poised 
With  vegetable  silver  overspread  ; 
Wells  of   unfathomed  fire,   and  water 

springs 
Whence  the  great  sea,  even  as  a  child  is 

fed, 
Whose  vapors   clothe   earth's    monarch 

mountain-tops 
With  kingly  ermine  snow.     The  beams 

flash  on 
And  make  appear  the  melancholy  ruins 
Of  cancelled  cycles  ;  anchors,   beaks  of 

ships  ; 
Planks  turned  to  marble  ;  quivers,  helms, 

and  spears, 
And     gorgon-headed    targes,    and    the 

wheels 
Of  scythed  chariots  and  the  emblazonry 
Of  trophies,    standards,   and    armorial 

beasts, 
Round  which  death  laughed,  sepulchred 

emblems 
Of  dead  destruction,  ruin  within  ruin  ! 
The  wrecks  beside  of  many  a  city  vast, 
Whose  population  which  the  earth  grew 

over 
Was  mortal,  but  not  human  ;  see,  thev 

lie, 
Their   monstrous    works,   and    uncouth 

skeletons, 
Their   statues,    homes   and   fanes ;    pro- 
digious shapes 
Huddled  in  gray  annihilation,  split, 
Jammed  in  the  hard,  black  deep  ;  and 

over  these, 
The    anatomies    of    unknown     winged 

things, 
And  fishes  which  were  isles  of  living 

scale, 
And     serpents,     bony    chains,    twisted 

around 
The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust 
To  which  the  tortuous  strength  of  their 

last  pangs 
Had  crushed  the  iron  crags ;  and  over 

these 
The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might 
Of   earth-convulsing   behemoth,    which 

once 
Were  monarch  beasts,  and  on  the  slimy 

shores, 
And  weed-overgrown  continents  of  earth, 
Increased   and   multiplied  like  summei 

worms 


334 


BRITISH    POETS 


On  an  abandoned  corpse,   till  the  blue 

globe 
Wrapt  deluge  round  it  like  a  cloak,  and 

they 
Yelled,  gasped,  and  were  abolished  ;  or 

some  God 
Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  passed, 

and  cried, 
Be  not  !     And  like  my  words  they  were 

no  more. 

Tlie  Earth 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the 
madness ! 

The  boundless,   overflowing,  bursting 
gladness, 
The  vaporous  exultation   not  to  be  con- 
lined  ! 

Ha  !  ha  !  the  animation  of  delight 

Which  wraps  me,  like   an  atmosphere 
of  light, 
And  bears  me  as  a  cloud  is  borne  by  its 
own  wind. 

The  Moon 

Brother  mine,  calm  wanderer, 
Happy  globe  of  land  and  air, 
Some  Spirit  is  darted  like  a  beam  from 
thee, 
Which  penetrates  my  frozen  frame, 
And  passes  with  the  warmth  of  flame, 
With  love,  and   odor,  and  deep   melody 
Through  me,  through  me  ! 

The  Earth 

Ha!  ha!  the  caverns  of  my  hollow 

mountains, 
My  cloven  fire-crags,  sound-exulting 

fountains 
Laugh  with  a  vast  and  inextinguishable 

laughter. 
The  oceans,  and  the   deserts,  and  the 

abysses, 
And     the     deep     air's      unmeasured 

wildernesses, 
Answer  from  all  their  clouds  and  billows, 

echoing  after. 

They    cry    aloud  as  I  do.     Sceptred 
curse, 

Who  all  our  green  and  azure  universe 
Threatenedst  to  muffle  round  with  black 
destruction,  sending 

A  solid    cloud  to  rain  hot  thunder- 
stones, 

And    splinter   and   knead    down   my 
children's  bones, 
All  I  bring   forth,   to  one   void    mass, 
battering;  and  blending. 


Until     each     crag-like     tower,    and 

storied  column, 
Palace,     and     obelisk,     and     temple 

solemn, 
My  imperial   mountains  crowned   with 

cloud,  and  snow,  and  fire  ; 
My   sea-like  forests,  every  blade  and 

blossom 
Which  finds  a  grave  or  cradle  in  my 

bosom. 
Were  stamped  by  thy  strong  hate  into  a 

lifeless  mire. 

How    art    thou      sunk,    withdrawn, 

covered,  drunk  up 
By  thirsty  nothing,  as  the   brackish 

cup 
Drained   by  a  desert-troop,  a  little   drop 

for  all ; 
And  from   beneath,   around,    within, 

above, 
Filling  thy  void  annihilation,  love 
Burst  in   like  light  on  caves  cloven  by 

the  thunder-ball. 

The  Moon 

The  snow  upon  my  lifeless  mountains 
Is  loosened  into  living  fountains, 
My   solid  oceans    flow,    and   sing,   and 
shine : 
A  spirit   from  my  heart   bursts  forth, 
It  clothes  with  unexpected  birth 
My  cold   bare   bosom  :  Oh  !  it  must  be 
thine 

On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

Gazing  on  thee  I  feel,  I  know 
Green  stalks   burst   forth,  and   bright 
flowers  grow, 
And    living    shapes    upon    my    bosom 
move  : 
Music  is  in  the  sea  and  air, 
Winged  clouds  soar   here   and   there, 
Dark  with  the  rain  new  buds  are  dream- 
ing of  : 
Tis  love,  all  love  ! 

The  Earth 

It  interpenetrates   my   granite  mass, 
Through   tangled  roots   and    trodden 

clay  doth  pass, 
Into  the  utmost  leaves  and   delicatest 

flowers  ; 
Upon  the  winds,  among  the  clouds  'tis 

spread, 
It  wakes  a  life  in  the   forgotten  dead, 
They    breathe  a  spirit   up    from    theii 

obscurest  bowers, 


SHELLEY 


335 


And  like  a  storm   bursting  its   cloudy 
prison 

With   thunder,  and   with   whirlwind, 
has  arisen 
Out  of  the  lampless  caves  of  unimagined 
being : 

With  earthquake    shock  and    swift- 
ness making  shiver 

Thought's  stagnant  chaos,  unremoved 
for  ever, 
Till  hate,  and  fear,  and  pain,  light-van- 
quished shadows,  fleeing, 

Leave   Man,   who    was  a  many-sided 

mirror, 
Which  could  distort  to   many  a  shape 
of  error, 
This  true  fair  world  of  things,  a  sea  re- 
flecting love  ; 
Which  over  all  his   kind   as  the   sun's 
heaven 
Gliding  o'er  ocean,  smooth,    serene,  and 

even 
Darting  from  starry  depths  radiance  and 
life,  doth  move, 

Leave    Man,  even  as    a  leprous  child 

is  left, 
Who  follows    a    sick    beast    to   some 

warm  cleft 
Of  rocks,    through  which  the  might  of 

healing  springs  is  poured  : 
Then   when     it     wanders  horns    with 

rosy  smile, 
Unconscious,    and    its     mother   fears 

awhile 
It  is  a  spirit,  then,  weeps  on  her  child 

restored— 

Man,  oh,  not  men  !    a  chain  of   linked 

thought, 
Of  love  and  might  to  be   divided   not, 
Compelling  the  elements  with  adaman- 
tine stress  ;  [gaze, 
As  the  sun  rules,  even  with  a   tyrant's 
The  unquiet  republic  of  the  maze 
Of    planets,  struggling    fierce    towards 
heaven's  free  wilderness — 

Man,    one    harmonious    soul  of  many 

a  soul, 
Whose  nature  is  it  sown  divine  control, 
Where  all  things  flow  to  all,  as  rivers  to 
the  sea  ;  [love  ; 

Familiar  acts  are  beautiful  through 
Labor,    and    pain,  and  grief,    in    life's 
green  grove 
Sport  like  tame  beasts,  none  knew   how 
gentle  they  could  be  i 


His  will,    with   all  mean  passions,  bad 

delights, 
And      selfish     cares,     its     trembling 

satellites, 
A  spirit  ill  to  guide,  but  mighty  to  obey, 
Is    as  a  tempest-winged  ship,   whose 

helm 
Love     rules,     through   waves   which 

dare  not  overwhelm, 
Forcing  life's  wildest  shores  to  own   its 

sovereign  sway. 

All      things     confess     his     strength. 

Through  the  cold  mass 
Of  marble  and  of  color  his  dreams  pass  ; 
Bright  threads    whence  mothers   weave 
the  robes  their  children  wear  ; 
Language  is  a  perpetual  orphic  song, 
Which  rules    with   Daedal  harmony  a 
throng 
Of    thoughts    and    forms,    which    else 
senseless  and  shapeless  were. 

The  lightning  is  his   slave  ;   heaven's 
utmost  deep 

Gives  up  her  stars,  and  like  a  flock   of 
sheep 
They  pass  before  his  eye,  are  numbered, 
and  roll  on  ! 

The  tempest  is  his    steed,    he    strides 
the  air  ; 

And  the  abyss  shouts  from   her   depth 
laid  bare, 
Heaven,  hast   thou   secrets  ?     Man   un- 
veils me  ;  I  have  none. 

The  Moon 

The  shadow  of  white  death  has  past 
From  my  path  in  heaven  at  last, 
A  (dinging  shroud  of  solid  frost  and  sleep  ; 
And  through  my  newly-woven  bowers, 
Wander  happy  paramours, 
Less  mighty,  but  as  mild  as  those  who 
keep 

Thy  vales  more  deep. 

The  Earth 

As   the   dissolving   warmth   of   dawn 

may  fold 
A  half  unfrozen  dew-globe,  green  and 
gold, 
And  crystalline,  till  it  becomes  a  winged 
mist, 
And  wanders  up  the  vault  of  the  blue 

day, 
Outlives  the  noon,  and  on  the  sun's 
last  ray 
Hangs  o'er  the  sea,  a  fleece  of  fire  and 
amethyst, 


336 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  Moon 

Thou  art  folded,  thou  art  lying 
In  the  light  which  is  undying 
Of   thine    own   joy,  and   heaven's  smile 
divine  ; 
All  suns  and  constellations  shower 
( )n  thee  a  light .  a  life,  a  power 
Which    dotli    array    thy    sphere;    thou 
pouresi  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

The  Earth 

I  spin  beneath  my  pyramid  of  night, 

Which  points  into  the  heavens  dream- 
ing delight , 
Murmuring    victorious    joy   in    my    en- 
chanted sleep  ; 

As  a  youth  lulled  in  love-dreams  faint- 
ly sighing, 

Under  the  shadows  of  his  beauty  ly- 
ing.' 
Which  round  his  rest  a  watch  of  light 
and  warmth  doth  keep. 

The  Moon 

As  in  the  soft  and  sweet  eclipse, 
When  soul  meets  soul  on  lovers'  lips, 
High  hearts  are  calm,  and  brightest  eyes 
are  dull  ; 
So  when  thy  shadow  falls  on  me, 
Then  am  I  mute  and  still,  by  thee 
Covered  ;  of  thy  love,  Orb  most  beautiful, 
Full,  oh,  too  full ! 

Thou  art  speeding  round  the  sun 
Brightest  world  of  man)'  a  one  ; 
Green  and  azure  sphere  which  shinest 
With  a  light  which  is  divinest 
Among  all  the  lamps  of  Heaven 
To  whom  life  and  light  is  given  ; 
I,  thy  crystal  paramour, 
Borne  beside  thee  by  a  power 
Like  the  polar  Paradise, 
Magnet-like  of  lovers'  eyes  ; 
I,  a  most  enamored  maiden 
Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 
With  the  pleasure  of  her  love, 
Maniac-like  around  thee  move 
Gazing,  an  insatiate  bride, 
On  thy  form  from  every  side 
Like  a  Maenad,  round  the  cup 
Which  Agave  lilted  up 
In  the  weird  Cadmsean  forest. 
Brother,  wheresoe'er  thou  soarest 
I  must  hurry,  whirl  and  follow 
Through  the  heavens  wide  and  hollow, 
Sheltered  by  the  warm  embrace 
Of  thy  soul  from  hungry  space, 


Drinking  from  tliv  sense  and  sight 

Beauty,  majesty,  and  might, 

As  a  lover  or  chameleon 

(  Stows  like  what  it  looks  upon 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky 
Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds, 

As  a  gray  and  watery  mist 

Glows  like  solid  amethyst 
Athwart   the   western  mountain  it  en- 
folds. 

When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow. 

Tlie  Earth 

And  the  weak  day  weeps 
That  it  should  be  so. 
Oh,  gentle  Moon,  the  voice  of  thy  de- 
light 
Falls  on  me  like  thy  clear  and  tender 

.  light 
Soothing  the  seaman,  borne  the  summer 
night, 
Through  fsles  for  ever  calm  : 
Oh,   gentle   Moon,   thy   crystal  accents 

pierce 
The  caverns  of  my  pride's  deep  universe, 
Charming  the  tiger  joy,   whose  tramp- 
lings  fierce 
Made  wounds  which  need  thy  balm. 
Panthea.     I   rise  as  from  a  bath  of 
sparkling  water, 
A  hath  of  azure  light,  among  dark  rocks, 
Out  of  the  stream  of  sound. 

lone.  Ah  me  !  sweet  sister, 

The  stream  of  sound   has  ebbed  away 

from  us. 
And  you  pretend  to  rise  out  of  its  wave, 
Because  your  words  fall  like  the  clear, 

soft  dew 
Shaken  from  a   bathing  wood-nymph's 
limbs  and  hair. 
Panthea.     Peace !    peace  !     A  mighty 
Power,  which  is  as  darkness, 
Ts  rising  out  of  Earth,  and  from  the  sky 
Is  showered  like  night,  and  from  within 

the  aii- 
Bursts,    like    eclipse    which    had    been 

gathered  up 
Into   the  pores  of  sunlight  :  the  bright 

visions, 
Wherein   the   singing  spirits   rode   and 

shone, 
Gleam     like    pale    meteors    through    a 
watery  night. 
lone.     There  is  a  sense  of  words  upon 

mine  ear. 
Panthea.      An    universal    sound   like 
words:  Oh,  list  1 


SHELLEY 


337 


Demogorgon 

fliou,   Earth,   calm   empire  of  a  happy 
soul, 
Sphere   of    divinest    shapes  and    har- 
monies, 
Beautiful  orb  !    gathering  as  thou  dost 
roll 
The  love  which  paves  thy  path  along 
the  skies : 

The  Earth 

I  hear :    I  am  as  a  drop  of  dew  that 
dies. 

Demogorgon 

Thou,  Moon,  which  gazeston  the  nightly 
Earth 
With  wonder,  as  it  gazes  upon  thee  : 
Whilst  each  to  men,  and  beasts,  and  the 
swift  birth 
Of   birds,  is   beauty,  love,  calm,  har- 
mony : 

Tlie  Moon 

I  hear  :  I  am  a  leaf  shaken  by  thee  ! 

Demogorgon 

Ye  kings  of  suns  and  stars,  Demons  and 
Gods. 
Ethereal  Dominations,  who  possess 
Elysian,  windless,  fortunate  abodes 
Beyond  Heaven's  constellated  wilder- 
ness : 

,1  Voice  from  above 

Our    great    Republic    hears,    we    are 
blest,  and  bless. 

Demogorgon 

Ye  happy  dead,  whom  beams  of  brightest 
verse 

Are    clouds    to    hide,    not   colors    to 
portray, 
Whether  your  nature  is  that  universe 
Which  once  ye  saw  and  suffered — 

A  Voice  from  beneath 

Or  as  they 
Whom  we  have  left,  we   change  and 
pass  away. 

Demogorgon 

Ye  elemental  Genii,  who  have  homes 
From    man's  high    mind  even    to  the 
central  stone 
Of    sullen    lead ;    from   Heaven's    star- 
fretted  domes 
22 


To    the    dull   weed    some    sea -worm 
battens  on  : 

A  confused  Voice 

We  hear  :   thy  words  waken  Oblivion. 

Demogorgon 

Spirits,  whose  homes  are  flesh  :  ye  beasts 
and  birds. 
Ye  worms,  and  fish  ;    ye  living  leaves 
and  buds  ; 
Lightning  and  wind  ;    and  ye  untame- 
able  herds, 
Meteors  and  mists,  which  throng  air's 
solitudes : — 

A  Voice 

Thy  voice   to  us   is  wind  among  still 
woods. 

Demogorgon 

Man. who  wert  once  a  despot  and  a  slave; 

A  dupe  and  a  deceiver  ;    a  decay  ; 
A  traveller  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 

Through   the   dim   night  of  this   im- 
mortal day  : 

All 

Speak:   thy  strong  words  may  never 
pass  away. 

Demogorgon 

This  is  the  day,  which  down  the  void 

abysm 
At    the    Earth-born's  spell  yawns    for 

Heaven's  despotism, 
And    Conquest    is     dragged     captive 

through  the  deep  : 
Love,  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient 

j  lower 
In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy 

hour 
Of  dead  endurance,  from  the  slippery, 

steep, 
And  narrow  verge  of  crag-like  agony, 

springs 
And   folds   over   the   world  its   healing 

wings. 

Gentleness.   Virtue,   Wisdom,    and    En- 
durance, 

These  are  the  seals  of  that   most   firm 
assurance 
Which  bars  the  gjft  over  Destruction's 
st  rength  : 

And  if,  with  infirm  hand.  Eternity, 

Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  should 
free 


338 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  serpen  1  that  would  clasp  her  with 
his  length  ; 
These  are  the  spells  hy  which  to  reas- 
sume 

An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom. 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks   in- 
finite ; 

To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or 
night ; 
To   defy  Power,   which  seems   omni- 
potent ; 

To   love,  and  bear  ;   to  hope   till   Hope 
creates 

From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  con- 
templates ; 
Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  re- 
pent ; 

This,  like  thy  glory.  Titan,  is  to  be 

Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and 
free  ; 

This  is  alone   Life,   Joy,   Empire,   and 
Victory.1  Sept.  1818-1819.     1820. 

1  The  prominent  feature  of  Shelley's  theory  of 
the  destiny  of  the  human  species  was  that  evil  is 
not  inherent  in  the  system  of  the  creation,  but 
an  accident  that  might  be  expelled.  This  also 
forms  a  portion  of  Christianity  :  God  made 
earth  and  man  perfect,  till  he,  by  his  fall, 

11  Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe." 

Shelley  believed  that  mankind  had  only  to  will 
that  there  should  be  no  evil,  and  there  would  be 
none.  It  is  not  my  part  in  these  Notes  to  notice 
the  arguments  that,  have  been  urged  against 
this  opinion,  but  to  mention  the  fact  that  he  en- 
tertained it,  and  was  indeed  attached  to  it  with 
fervent  enthusiasm.  That  man  could  be  so  per- 
fectionized  as  to  be  able  to  expel  evil  from  his 
own  nature,  and  from  the  greater  part  of  the 
creation,  was  the  cardinal  point  of  his  system. 
And  the  subject  he  loved  best  to  dwell  on  was 
the  image  of'One  warring  with  the  Evil  Princi- 
ple, oppressed  not  only  by  it.  but  by  all — even 
the  good,  who  were  deluded  into  considering  evil 
a  necessary  portion  of  humanity;  a  victim  full 
of  fortitude  and  hope  and  the  spirit  of  triumph, 
emanating  from  a  reliance  in  the  ultimate 
omnipotence  of  Good.  Such  he  had  depicted  in 
his  last  poem,  when  he  made  Laon  the  enemy 
and  t he  victim  of  tyrants.  He  now  took  a  more 
idealised  image  of  the  same  subject.  He  fol- 
lowed certain  classical  authorities  in  figuring 
Saturn  as  the  good  principle,  Jupiter  the  usurp- 
ing evil  one,  and  Prometheus  as  the  regenerator, 
who,  unable  to  bring  mankind  back  to  primitive 
innocence,  used  knowledge  as  a  weapon  to  de- 
feat evil,  by  leading  mankind,  beyond  the  state 
wherein  they  are  sinless  through  ignorance,  to 
that  in  which  they  are  virtuous  through  wisdom. 
Jupiter  punished  the  temerity  of  the  Titan  by 
chaining  him  to  a  rock  of  Caucasus,  and  causing 
a  vulture  to  devour  his  still-renewed  heart. 
There  was  a  prophecy  afloat  in  heaven  portend- 
ing the  fall  of  Jove,  the  secret  of  averting  which 
was  known  only  to  Prometheus  ;  and  the  god 
offered  freedom  from  torture  on  condition  of  its 
being  communicated  to  him.    According  to  the 


THE   SENSITIVE  PLANT 

Part  First 

A  Sensitive  Plant  in  a  garden  grew. 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver 

dew, 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the 

light. 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  o' 

night. 

And  the  Spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 

mythological  story,  this  referred  to  the  off- 
spring of  Thetis,  who  was  destined  to  be  greater 
than  his  father.  Prometheus  at  last  bought 
pardon  for  his  crime  of  enriching  mankind  with 
liis  gifts,  by  revealing  the  prophecy.  Hercules 
killed  the  vulture,  and  set  him  free;  and  Thetis 
was  married  to  Peleus,  the  father  of  Achilles. 

Shelley  adapted  the  catastrophe  of  this  story  to 
his  peculiar  views.  The  son  greater  than  his 
father,  born  of  the  nuptials  of  Jupiter  and 
Thetis,  was  to  dethrone  Evil,  and  bring  back  a 
happier  reign  than  that  of  Saturn.  Prometheus 
defies  the  power  of  his  enemy,  and  endures  cen- 
turies of  torture;  till  the  hour  arrives  when 
Jove,  blind  to  the  real  event,  but  darkly  guess- 
ing that  some  great  good  to  himself  will  flow, 
espouses  Thetis.  At  the  moment,  the  Primal 
Power  of  the  world  drives  him  from  his  usurped 
throne,  and  Strength,  in  the  person  of  Hercules, 
liberates  Humanity,  typified  in  Prometheus, 
from  the  tortures  generated  by  evil  done  or 
suffered.  Asia,  one  of  the  Oceanides,  is  the  wife 
of  Prometheus — she  was,  according  to  other  my- 
thological interpretations,  the  same  as  Venus 
and  Nature.  When  the  benefactor  of  mankind 
is  liberated,  Nature  resumes  the  beauty  of  her 
prime,  and  is  united  to  her  husband,  the  emblem 
of  the  human  race,  in  perfect  and  happy  union 
In  the  fourth  Act,  the  Poet  gives  further  scope 
to  his  imagination,  and  idealizes  the  forms  of 
creation — such  as  we  know  them,  instead  of  such 
as  they  appeared  to  the  Greeks.  Maternal 
Earth,  the  mighty  parent,  is  superseded  by  the 
Spirit  of  the  Earth,  the  guide  of  our  planet 
through  the  realms  of  sky  ;  while  his  fair  and 
weaker  companion  and  attendant,  the  Spirit  of 
the  Moon,  receives  bliss  from  the  annihilation  of 
Evil  in  the  superior  sphere. 

Shelley  develops  more  particularly  in  the 
lyrics  of  this  drama  his  abstruse  and  imagin- 
ative theories  with  regard  to  the  creation.  It 
requires  a  mind  as  subtle  and  penetrating  as  his 
own  to  understand  the  mystic  meanings  scat- 
tered throughout  the  poem.  They  elude  the 
ordinary  reader  by  their  abstraction  and  deli- 
cacy of  distinction,  but  they  are  far  from  vague. 
It  was  his  design  to  write  prose  metaphysical  es- 
says on  the  nature  of  Man,  which  would  have 
served  to  explain  much  of  what  is  obscure  in  his 
poetry  ;  a  few  scattered  fragments  of  observa- 
tions and  remarks  alone  remain.  He  considered 
these  philosophical  views  of  Mind  and  Nature  to 
be  instinct  with  the  intensest  spirit  of  poetry. 

More  popular  poets  clothe  the  ideal  with  fa- 
miliar and  sensible  imagery.  Shelley  loved  to 
idealize  the  real— to  gift  the  mechanism  of  the 
material  universe  with  a  soul  and  a  voice,  and  tc 
bestow  such  also  on  the  most  delicate  and  ab- 
stract emotions  and  thoughts  of  the  mind, 
Sophocles  was  his  great  master  in  this  species  of 
imagery.— (From  Mrs.  Shelley's  note.) 


SHELLEY 


339 


Like  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  ever}' where  ; 
And  each  flower   and    herb  on  Earth's 

dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with 
bliss 

In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilder- 
ness, 

Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's 
sweet  want, 

As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snowdrop  and  then  the  violet, 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain 

wet, 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh 

odor,  sent 
From  the   turf,  like  the  voice  and  the 

instrument. 

Then    the    pied   wind-flowers    and    the 

tulip  tall, 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's 

recess, 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness  ; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion 

so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is 

seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green  ; 

And   the   hyacinth   purple,   and  white, 

and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal 

anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 
It  was   felt    like    an    odor  within    the 

sense  ; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath 
addrest, 

Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glow- 
ing breast, 

Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 

The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay 
bare  : 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 
As  a  Maenad,  its  moonlight-colored  cup, 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 
Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender 
sky; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet 
tuberose, 


The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows  ; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant 
bosom 

Was  prankt  under  boughs  of  embower- 
ing blossom, 

With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting- 
through 

Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 
And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 
And  around   them  the  soft  stream  did 

glide  and  dance 
With  a    motion  of    sweet    sound    and 

radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of 

moss, 
Which   led   through   the   garden,  along 

and  across, 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the 

breeze, 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming 

trees, 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate 

bells 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels, 
And   flowrets   which   drooping   as    day 

drooped  too 
Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and 

blue, 
To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening 

dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 

The   flowers  (as  an  infant's   awakening 

eyes 
Smile    on    its    mother,   whose  singing 

sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken 

it), 

When   Heaven's   blithe  winds   had  un- 
folded them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem. 
Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun  ; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 

With  the  light  and  the  odor  its  neigh- 
bor shed. 

Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love 
make  dear 

Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual 
atmosuhere. 


34o 


BRITISH   POETS 


But    the   Sensitive    Plant   which   could 

give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  ii   felt  from  the  leaf 

to  the  roof . 
Received    more  than   all,  it  loved  more 

t  ban  ever. 
Where  none  wanted  but  it.  could  belong 

to  the  giver, 

For   the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright 

flower : 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower  ; 
It   !<>\cs.  even  like  Love,  its  deep  heart 

is  full. 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beautiful ! 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustain- 

ing  wings. 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings  ; 
The  beams   which   dart   from   many   a 

star 
Of  the   flowers   whose   hues   they   bear 

afar ; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 
Laden  with  light   and  odor,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass  ; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew.  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides 

high. 
Then    wander   like    spirits    among   the 

spheres, 
Each  cloud  faint   with  the  fragrance  it 

bears : 

The  quivering  vapors  of  dim  noontide, 
Which   like  a  sea  o'er  the  warm  earth 

glide, 
In  which   every  sound,  and     odor,  and 

beam, 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream  ; 

Each   and    all   like    ministering   angels 

were 
For   the   Sensitive   Plant  sweet  joy   to 

bear, 
Whilst   the   lagging   hours   of   the   day 

went  by 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And   when    evening     descended     from 

heaven  above, 
And  the  Earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air 

was  all  love. 
And   delight,   tho'  less  bright,  was   far 

more  deep. 
And  the  day's   veil  fell  from  the  world 

of  sleep. 


And  the  beasts,  and  the  birds,  and  the 
insects  were  drowned 

In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound  ; 

Whose  waves  never  mark,  tho'  they 
ever  impress 

The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  conscious- 
ness ; 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 
Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might 

fail, 
And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 
Were  mixed    with   the    dreams  of  the 

Sensitive  Plant.) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Up-gathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest ; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight, 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favorite, 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 

Part  Second 

There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden  ;  a  ruling  grace 
Which  to  the  flowers  did  they  waken  or 

dream, 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  Lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind, 
Whose   form   was   upborne   by  a  lovely 

mind 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien 

and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the 

ocean, 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even  : 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven, 
Like  the  lamps  of   the  air  when  night 

walks  forth, 
Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from 

the  Earth  ! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race, 

But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flush- 
ing face 

Told,  whilst  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep 
from  her  eyes 

That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than 
Paradise  : 

As  if  some  bright  Spirit  for  her  sweet 

sake 
Had  deserted   heaven    while   the  stars 

were  awake. 
As  if  vet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 
Tho'  the  veil  of  daylight  concealed  him 

from  her. 


SHELLEY 


34i 


Her   step   seemed   to   pity   the   grass  it 

pressed  : 
You  might    hear  hy  the  heaving  of  her 

hreast , 
That  the  coming  and  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion 

behind. 

And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod. 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 
Erased  its  light  vestige,   with  shadowy 

sweep, 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark  green 

deep. 

I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  gai'den 

sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet  ; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  lingers  thro'  all  their 

frame. 

She   sprinkled   bright    water   from   the 

stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny 

beam  ; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She   emptied   the   rain   of  the   thunder 

showers. 

She  lifted   their  heads  with  her  tender 

hands. 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier 

bands  ; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants 

she 
Could   never   have   nursed   them    more 

tenderly. 

And.  all   killing    insects   and   gnawing 

worms. 
And  things    of    obscene    and    unlovely 

forms, 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof, 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof, 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild-flowers 

lull. 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 
For   the   poor  banished   insects,   whose 

intent. 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee  and  the  beamlike  ephemeris 
Whose  path  is  the  lightning's,  and  soft 

moths  that,  kiss 
The  sweet  lips  of  the  flowers,  and  harm 

not,  did  she 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 


And  man)'  an  antenatal  tomb, 

Where   butterflies   dream   of  the  life  to 

come. 
She  left  clinging  round  the  smooth  and 

dark 
Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark. 

This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 
Thus  moved  through  the  garden  minis- 
tering 
All  the  sweet  season  of  summer  tide, 
And  ere  the  first  leaf  looked  brown — she 
died  ! 

Part  Third 

Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair, 
Like  stars  when  the  moon  is  awakened, 

were, 
Or  the  waves  of  Baias,  ere  luminous 
She   floats   up    through    the    smoke   of 

Vesuvius.  . 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 
Felt  t  he  sound  of  the  funeral  chant, 
And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and 

slow, 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners  deep  and 

low  ; 

The  weary  sound  and  the  heavy  breath, 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death, 
And   the   smell,   cold,    oppressive,    and 

dank. 
Sent   through  the    pores  of  the  coffin 

plank  ; 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among 

the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did 

pass ; 
From   their  sighs    the    wind   caught   a 

mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines,  and  gave  groan 

for  groan. 

The   garden  once   fair,  became  cold  and 

foul, 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its 

soul. 
Which  at  first  was  lovelv  as  if  in  sleep, 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grewa  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 

Swift  summer  into  the  .autumn  flowed, 
And    frost    in    the    mist  of  the  morning 

rode, 
Though  the  noonday   sun   looked  clear 

and  brigut , 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 


34- 


BRITISH   POETS 


The  rose  leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson 

snow. 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 
The  lilies  were  drooping,  and  white,  and 

wan. 
Like  the  head  and   the   skin  of  a  dying 

man. 

And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 
Leaf  by  leaf,  day  after  day. 
Were  massed  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  gray, 

and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what 

is  dead, 
Like  troops  of  ghosts  on  the    dry  wind 

past ; 
Their   whistling   noise   made   the   birds 

aglrast. 

And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged 

seeds, 
Out  of  their  birthplace  of  ugly  weeds, 
Till   they   clung   round    many   a  sweet 

flower's  stem, 
Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were 

set ; 
And   the   eddies   drove  them   here  and 

there, 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then  the    rain    came    down,    and   the 

broken  stalks. 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks; 
And  the   leafless    network    of   parasite 

bowers 
Massed  into  ruin  ;  and  all  sweet  flowers. 

Between  the  time   of  the  wind  and  the 

snow, 
All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow, 
Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splashed  with 

many  a  speck, 
Like   the   water-snake's    belly   and   the 

toad's  back. 

And  thistles,  and  nettles,  and  darnels 
rank, 

And  the  dock,  and  henbane,  and  hem- 
lock dank, 

Stretched  out  its  long  and  hollow  shank, 

And  stifled  the  air  till  the  dead  wind 
stank. 

And  plants,  at  whose  names  the  verse 
feels  loath, 


Filled  the  place  with  a  monstrous  under 

growth, 
Prickly,  and  pulpous,  and  blistering,  and 

blue, 
Livid,  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew. 

And   agarics,   and   fungi,  with   mildew 

and  mould 
Started  like  mist  from   the  wet   ground 

cold  ; 
Pale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 
With     a     spirit    of    growth    had    been 

animated  ! 

Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum, 
Made   the   running    rivulet    thick    and 

dumb 
And  at  its  outlet  flags  huge  as  stakes 
Dammed   it  up   with  roots  knotted  like 

water  snakes. 

And  hour   by   hour,  when   the  air  was 

still, 
The  vapors   arose  which  Lave    strength 

to  kill  : 
At  morn  they  were  seen,  at  noon  they 

were  felt, 
At    night   they  were   darkness   no   star 

could  melt. 

And  unctuous   meteors   from   spray   to 

spray 
Crept  and  flitted  in  broad  noonday 
Unseen  ;   every   branch   on  which  they 

alit 
By  a  venomous  blight  was  burned  and 

bit. 

The  Sensitive  Plant  like  one  forbid 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves  which  together  grew 
Were    changed    to  a   blight   of    frozen 
glue. 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches 

soon 
By  the   heavy   axe  of    the  blast   were 

hewn  ; 
The    sap    shrank  to   the   root   through 

every  pore 
As  blood  to  a  heart   that   will  beat  no 

more. 

For   Winter    came :    the    wind  was  his 

whip  : 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  lip  : 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills 
And    they   clanked   at   his    girdle    like 

manacles ; 


SHELLEY 


343 


His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without 
a  sound 

The  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the  water 
bound  ; 

He  came,  fiercely  driven,  in  his  chariot- 
throne 

By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  arctic  zone. 

Then   the   weeds  which  were  forms  of 

living  death 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost ! 

And   under   the  roots   of  the   Sensitive 

Plant 
The  moles  and  the   dormice   died  for 

want : 
The  birds  dropped  stiff  from  the  frozen 

air 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked 

and  bare. 

First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain 
And  its  dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs 

again. 
Then  there  steamed  up  a  freezing  dew 
Which   to  the   drops   of   the  thaw-rain 

grew  ; 

And  a  northern   whirlwind,  wandering 

about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child 

out, 
Shook  the  boughs  thus  laden,  and  heavy 

and  stiff, 
And   snapped   them  off   with  his  rigid 

griff. 

When  winter  had  gone  and  spring  came 

back 
The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck  ; 
But  the  mandrakes,  and  toadstools,  and 

docks,  and  darnels, 
Rose   like   the   dead  from   their   ruined 

charnels. 

Conclusion 

Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which   within  its  boughs   like   a  spirit 

sat 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

Whether  that  lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  form  combined 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light, 
Found  sadness,  where  it  left  delight, 


I  dare  not  guess  ;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  tilings  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream, 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  j-et 
Pleasant  if  one  considers  it, 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair, 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odors  there, 
In  truth  have  never  passed  away  : 
'Tis  we,  'tis  ours,  are  changed  ;  not  they. 
1820.     1820. 

THE  CLOUD 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting 
flowers, 
From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when 
laid 
In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From   my    wings  are  shaken  the  dews 
that  waken 
The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's 
breast, 
As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 
And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 
And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 
While   I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the 
blast. 
Sublime  on  the    towers    of    my  skiey 
bowers, 
Lightning  my  pilot  sits, 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 
Over    earth     and    ocean,    with    gentle 
motion, 
This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea  ; 
Over  the  rills,  and    the   crags,  and  tne 
hills, 
Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or 
stream, 
Tli«'  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And    I   all   the   while   bask  in  heaven's 
bine  smile, 
Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 


344 


BRITISH    POETb 


The   sanguine  sunrise,  \\ith  his  meteor 
ej  es, 
Ami  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shims  dead, 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which    an    earthquake    rocks    and 
swings, 
\n  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  lighi  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the 
lit  sea  beneat  h, 
lis  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love. 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 
From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy 
nest, 
As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden. 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides   glimmering   o*er   my   fleecedike 
floor, 
By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen 
feet, 
Which  only  the  angels  bear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's 
thin  roof, 
The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  : 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind  built 
tent, 
Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me 
on  high, 
Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and 
these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning 
zone, 
And    the   moon's   with   a   girdle  of 
pearl ; 
The   volcanoes   are   dim,   and  the  stars 
reel  and  swim, 
When    tiie    whirlwinds    my  banner 
unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like 
shape, 
Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 
The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The   triumphal   arch   through  which   I 
inarch 
With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained 
to  my  chair, 
Is  the  mil  lion -colored  bow  ; 


The  sphere-lire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 
While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing 
below, 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth   and   water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 
I  pass  through   the  pores  of  the  ocean 
and  shores  : 
I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain   when  with  never  a 
stain, 
The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their 
convex  gleams, 
Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  ceuotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a   child   from   the   womb,   like   a 
ghost  from  the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

1S.V.     1820. 

TO   A  SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art, 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring 
ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just 
begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art   unseen,    but   yet   I   hear   thy 
shrill  delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that   it   is 
there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud, 


SHELLEY 


345 


As.  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The   moon    rains    out    her    beams,    and 
heaven  is  overflowed. 

"What  thou  art  we  know  not  ; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of 
melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with   hopes   and    fears   it 

heeded  not  : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music;  sweet  as  love,  which   over- 
flows her  bower : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew. 
Scat  teri ng  un beholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among   the   flowers   and   grass,    which 
screen  it  from  the  view  : 

Like  a  rose  embowei'ed 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet   these 
heavy-winged  thieves  : 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  (dear,  and  fresh,  thy  music 
doth  surpass : 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweci  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never hca id 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture   so 
divine. 

Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt. 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is   some 
hidden  want. 


What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ; 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ig- 
norance of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad 
satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in   such  a 
crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not  : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of 
saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If. we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should 
come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of 
the  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,    as   I   am 
listening  now.         1820.     1820. 

TO 


I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden, 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 

My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  bin-then  thine. 

1  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion, 
Thou  needest  not   fear  mine; 

Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  1  worship  thine. 

1820.     1824. 


34^ 


RRITISH   POETS 


AKETHUSA 

ARETHUSA  arose 

From  Ler  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Aoroceraunian  mountains, — 

From  cloud  and  from  crag, 

With  many  a  jag, 
Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 

She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 

With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams  ; — 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 

The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams  : 

Anil  gliding  and  springing 

She  went,  ever  singing, 
In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep  ; 

The  Earth  seemed  to  love  her, 

And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 
As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 

Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks  ; — with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below. 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  River-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 

As  he  followed  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

"  Oh,  save  me  !  Oh,  guide  me  ! 

And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 
For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair  !  " 

The  loud  Ocean  heard, 

To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 
And  divided  at  her  prayer  ; 

And  under  the  water 

The  Earth's  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a  sunny  beam  ; 

Behind  her  descended 

Her  billows,  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream  : — 

Like  a  gloomy  stain 

On  the  emerald  main 
Alpheus  rushed  behind, — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 


Under  the  bowers 

Where  the  Ocean  Powers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones, 

Through  the  coral  woods 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 
Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones  ; 

Through  the  dim  beams 

Which  amid  the  streams 
Weave  a  network  of  colored  light ; 

And  under  the  caves, 

Where  the  shadowy  waves 
Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night  ',—- 

Outspeeding  the  shark. 

And  the  sword-fish  dark, 
Under  the  ocean  foam, 

And  up  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  mountain  clifts 
They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 

Like  friends  once  parted 

Grown  single-hearted, 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill  ; 

At  noontide  they  flow 

Through  the  woods  below 
And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel ; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore  ; 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 

1820.     1824. 

HYMN  OF  PAN 

From  the  forests  and  highlands 

We  come,  we  come  ; 
From  the  river-girt  islands, 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme, 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  oelow  in  the  grass, 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was, 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 

Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing, 

And  all  dark  Tempe  lay 

In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  day, 
Speeded  by  my  sweet  pipings. 


SHELLEY 


347 


The   Sileni,   and   Sylvans,   and    Fauns, 
And   the   Nymphs  of  the   woods  and 
waves, 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns, 

And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves, 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow 
Were  silent    with    love,    as   you  now, 
Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

I  sang  of  the  daedal  Earth, 
And  of  Heaven — and  the  giant  wars, 

And  Love,  and  Death,  and  Birth, — 
And  then    I    changed   my   pip- 
ings,— 
Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Menalus 
I  pursued  a  maiden  and  clasp'd  a  reed  : 
Gods  and  men,  we   are  all  deluded  thus  ! 
It  breaks  in  our  bosom  and  then  we 
bleed  : 
All  wept,  as  I  think  both  ye  now  would, 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood, 
At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 
1820.     1824. 

THE   QUESTION 

I  dreamed  that,  as  I  wandered  by  the 
way, 
Bare  winter  suddenly  was  changed  to 
spring. 
And  gentle  odors  led  my  steps  astray, 
Mixed   with  a  sound  of   waters   mur- 
muring 
Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and   hardly  dared  to 
fling 
Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the 

stream, 
But    kissed    it  and    then  fled,    as  thou 
mightest  in  dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 
Daisies,  those  pearled  Arcturi  of  the 
earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets  ; 
Faint   ox   lips ;    tender    bluebells,    at 
whose  birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved  ;  and  that  tall 
flower  that  wets — 
Like  a  child,  half  in  tenderness  and 
mirth  — 
Its  mother's  face  with  heaven's  collected 

tears, 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice, 
it  hears. 

And    in    the    warm   hedge    grew    lush 
eglantine, 


Green     cowbind  and    the  moonlight- 
colored  May. 
And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups, 
whose  wine 
Was  the  bright   dew,  yet  drained  not 
by  the  day  ; 
And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine, 
With   its  dark   buds  and  leaves,  wan- 
dering asti'ay ; 
And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streaked 

with  gold. 
Fairer  than  any  wakened  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge, 
There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple 
prankt  with  white, 
And  starry  river  buds  among  the  sedge, 
And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and 
bright, 
Which    lit   the   oak  that   overhung  the 
hedge 
With   moonlight   beams  of   their  own 
watery  light ; 
And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep 

green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober 
sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,   bound  in  such  a 

way 
That  the    same   hues,    which    in    their 

natural  bowers 
Were   mingled   or    opposed,   the  like 

array 
Kept   these   imprisoned   children  of  the 

Hours 
Within    my   hand, — and    then,   elate 

and  gay, 
I   hastened  to  the   spot   whence   I  had 

come, 
That  I  might   there  present   it ! — oh  !  to 

whom?  1820.     1822. 

SONG 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight  ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 
Win  t  bee  back  again  ? 

Willi  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 
Spirit  false  !  thou  liasl  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 


348 


BRITISH    POETS 


As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf. 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed  ; 

1  '.\  en  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure, 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure, 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  drest, 

And  the  starry  night  ; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 

When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 

1  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost ; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Every  thing  almost 
"Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good  ; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

I  love  Love — though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee, 
But  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee — 
Thou  art  love  and  life  !     Oh  come, 
MaRe  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 
IS 20. l     1824. 

TO  THE  MOON 

Art  thou  pale  for  Aveariness 
Of  climbing  heaven  and  gazing  on   the 
earth, 
"Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that   have   a  different 

birth, — 
And  ever  changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy? 
1820.     1824. 

1  Though  included  hy  Mrs.  Shelley,  and  by  later 
editors,  among  the  poems  fit'  1821,  there  is  a 
copy  of  this  poem  in  the  Harvard  College  Man- 
uscripts, dated  in  Shelley's  handwriting,  "Pisa, 
May,  1820."  See  note  in  Edward  Dowden's 
Edition  of  Shelley. 


THE  WORLD'S  WANDERERS 

Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light 
Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight, 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  now  ? 

Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  gray 
Pilgrim  of  heaven's  homeless  way, 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 
Seekest  thou  repose  now  ? 

Weary  wind,  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest, 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow? 

1820.     1824. 

TIME  LONG  PAST 

Like  the  ghost  of  a  dear  friend  dead 

Is  Time  long  past. 
A  tone  which  is  now  forever  fled, 
A  hope  which  is  now  forever  past, 
A  love  so  sweet  it  could  not  last, 

Was  Time  long  past. 

There  were  sweet  dreams  in  the  night 
Of  Time  long  past : 
And,  was  it  sadness  or  delight, 
Each  day  a  shadow  onward  cast 
Which  made  us  wish  it  yet  might  last- 
That  Time  long  past. 

There  is  regret,  almost  remorse, 

For  Time  long  past. 
'Tis  like  a  child's  beloved  corse 
A  father  watches,  till  at  last 
Beauty  is  like  remembrance,  cast 

From  Time  long  past. 
1820.     1870. 

EPIPSYCHIDION 

VERSES    ADDRESSED  TO    THE    NOBLE    AND 

UNFORTUNATE    LADY,    EMILIA   V , 

NOW     IMPRISONED     IN     THE     CONVENT 
OF 

L'anima  ..  mante  si  slancia  fuori  del  creato,  e 
si  crea   nel   infinito  un  Mondo   tutto  per  essa, 
diverso  assai  da  questo  oscuro  e  pauroso  baratro. 
Her  own  words. 

Sweet  Spirit !  Sister  of  that  orphan 

one, 
Whose  empire  is  the  name  thou  weepest 

on, 
In  my  heart's  temple  I  suspend  to  thee 
These      votive      wreaths     of     withered 

memory. 


SHELLEY 


349 


Poor   captive    bird !    who,     from    thy 

narrow  cage, 
Pourest   such  music,    that  it   might  as- 
suage 
The  rugged  hearts  of  those  who  prisoned 

thee. 
Were  they  not  deaf  to  all  sweet  melody  ; 
This  song  shall  be  thy  rose  :  its  petals 

pale 
Are  dead,  indeed,  my  adored  Nightin- 

gale  ! 
But    soft    and    fragrant    is    the    faded 

blossom, 
And  it  has  no  thorn  left  to  wound  thy 

bosom. 

High,  spirit-winged   Heart !  who  dost 

for  ever 
Beat  thine  unfeeling  bars  with  vain  en- 
deavor, 
Till  those  bright  plumes  of  thought,   in 

which  arrayed 
It    over-soared    this    low    and    worldly 

shade, 
Lie  shattered  ;  and  thy  panting,  wounded 

breast 
Stains  with  dear  blood  its   unmaternal 

nest ! 
I   weep   vain   tears  :    blood   would    less 

bitter  be, 
Yet  poured  forth  gladlier,  could  it  profit 

thee. 

Seraph   of  Heaven  !  too  gentle   to   be 

human, 
Yeiling   beneath   that   radiant   form   of 

Woman 
All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 
Of  light,  and  love,  and  immortality  ! 
Sweet  Benediction  in  the  eternal  Curse  ! 
Veiled  Glory  of  this  lampless  Universe  ! 
Thou   Moon   beyond   the  clouds !     Thou 

living  Form 
Among  the  Dead  !    Thou  Star  above  the 

Storm! 
Thou    Wonder,    and   thou   Beauty,   and 

thou  Terror ! 
Thou  Harmony   of  Nature's  art!     Thou 

Mirror 
In  whom,  as  in  the  splendor  of  the  Sun, 
All  shapes    look   glorious   which    thou 

gazest  on  ! 
Ay,  even  the  dim  words  which  obscure 

thee  now 
Flash,     lightning  like,     with     unaccus- 

•    tomed  glow  ; 
I  pray  thee  that  thou  blot  from  this  sad 

song 
All  of  its  much  mortality  and  wrong, 


With  those  clear  drops,  which  start  like 

sacred  dew 
From   the   twin   lights   thy   sweet   soul 

darkens  through, 
Weeping,  till  sorrow  becomes  ecstasy  : 
Then  smile  on  it,  so  that  it  may  not  die. 

I  never  thought   before   my  death   to 

see 
Youth's     vision     thus     made    perfect. 

Emily, 
I   love   thee ;  though   the   world   by  no 

thin  name 
Will  hide  that  love,  from  its  unvalued 

shame. 
Would  we  two  had  been  twins  of  the  same 

mother  ! 
Or,  that   the   name    my    heart   lent   to 

another 
Could   be  a  sister's    bond   for   her  and 

thee, 
Blending  two  beams  of  one  eternity  ! 
Yet  were  one  lawful  and  the  other  true, 
These  names,  though  dear,  could  paint 

not,  as  is  due. 
How  beyond  refuge  I  am  thine.     Ah  me  ! 
I  am  not  thine  :  I  am  a  part  of  thee. 

Sweet  Lamp  !  my  moth-like  Muse  has 

burnt  its  wings; 
Or,  like   a   dying   swan    who  soars  and 

sings, 
Young  Love   should   teach  Time,  in  his 

own  gray  style, 
All  that  thou  art.     Art  thou  not  void  of 

guile, 
A  lovely   soul   formed  to  be   blest   and 

bless  ? 
A  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness, 
Whose    waters    like     blithe    light  and 

music  are, 
Vanquishing  dissonance  and  gloom?     A 

Star 
Which      moves     not     in     the     moving 

Heavens,  alone  ? 
A   smile  amid   dark   frowns?     a  gentle 

tone 
Amid  rude  voices?  a  beloved  Light  ? 
A  Solitude,  a  Refuge,  a  Delight? 
A  Lute   which   those   whom   Love  has 

taught  to  play 
Make  music  on,  to   soothe  the   roughest 

day 
And  lull    fond   grief  asleep?   a   buried 

t  reasure  ? 
A  cradle  of  young  thoughts  of  wingless 

pleasure  : 
A     violet-shrouded    grave   of   Woe? — I 

measure 


35° 


KK1T1SH    POETS 


The   world  of   fancies,  seeking   one  like 

tliee, 
And  rind — alas  !  mine  own  infirmity. 

She    met   me.    Stranger,   upon   life's 

rough  way, 
And  hired  me  towards  sweet  Death  ;  as 

Night  by  Day, 
Winter  by  Spring,  or   Sorrow   by  swift 

Hope, 
Led  into  light,  life,  peace.     An  antelope, 
In  the  suspended   impulse  of  its  light- 
ness, 
Were  less  ethereally  light  :  the   bright- 
ness 
Of    her     divinest     presence     trembles 

through 
Her  limbs,  as  underneath  a  cloud  of  dew 
Embodied    in    the    windless   Heaven   of 

June 
Amid    the    splendor-winged  stars,    the 

Moon 
Burns,  inextinguishably  beautiful : 
And  from  her  lips,  as   from  a  hyacinth 

full 
Of  honey -dew,  a   liquid  murmur  drops, 
Killing  the  sense  with  passion  ;  sweet 

as  stops 
Of  planetary  music  heard  in  trance. 
In   her   mild   lights   the    starry    spirits 

dance, 
The  sunbeams  of  those  wells  which  ever 

leap 
Under  the   lightnings  of  the  soul — too 

deep 
For  the  brief  fathom-line  of  thought  or 

sense. 
The  glory  of  her  being,  issuing  thence, 
Stains   the   dead,  blank,  cold  air~with  a 

warm  shade 
Of  unentangled  intermixture,  made 
By  Love,  of  light   and  motion  :  one  in- 
tense 
Diffusion,  one  serene  Omnipresence, 
Whose  flowing  outlines  mingle  in  their 

flowing 
Around  her   cheeks  and  utmost  fingers 

glowing 
With   the   unintermitted   blood,    which 

there 
Quivers  (as  in  a  fleece  of  snow-like  air 
The   crimson   pulse   of   living   morning 

quiver), 
Continuously     prolonged,     and    ending 

never, 
Till   they   are  lost,  and  in  that  Beauty 

furled 
Which  penetrates  and  clasps  and   fills 

the  world ; 


Scarce  visible  from  extreme  loveliness. 
Warm  fragrance  seems  to  fall  from  her 

light  dress 
And   her  loose  hair  ;  and   where  some 

heavy  tress 
The  air  of  her  own  speed  has  disentwined, 
The  sweetness  seems  to  satiate  the  faint 

wind  ; 
And  in  the  soul  a  wild  odor  is  felt, 
Beyond  the  sense,  like  fiery  dews  that    ' 

melt  i 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  frozen  bud. — 
See  where  she  stands !  a  mortal  shape 

indued 
With  love  and  life  and  light  and  deity, 
And  motion  which  may  change  but  can- 
not die  ; 
An  image  of  some  bright  Eternity  ; 
A   shadow   of  some   golden     dream  ;   a 

Splendor 
Leaving  the  third  sphere  pilotless  ;   a 

tender 
Reflection  of  the  eternal  Moon  of  Love 
Under  whose  motions  life's  dull  billows 

move  ; 
A  Metaphor  of  Spring  and  Youth  and 

Morning  ; 
A  Vision  like  incarnate  April,  warning, 
With     smiles     and    tears,     Frost     the 

Anatomy 
Into  his  summer  grave. 

Ah,  woe  is  me! 
What  have  I  dared  ?  where  am  I  lifted  ? 

how 
Shall  I  descend,  and  perish  not  ?     I  know 
That   Love   makes   all   things   equal :   I 

have  heard 
By  mine   own   heart   this  joyous  truth 

averred  : 
The  spirit  of  the  worm  beneath  the  sod 
In  love  and  worship,  blends  itself   with 

God. 

Spouse  !  Sister !   Angel !   Pilot  of  the 

Fate 
Whose  course  has  been  so  starless  I  Oh, 

too  late 
Beloved  !  Oh,  too  soon  adored,  by  me  1 
For  in  tue  fields  of  immortality 
My  spirit  should  at  first  have  worshipped 

thine, 
A  divine  presence  in  a  place  divine  ; 
Or  should  have  moved  beside  it  on  this 

earth, 
A  shadow   of   that   substance,   froni,  its 

birth ; 
But  not  as  now  : — I  love  thee  ;  yes,  I  feel 
That  on  the  fountain  of  my  heart  a  seal 


SHELLEY 


3S 


Is  set,  to  keep  its  waters  pure  and  bright 
For  thee,  since  in  those  tears  thou   hast 

delight. 
We — are    we   not   formed,   as   notes  of 

music  are, 
For  one  another,  though  dissimilar  : 
Such  difference  without  discord,  as  can 

make 
Those   sweetest   sounds,    in    which    all 

spirits  shake 
As  trembling  leaves  in  a  continuous  air? 

Thy  wisdom  speaks   in    me,    and   bids 

me  dare 
Beacon  the  rocks  on  which  high   hearts 

are  wrecked. 
I  never  was  attached  to  that  great  sect, 
Whose  doctrine  is,  that  each  one  should 

select 
Out  of  the  crowd  a  mistress  or  a   friend, 
And  all  the  rest,  though  fair  and   wise, 

commend 
To  cold   oblivion,    though  it   is  in   the 

code 
Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 
Which   those   poor  slaves   with   weary 

footsteps  tread, 
Who   travel   to   their  home  among  the 

dead 
By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world,  and 

so 
With   one   chained    friend,    perhaps    a 

jealous  foe, 
The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 

True  Love   in   this  differs   from  gold 

and  clay 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Love  is  like  understanding,  that  grows 

bright, 
Gazing  on   many   truths;  'tis   like   thy 

light, 
Imagination  !  which  from  earth  and  sky. 
And  from   the  depths  of  human   phan- 
tasy, 
As  from  a  thousand  prisms  and  mirrors, 

fills 
The  Universe  with  glorious  beams,  and 

kills 
Error,  the  worm,  with   many  a  sun-like 

arrow 
Of  its  reverberated  lightning'.     Narrow 
The   heart    that   loves,    the    brain   that 

contemplates, 
The   life    that    wears,   the    spirit    that 

creates 
One  object,   ami  one  form,  and  builds 

t  hereby 
A  sejmk-hre  for  its  eternity. 


Mind  from   its  object   differs  most  in 

this : 
Evil  from  good  ;  misery  from  happiness  ; 
The  baser  from  the  nobler  ;  the  impure 
And  frail,  from  what  is  clear  and  must 

endure. 
If  you  divide  suffering  and  dross,   you 

may 
Diminish  till  it  is  consumed  away  ; 
If  you   divide   pleasure   and    love    and 

thought, 
Each  part  exceeds  the  whole ;  and  we 

know  not 
How  much,  while  any  yet  remains  un- 
shared, 
Of  pleasure   may  be   gained,    of  sorrow 

spared  : 
This   truth   is   that   deep   well,  whence 

sages  draw 
The  unenvied  light  of  hope  ;   the  eternal 

law 
By  which  those  live,  to  whom  this  world 

of  life 
Is  as  a  garden  ravaged,  and  whose  strife 
Tills  for  the  promise  of  a  later  birth 
The  wilderness  of  this  Elysian  earth. 

There  was  a   Being  whom  my  spirit 

oft 
Met    on   its    visioned    wanderings,    far 

aloft, 
In  the  clear  golden  prime  of  my  youth's 

dawn, 
Upon  the  fairy  isles  of  sunny  lawn, 
Amid  the  enchanted  mountains,  and  the 

caves 
Of   divine   sleep,    and   on   the     air-like 

waves 
Of  wonder-level   dream,   whose  tremu- 
lous floor 
Paved  her  light  steps  ; — on  an  imagined 

shore, 
Under  the  gray  beak  of  some  promon- 
tory 
She  met  me,  robed  in  such  exceeding 

glory, 
That  I  beheld  her  not.     In  solitudes 
Her  voice    came    to   me    through    the 

■whispering  woods, 
And  from  the  fountains,  and  the  odors 

deep 
Of  flowers,  which,  like  lips  murmuring 

in  their  sleep 
Of   the   sweet    kisses   which   had  lulled 

them  there, 
Breathed  I  ml  of  Iwr  to  the  enamored  air; 
And  from   the   breezes  whether  low  or 

loud. 
And  from  the  rain  of  every  passing  cloud, 


352 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  from   the  singing  of  the  summer 

birds, 
And    from   all   sounds,    all    silence.     In 

the  words 
Of  antique  verse  and  high  romance, — in 

renin, 
Sound,  color — in    whatever  checks  that 

Storm 
Which  with  the  shattered  present  chokes 

the  pasl  ; 
And  in  that  best  philosophy,  whose  taste 
Makes  this  cold  common  hell,  our  life,  a 

doom 
As  glorious  as  a  fiery  martyrdom  ; 
Her  Spirit  was  the  harmony  of  truth. — 

Then,  from  the  caverns  of  my  dreamy 

youth 
I  sprang,  as  one  sandalled  with  plumes 

of  fire. 
And    towards    the    loadstar  of  my  one 

desire, 
I  flitted,  like  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight 
Is  as  a  dead  leaf's  in  the  owlet  light, 
When  it  would  seek  in  Hesper's   setting 

sphere 
A  radiant  death,  a  fiery  sepulchre, 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  flame. — 
But  She,   whom  prayer's  or  tears  then' 

could  not  tame, 
Passed,    like  a  God  throned  on  a  winged 

planet, 
Whose  burning  plumes  to  tenfold  swift- 
ness fan  it, 
Into  the  dreary  cone  of  our  life's  shade  ; 
And  as  a  man  with  mighty  loss  dismayed, 
I    would    have     followed,    though    the 

grave  between 
Yawned  like  a  gulf   whose   spectres   are 

unseen : 
When  a  voice  said  : — "  O  Thou  of  hearts 

the  weakest. 
The  phantom  is  beside  thee  whom   thou 

seekest." 
Then    I — "Where?"    the   world's   echo 

answered  "  where  !  " 
And  in  that    silence,  and  in  my  despair, 
I  questioned  every  tongueless  wind  that 

flew 
Over  my  tower  of  mourning,  if  it   knew 
Whither  'twas  fled,  this  soul  out  of   my 

soul  ; 
And  murmured  names  and  spells  which 

have  control 
Over  the  sightless  tyrants  of  our  fate  ; 
But  neither  prayer  nor  verse  could  dis- 
sipate 
The    night    which  closed  on   her  ;     nor 

uncreate 


That  world  within  this  Chaos,  mine  and 

me, 
Of  which  she  was  the  veiled  Divinity, 
The  world  I  say  of  thoughts    that    wor- 
shipped her  : 
And  therefore  I  went   forth,   with   hope 

and  fear 
And  every  gentle  passion  sick  to  death, 
Feeding   my  course  with    expectation's 

breath, 
Into  the  wintry  forest  of  our  life  ; 
And  struggling  through   its   error   with 

vain  strife. 
And  stumbling  in  my  weakness  and  my 

haste. 
And  half  bewildered  by  new  forms,  I  past 
Seeking  among  those  untaught  foresters 
If  I  could  find  one  form  resembling  hers, 
In  which  she  might  have  masked  her- 
self from  me. 
There, — One,  whose  voice  was  venoined 

melody 
Sate  by  a  well,  under  blue    nightshade 

bowers  ; 
The  breath  of  her  false  mouth  was  like 

faint  flowers, 
Her  touch  was  as  electric  poison, — flame 
Out  of  her  looks  into  my  vitals  came, 
And  from  her  living   cheeks  and  bosom 

flew 
A  killing  air,  which  pierced  like  honey- 
dew 
Into  the  core  of  my  green  heart,  and  lay 
Upon  its  leaves  ;  until,  as  hair  grown  gray 
O'er  a  young  brow,  they  hid  its  unblown 

prime 
With  ruins  of  unseasonable  time. 

In  many  mortal  forms  I  rashly  sought 
The  shadow  of  that  idol  of  my  thought. 
And  some   were   fair — but    beauty   dies 

away  : 
Others  were  wise — but  honeyed  words 

betray : 
And  One  was  true — oh  !   why  not  true 

to  me  ? 
Then,  as  a  hunted   deer  that   could   not 

flee, 
I  turned  upon  my  thoughts,   and   stood 

at  bay, 
Wounded   and   weak   and   panting;  the 

cold  day 
Trembled,  for  pity  of  my  strife  and  pain. 
When,    like  a    noonday    dawn,     there 

shone  again 
Deliverance.     One   stood   on   my     path 

who  seemed 
As  like  the   glorious   shape  which  I  had 

dreamed, 


SHELLEY 


353 


As  is  the  Moon,  whose  changes  ever  run 
Into  themselves,  to  the  eternal  Sun  ; 
The   cold   chaste    Moon,   the   Queen  of 

Heaven's  bright  isles. 
Who   makes  all    beautiful  on  which  she 

smiles. 
That  wandering  shrine   of  soft  yet   icy 

flame 
Which  ever  is  transformed,  yet  still  the 

same, 
And  warms  not  but   illumines.     Young 

and  faii- 
As  the  descended  Spirit  of  that  sphere, 
She  hid  me,  as  the  Moon  may  hide   the 

night 
From  its   own   darkness,   until  all   was 

bright 
Between  the  Heaven  and   Earth   of   my 

calm  mind, 
And,  as  a  cloud  charioted  by  the  wind, 
She  led  me  to  a  cave  in  that  wild   place, 
And  sate  beside  me,  with  her  downward 

face 
Illumining  my  slumbers,  like   the  Moon 
Waxing  and  waning  o'er  Endymion. 
And  I  was  laid  asleep,  spirit  and  limb, 
And  all  my  being  became  bright  or  dim 
As  the  Moon's  image  in  a  summer  sea, 
According  as  she  smiled  or   frowned  on 

me  ; 
And  there  I  lay,  within  a   chaste   cold 

bed  : 
Alas.  I  then  was  nor  alive   nor   dead  : — 
For  at  her  silver  voice  came  Death   and 

Life, 
Unmindful   each  of    their    accustomed 

strife, 
Masked  like   twin   babes,  a   sister  and  a 

brother, 
The  wandering  hopes  of  one  abandoned 

mother, 
And  through  the  cavern  without  wings 

they  flew, 
And   cried  "  Away,     he   is   not   of   our 

crew." 
I  wept,   and   though   it  be   a     dream.  I 

Weep. 

What  storms  then  shook  the  ocean  of 

my  sleep, 
Blotting   that    Moon,    whose   pale    and 

waning  lips 
Then  shrank     as     in    the     sickness     of 

eclipse  ; — 
And  how  my  soul  was  as  a  lampless  sea, 
And    who  was   then  its  Tempest  ;   and 

when  She, 
The  Planet  of  that  hour,  was  quenched, 

what  frost 

23 


Crept  o'er  those   waters,  till   from  coast 

to  coast 
The  moving  billows  of  my  being  fell 
Into  a  death  of  ice,  immovable  ; — 
And   then — what   earthquakes  made   it 

gape  and  split. 
The  white  Moon  smiling  all   the   while 

on  it, 
These  words  conceal : — If  not,  each  word 

would  be 
The  key  of  stanchless  tears.     Weep  not 

for  me  ! 

At   length,   into  the   obscure    Forest 

came 
The  Vision  I  had  sought   through   grief 

and  shame. 
Athwart     that    wintry    wilderness     of 

thorns 
Flashed  from   her  motion  splendor   like 

the  Morn's 
And  from  .her  presence  life  was  radiated 
Through   the  gray   earth   and   branches 

bare  and  dead  ; 
So  that  her  way  was  paved,  and  roofed 

above 
With  flowers  as  soft  as  thoughts  of  bud- 
ding love  ; 
And  music  from  her  respiration  spread 
Like  light, — all  other  sounds  were  pene- 
trated 
By  the  small,  still,  sweet  spirit  of  that 

sound, 
So   that  the   savage   winds  hung  mute 

around  ; 
And  odors  warm  and  fresh  fell  from  her 

hair, 
Dissolving  the  dull  cold  in  the  frore  air  : 
Soft  as  an  Incarnation  of  the  Sun, 
When   light    is   changed    to   love,    this 

glorious  One 
Floated  into  the  cavern  where  I  lay, 
And'called  my  Spirit,  and  the  dreaming 

clay 
Was  lifted  by  the  thing  that  dreamed 

below 
As  smoke  by  fire,  and   in  her  beauty's 

glow 
I  stood,  and  felt  the  dawn  of  my  long 

ni<^ht 
Was  penetrating  me  with  living  light: 
I  knew  it  was  the  Vision  veiled  from  me 
So  many  years — that  it  was  Emily. 

Twin  Spheres  of  light  who  rule  this 

passive  Kart h, 
This  world    of  love,  this  me ;  and   into 

birth  [dart 

Awaken  all  its  fruits  and  flowers,  and 


354 


BRITISH    POKl'S 


Magnetic  might  into  its  central  hear!  ; 
And  lift  its  billows  and  its  mists,  and 

guide 
By  everlasting  laws,  each  wind  and  tide 
To  its  lit  cloud,  and  its  appointed  cave  : 
And  lull  its  storms,  each  in  the  craggy 

-rave 
Which    was   its  cradle,  luring  to  faint 

bowers 
The     armies     of    the     rainbow-winged 

showers  ; 
And,    as    those    married   lights,    which 

from  the  tQwers 
Of  Heaven  look  forth  and  fold  the  wan- 
dering globe 
In  liquid  sleep  and  splendor,  as  a  robe; 
And   all   their  many-mingled  influence 

blend, 
If  equal,  yet  unlike,  to  one  sweet  end  ; — ■ 
So  ye,   1  night    regents,    with   alternate 

sway 
Govern  my  sphere  of  being,  night  and 

day  ! 
Thou,  not  disdaining  even  a   borrowed 

might : 
Thou,  not  eclipsing  a  remoter  light ; 
And,     through     the     shadow     of      the 

seasons  three, 
From  Spring  to  Autumn's  sere  maturity, 
Light  it  into  the  Winter  of  the  tomb, 
Where  it  may  ripen  to  a  brighter  bloom. 
Thou  too,  O  Comet  beautiful  and  fierce. 
Who  drew  the  heart  of  this  frail  Uni- 
verse 
Towards  thine   own ;    till,    wrecked   in 

that  convulsion, 
Alternating  attraction  and  repulsion, 
Thine  went  astray  and  that  was  rent  in 

twain  ; 
Oh.  float  into  our  azure  heaven  again  ! 
Be  there  love's  folding-star  at  thy  return  ; 
The  living  Sun  will  feed  thee  from  its 

urn  [horn 

Of  golden  fire;  the  Moon  will  veil  her 
In  thy  last   smiles  ;   adoring  Even  and 

Morn 
Will  worship  thee  with  incense  of  calm 

breath 
And  lights  and  shadows  ;  as  the  star  of 

Death 
And    Birth    is     worshipped     by     those 

sisters  wild 
Called  Hope  and  Fear — upon  the  heart 

are  piled 
Their  offerings, — of  this  sacrifice  divine 
A  world  shall  be  the  altar. 

Lady  mine, 
Scorn  not  these  flowers  of  thought,  the 

fading  birth 


Which  from  its  heart  of  hearts  that  plant 

puts  forth 
Whose  fruit,  made  perfect  by  thjr sunny 

eyes, 
Will  he  as  of  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

The  day  is  come,   and  thou   wilt   fly 

with  me. 
To  whatsoe'er  of  dull  mortality 
Is  mine,  remain  a  vestal  sister  still  ;• 
To  the  intense,  the  deep,  the  imperish- 
able. 
Not   mine   but  me,  henceforth  be  thou 

united 
Even   as   a    bride,    delighting  and    de- 
lighted. 
The   hour   is   come  : — the  destined  Star- 
has  risen 
Which   shall  descend    upon    a    vacant 

prison. 
The  walls  are  high,  the  gates  are  strong, 

1  hick  set 
The  sentinels— but  true  love  never  yet 
Was   thus  constrained  :  it  overleaps  all 

fence  : 
Like  lightning,  with  invisible  violence 
Piercing  its   continents  ;  like   Heaven's 

free  breath, 
Which   he   who  grasps   can   hold   not ; 

liker  Death, 
Who  rides  upon  a  thought,  and   makes 

his  way 
Through  temple,  tower,  and  palace,  and 

the  array 
Of  arms  ;  more  strength  has  Love  than 

he  or  they  ; 
For  it  can  burst  his  charnel,  and  make 

free 
The  limbs  in  chains,  the  heart  in  agony, 
The  soul  in  dust  and  chaos. 

Emily, 
A  ship  is  floating  in  the  harbor  now, 
A  wind  is  hovering  o'er  the  mountain's 

brow  : 
There  is  a  path  on  the  sea's  azure  floor, 
No  keel  has  ever  ploughed  that  path 

before ; 
The  halcyons  brood  around  the  foamless 

isles  ;  [wiles  ; 

The  treacherous  Ocean  has  forsworn  its 
The  merry  mariners  are  bold  and  free  : 
Say,   my  heart's   sister,    wilt   thou  sail 

with  me  ? 
Our  bark  is  as  an  albatross,  whose  nest 
Is  a  far  Eden  of  the  purple  East ; 
And    we   between   her   wings  will  sit, 

while  Night 
And  Day,  and  storm,  and  Calm,  pursue 

their  flight, 


SHELLEY 


355 


Our  ministers,  along  the  boundless  Sea, 
Treading  each  other's  heels,  unheededly. 
It  is  an  Isle  under  Ionian  skies, 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  Paradise, 
And,  for  the  harbors  are  not  safe  and 

good, 
This  land  would  have  remained  a  soli- 
tude 
But   for   some   pastoral    people    native 

there, 
Who  from  the  Elysian,  clear,  and  golden 

aii- 
Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold, 
Simple  and  spirited  ;  innocent  and  bold. 
The  blue  ^Egean  girds  this  chosen  home, 
With  ever-changing  sound  and  light  and 

foam, 
Kissing   the  sifted   sands,   and  caverns 

hoar  ; 
And  all  the  winds  wandering  along  the 

si  iore 
Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide  : 
There   are    thick    woods   where    sylvan 

forms  abide  : 
And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet,  and  pond, 
As  clear  as  elemental  diamond. 
Or  serene  morning  air  ;  and  far  beyond, 
The  mossy   tracks  made  by  the  goats 

and  deer 
(Which  the  rough  shepherd  treads  but 

once  a  year), 
Pierce  into  glades,  caverns,  and  bowers, 

and  halls 
Built  round  with  ivy,  which  the  water- 
falls 
Illumining,  with  sound  that  never  fails 
Accompany  the  noonday  nightingales; 
And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet 

airs  ; 
The  light  clear  element  which  the  isle 

wears 
Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers, 
Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen 

showers 
And   falls   upon   the   eyelids  like  faint 

sleep  ; 
And  from  the  moss  violets  and  jonquils 

peep, 
And  dart  their  arrowy  odor  through  the 

brain 
Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious 

pain. 
And  every  motion,  odor,  beam,  and  tone 
With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison  : 
Which  is  a  soul  within  the  soul — they 

seem 
Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream. — 
It  is  an  isle  'twixt  Heaven,  Air,  Earth, 

and  Sea, 


Cradled,  and  hung  in  clear  tranquility; 
Bright  as  that  wandering  Eden  Lucifer. 
Washed    by  the    soft    blue    Oceans  of 

young  air, 
It  is  a  favored  place.    Famine  or  Blight, 
Pestilence,  War,  and  Earthquake,  never 

light 
Upon    its    mountain-peaks ;    blind   vul- 
tures, they 
Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fatal  way  : 
The    winged     storms,     chanting     their 

thunder-psalm 
To  other   lands,  leave  azure  chasms  of 

calm 
Over  this  isle,  or  weep  themselves  in  dew, 
From  which  its  fields  and  woods   ever 

renew 
Their  green  and  golden  immortality. 
And  from  the  sea  there  rise,  and  from 

the  sky 
There  fall,  clear  exhalations,  soft  and 

bright. 
Veil  after  veil,  each  hiding  some  delight, 
Which   Sun   or   Moon  or  zephyr   draw 

aside, 
Till  the  isle's  beauty,  like  a  naked  bride 
Glowing  at  once  with  love  and  loveli- 
ness, 
Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  own  excess  : 
Yet,  like  a  buried  lamp,  a  Soul  no  less 
Burns  in  the  heart  of  this  delicious  isle, 
An    atom   of   th'   Eternal,    whose    own 

smile 
Unfolds  itself,  and  may  be  felt,  not  seen 
O'er   the   gray   rocks,  blue   waves,  and 

forests  green, 
Filling  their  bare  and  void  interstices. — 
But  the  chief  marvel  of  the  wilderness 
Is   a   lone   dwelling,  built   by  whom  or 

how 
None  of  the  rustic  island-people  know  ; 
Tis   not   a   tower  of   strength,   though 

with  its  height 
It  overtops  the  woods  ;  but,  for  delight, 
Some  wise  and  tender  Ocean-King,  ere 

crime 
Had  been  invented,  in  the  world's  young 

prime, 
Reared  it,  a  wonder  of  that  simple  time. 
An  envy  of  the  isles,  a  pleasure-house 
Made  sacred  to  his  sister  and  his  spouse. 
It  scarce  seems  now  a  wreck  of  human 

art, 
But.  as  it  were  Titanic ;  in  the  heart 
Of  Earth  having  assumed  its  form,  then 

grown 
Out  of  the  mountains,  from  the  living 

stone. 
Lifting  itself  in  caverns  light  and  high! 


356 


[U  riSH    POETS 


For  all  the  antique  and  Learned  imagery 
Has  been  erased,  and  in  the  place  oi  it 
The  ivy  and  the  wild-vine  interknit 
The   volumes  of    their    many  twining 

stems  ; 
Parasite  floweis  illume  with  dewy  ^ems 
The  lampless  halls,  and  when  they  fade, 

the  sky 
Peeps    through    their   winter-woof     of 

tracery 
With  Moonlight  patches,  or  star  atoms 

keen, 
Or     fragments    of    the     day's     intense 

serene  ; — 
Working  mosaic  on  their  Parian  floors. 
And,   day   and   night,    aloof,   from   the 

high  towers 
And  terraces,  the  Earth  and  Ocean  seem 
To  sleep  in  one  another's  arms,  and  dream 
Of  waves,  flowers,  clouds,  woods,  rocks, 

and  all  that  we 
Read  in  their  smiles,  and  call  reality. 

This  isle  and  house  are  mine,  and  I 

have  vowed 
Thee  to  be  lady  of  the  solitude. — 
And   I   have   fitted   up  some  chambers 

there 
Looking  towards  the  golden  Eastern  air, 
And  level  with  the  living  winds,  which 

flow 
Like    waves    above    the    living    waves 

below. — 
I  have  sent  books  and  music  there,  and 

all 
Those    instruments    with    which     high 

spirits  call 
The  future  from  its  cradle,  and  the  past 
Out  of  its  grave,  and  make  the  present 

last 
In  thoughts  and  joys  which  sleep,  but 

cannot  die. 
Folded  within  their  own  eternity. 
Our  simple   life  wants  little,   and  true 

taste 
Hires  not  the  pale  drudge  Luxury,  to 

waste 
The  scene  it  would  adorn,  and  therefore 

still. 
Nature  with  all  her  children,  haunts  the 

hill. 
The  rin^-dove,  in  the  embowering  ivy, 

yet 

Keeps  up  her  love-lament,  and  the  owls 

flit 
Round  the  evening  tower,  and  the  young 

stars  glance 
Between  the  quick  bats  in  their  twilight 

dance ; 


The    spotted    deer    bask    in    the    fresh 

moonlight 
Before   our   gate,  and   the    slow,    silent 

night 
Is  measured  by  the  pants  of  their  calm 

sleep. 
Be  this  our  home  in  life,  and  when  years 

heap 
Their  withered   hours,  like   leaves,   on 

our  decay, 
Let  us  become  the  overhanging  day, 
The  living  soul  of  this  Elysian  isle, 
Conscious,  inseparable,  one.     Meanwhile 
We   two   will   rise,  and   sit,    and   walk 

together, 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Ionian  weather, 
And  wander  in  the  meadows,  or  ascend 
The  mossy  mountains,  where  the  blue 

heavens  bend 
With  lightest  winds,  to  touch  their  para- 
mour ; 
Or  linger,  where  the  pebble-paven  shore, 
Under  the  quick,  faint  kisses  of  the  sea 
Trembles  and  sparkles  as  with  ecstasy, — 
Possessing  and  possest  by  all  that  is 
Within  that  calm  circumference  of  bliss, 
And  by  each  other,  till  to  love  and  live 
Be  one  :— or,  at  the  noontide  hour,  arrive 
Where  some  old  cavern  hoar  seems  yet 

to  keep 
The   moonlight   of    the    expired    night 

asleep, 
Through   which  the  awakened  day  can 

never  peep  ; 
A  veil  for  our  seclusion,  close  as  Night's, 
Where    secure    sleep    may    kill    thine 

innocent  lights ; 
Sleep,  the  fresh  dew  of  languid  love,  the 

rain 
Whose    drops   quench    kisses    till  they 

burn  again. 
And  we  will  talk,  until  thought's  melody 
Become  too  sweet  for  utterance,  and  it 

die 
In  words,  to  live  again  in  looks,  which 

dart 
With   thriling  tone    into   the   voiceless 

heart, 
Harmonising  silence  without  a  sound. 
Our  breath  shall  intermix,  our  bosoms 

bound, 
And  our  veins   beat   together  ;  and  our 

lips 
With  other  eloquence  than  words,  eclipse 
The  soul  that  burns  between  them,  and 

the  wells 
Which    boil    under   our   being's   inmost 

cells. 
The  fountains  of  our  deepest  life,  shall  be 


SHELLEY 


357 


Confused  in  passion's  golden  purity, 
As  mountain-springs  under  the  morning 

Sun. 
We  shall  become  the  same,  we  shall  he 

one 
Spirit  within  two  frames,  oh  !  wherefore 

two? 
One  passion  in  twin-hearts,  which  grows 

and  grew, 
Till  like  two  meteors  of  expanding  flame, 
Those   spheres  instinct  with    it  become 

the  same, 
Touch,  mingle,   are   transfigured  ;  ever 

still 
Burning,  yet  ever  inconsumable  : 
In  one  another's  substance  finding  food, 
Like  flames  too  pure  and  light  and  un- 

imbued 
To  nourish  their  bright  lives  with  baser 

prey, 
Which  point  to  Heaven  and  cannot  pass 

away  : 
One   hope   within   two   wills,   one    will 

beneath 
Two  overshadowing  minds,  one  life,  one 

death. 
One  Heaven,  one  Hell,  one  immortality, 
And  one  annihilation.     Woe  is  me  ! 
The  winged    words   on   which   my   soul 

would  pierce 
Into  the  height  of  love's  rare  Universe, 
Are  chains  of  lead  around  its  flight  of 

fire— 
I  pant,  I  sink,  I  tremble,  I  expire  ! 


Weak     Verses,     go,     kneel    at    your 

Sovereign's  feet, 
And  say  : — "  We  are  the  masters  of  thy 

slave  ; 
What  wouldest  thou  with   us   and  ours 

and  thine  ?  " 
Then  call  your   sisters   from   Oblivion's 

cave, 
All  singing  loud  :  "  Love's  Arery  pain  is 

sweet . 
But  its  reward  is  in  the  world  divine 
Which,  if  not  hen-,  it  builds  beyond  the 

grave." 
So  shall  ye  live  when  I  am  there.     Then 

haste 
Over  the  hearts  of  men,  until  ye  meet 
Marina,  Vanna,  Primus,  and  the  rest, 
And  bid  them  love  each  other  and  be 

blest ; 
And  leave  the   troop   which   errs,   and 

which  reproves. 
And  come  and  be  my  guest, — for  I  am 

Love's.  /.     1821. 


TO   NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk    o'er  the  western  wave 

Spirit  of  Night  ! 
Out  of  thy  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 
Star-inwrought  ! 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day  ; 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 
Come,  long  sought  ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee  ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was 

gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 
I  sighed  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me? — And  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee  ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead 

Soon,  too  soon — ■ 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled  ; 
Of  neither  would  1  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon  ! 

1821.     1324. 

TIME 

Unfathomable  Sea  !  whose  waves  are 
years, 
Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep 
woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human 
tears  ! 
Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in    thy 
ebb  and  flow 
( Jlaspest  the  limits  of  mortality  ! 
And  sick  of  pray,  yet  howling  on  lor 
more, 
Vomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable 
shore  ; 


35S 


BRITISH    POETS 


Treacherous  in  calm,  and   terrible  in 
storm, 
Who  shall  put  forth  on  tliee, 
Unfathomable  Sea  ?         1821.     1824. 

SONNET:     POLITICAL    GREATNESS 

Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame, 
Nor   peace,    nor   strength,    nor   skill   in 

arms  or  arts. 
Shepherd   those    herds   whom  tyranny 

makes  tame  ; 
Verse  echoes   not  one   beating  of  their 

hearts, 
History    is   but    the    shadow    of    their 

shame, 
Art  veils  her  glass,  or  from  the  pageant 

starts 
As    to    oblivion    their    blind     millions 

fleet, 
Staining     that    Heaven    with   obscene 

imagery 
Of     their     own    likeness.       What    are 

numbers  knit 
By   force  or    custom  ?     Man  who  man 

would  be, 
Must  rule  the  empire  of  himself  ;  in  it 
Must     be     supreme,     establishing     his 

throne 
On  vanquished    will,  quelling    the   an- 
archy 
Of  bopes  and  fears,  being  himself  alone. 
1S21.     1824. 

MUTABILITY 

The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  dies ; 
All  that  we  wish  to  stay 

Tempts  and  then  flies. 
What  is  this  world's  delight? 
Lightning  that  mocks  the  night, 

Brief  even  as  bright. 

Virtue,  how  frail  it  is  ! 

Friendship  how  rare! 
Love,  how  it  sells  poor  bliss 

For  proud  despair  ! 
But  we,  though  soon  they  fall, 
Survive  their  joy,  and  all 

Which  ours  we  call. 

AVliilst  skies  are  blue  and  bright. 

Whilst  flowers  are  gay, 
Whilst  eyes  that  change  ere  night 

Make  glad  the  day  ; 
Whilst  yet  the  calm  hours  creep, 
Dream  thou — and  from  thy  sleep 

Then  wake  to  weep. 

l.s.Jl.     1824. 


A  LAMENT 

O  world  !  O  life  !  O  time  ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood 
before  ; 
When  will   return    the  glory   of  your 
prime  ? 
No  more — Oh,  never  more  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight  ; 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter 
hoar, 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with 
delight 
No  more — Oh,  never  more  ! 

1821.     1824. 

TO 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken, 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 
And   so   thy  thoughts,  when   thou  art 

gone 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

1821.     1824. 

ADONAIS 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  KEATS, 
AUTHOR  OP  ENDYMION,  HYPERION,  ETC. 

'Aarfjp  irpiv  fi'ev  e?Mfnreg  ivl  ^uolaiv  'EcJof 
Kw  6e  Oavuv  Aa/nveig  "Earvepog  ev  (p6i/ievoi(;. 

Plato. 

I  weep  for  Adonais — be  is  dead  ! 

Oh  weep  for  Adonais!  though  our  tears 

Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear 

a  head ! 
.And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected    from  all 

years 
To   mourn  our  loss,  rouse   thy  obscure 

compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow  !  Say  : 

"With  me 
Died  Adonais  ;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall 

be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity  !  " 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when 

he  lay, 
When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft 

which  flies 


SHJtU.i.rLV 


359 


In  darkness  ?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?     With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamored 

breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies 
With    which,    like   flowers    that   mock 

the  corse  beneath, 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk 

of  death. 

Oh  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead  ! 

Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and 
weep ! 

Yet  wherefore  ?  Quench  within  their 
burning  bed 

Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  lov'd  heart 
keep, 

Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining 
sleep ; 

For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise 
and  fair 

Descend; — oh.  dream  not  that  the  am- 
orous Deep 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 

Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and 
laughs  at  our  despair. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again 
Lament  anew,  Urania  ! — He  died, 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,     old.     and      lonely,    when     his 

country's  pride, 
The  priest,  the  slave.  a.nd  the  liberticide, 
Trampled    and    mocked   with     many   a 

loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood  ;  he  went,  unterrified, 
Into   the  gulf  of   death  ;    but  his   clear 

Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er   earth  ;  the  third   among 

the  sons  of  light. 

Most  musical  of   mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Not  all  to  that   bright  station  dared  to 

climb  ; 
And   happier  they  their  happiness    who 

knew. 
Whose   tapers    yet   burn   through   that 

night  of  time 
In    which   suns   perished  ;   others  more 

sublime, 
Struck   by   the   envious  wrath   of    man 

or  God, 
Have   sunk,   extinct  in   their    refulgent 

prime  ; 
And  some  yet   live,  treading  the  thorny 

road, 
Which   leads,  through   toil  and  hate,  to 

Fame's  serene  abode. 


But   now,    thy   youngest,    dearest    one 

has  perished, 
The   nursling   of  thy   widowhood,    who 

grew, 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden 

cherished, 
And  fed  with  true  love  teafs,  instead  of 

dew  ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Thy   extreme    hope,  the    loveliest   and 

the  last, 
The   bloom,    whose   petals    nipt    before 

they  blew 
Died  on   the   promise   of    the   fruit,   is 

waste  ; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  over- 
past. 

To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps    his    pale    court    in    beaut}'   and 

decay. 
He   came  ;    and   bought,  with    price  of 

purest  breath, 
A   grave   among    the    eternal.  —  Come 

away  ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue   Italian 

day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  ch'arnel-roof  !  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay  ; 
Awake  him  not  !   surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all 

ill. 

He    will    awake    no    more,    oh,    never 

more  ! — - 
Within    the   twilight   chamber   spreads 

apace, 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the 

door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to    her  dim   dwelling- 
place  ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,   but  pity  and 

awe 
Soothe   her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to 

deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal 

curtain  draw. 

Oh    weep    for    Adonais  !  — ■  The     quick 

Dreams. 
The  passion-winged  M  inistersof  thought, 

Who  were    his    flocks,    whom    near  the 

living  st  reams 
Of  his  young  spirit  lie  fed,  and  whom  he 

taught 
The  love    which  was   its  music,  wander 

not, — 


36° 


URITISH    POETS 


Wander  do  more,  from  kindling  brain  to 

brain, 
But   droop  there,  whence  they  sprung  ; 

and  mourn  their  lot 
Round  tlit'  cold  heart,  where,  after  their 

sweet  nain. 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find 

a  home  again. 

And    one   with   trembling  hands   clasps 

his  cold  head. 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings, 

and  cries  ; 
'•  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not 

dead  ; 
See,  on   the  silken   fringe  of   his   faint 

eyes, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there 

lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from 

his  brain.'' 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise  ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own  ;  as  with  no 

stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  out- 
wept  its  rain. 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming 

them  ; 
Another   dipt    her   profuse   locks,    and 

threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem. 
Which    frozen   tears   instead   of    pearls 

begem  ; 
Another     in     her     wilful     grief    would 

break 
Her   bow   and  winged   reeds,   as   if    to 

stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more 

weak-  ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen 

cheek. 

Another  Splendor  on  his  mouth  alit, 

That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw 
the  breath 

Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the 
guarded  wit, 

And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  be- 
neath 

With  lightning  and  with  music  :  the 
damp  death 

Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips  ; 

And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 

Of  moonlight  vapor,  which  the  cold 
night  elips. 

It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and 
passed  to  its  eclipse. 


And  others  came  .  .  .  Desires  and 
Adorations, 

Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Des- 
tinies, 

Splendors  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering 
Incarnations 

Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phan- 
tasies ; 

And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 

And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by 
the  gleam 

Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 

Came  in  slow  pomp  ; — the  moving  pomp 
might  seem 

Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal 
stream. 

All    he    hi,d    loved,   and  moulded  into 

thought, 
From    shape,   and  hue,   and  odor,   and 

sweet  sound, 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her   eastern   watchtower,  and  her  hair 

unbound. 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn 

the  ground, 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day  ; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing 

in  their  dismay. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  moun- 
tains, 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered 

lay, 
And   will   no   more   reply   to   winds   or 

fountains. 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young 

green  spray, 
Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing 

day  ; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more 

dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined 

away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds: — a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the 

woodmen  hear. 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and 

she  threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,   as  if    she  Autumn 

were, 
Or  they  dead  leaves  ;  since  her  delight  is 

flown 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the 

sirllen  year? 
To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear 


SHELLEY 


361 


Not  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou   Adonais  :    wan   they   stand    and 

sere 
Amid    the    faint    companions   of    their 

youth. 
With  dew  all   turned  to  tears  ;  odor,  to 

sighing  ruth. 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale. 

Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodi- 
ous pain  ; 

Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could 
scale 

Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's 
domain 

Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth 
complain, 

Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty 
nest, 

As  Albion  wails  for  thee  ;  the  curse  of 
Cain 

Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  inno- 
cent breast 

And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its 
earthly  guest ! 

Ah  woe   is  me !     Winter   is   come  and 

gone, 
But   grief    returns   with   the   revolving 

year  : 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous 

tone  : 
The   ants,    the   bees,   the    swallows   re- 
appear ; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead 

Seasons*  bier  ; 
The  amorous   birds   now  pair  in  every 

brake. 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and 

brere  ; 
And  the   green  lizard,  and   the   golden 

snake, 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their 

trance  awake. 

Through  wood  ami  stream  and  field  and 

hill  ami  Ocean 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart 

lias  burst 
As  it   lias  ever  done,  with   change  and 

motion, 
From   the  great  morning  of  the  world 

when  first 
God  dawned  on  Chaos  ;  in  its  stream  im- 
mersed 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer 

light ; 
All  baser  things  pant  witli  life's  sacred 

thirst  ; 


Diffuse  themselves  ;  and  spend  in  love's 

delight, 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed 

might. 

The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit 

tender 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath  ; 
Like   incarnations   of   the    stai-s,    when 

splendor 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine 

death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes 

beneath  : 
Nought  we  know.  dies.  Shall  that  alone 

which  knows 
Be   as   a   sword    consumed   before    the 

sheath 
By    sightless     lightning? — th'     intense 

atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most 

cold  repose. 

Alas !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal  !    Woe  is  me  ! 
Whence  are  we,  and 'why  are  we?  of 

what  scene 
The   actors   or   spectators?    Great    and 

mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what 

life  must  borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are 

green. 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night   urge 

the  morrow. 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year 

wake  year  to  sorrow. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  nevermore  ! 
"Wake    thou,"  cried     Misery,    "child- 
less Mother,  rise 
Out   of   thy    sleep,   and    slake,   in    thy 

heart's  core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears 

and  si.u'hs." 
And     all    the     Breams    that    watched 

Urania's  e\  es, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom   their   sister's 

song 
Had      held      in    holy     silence,     cried: 

'•  Arise!" 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory 

stung, 
From    her    ambrosial   rest    the   fading 

Splendor  sprung. 

She  rose   like  an   autumnal   Night,  that 
springs 


362 


BRITISH    POETS 


Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and 
drear 

The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal 
wings, 

Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 

Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.  Sorrow 
and  fear 

So  struck,  so   roused,   so   rapt   Urania  ; 

So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmo- 
sphere 

Of  stormy  mist;  so  swept  her  on  her 
way 

Even  to  the  mournful  place  where 
Adonais  lay. 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 
Through  camps  and   cities  rough   with 

stone,  and  steel. 
And   human   hearts,  which  to  her   airy 

tread 
Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet   where'er  thev 

fell: 
And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more 

sharp  than  they 
Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could 

repel. 
Whose    sacred    blood,    like   the    young 

tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers   that   unde- 
serving way. 

In   the   death    chamber   for  a  moment 

Death 
Shamed  by   the  presence  of  that  living 

Might 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the   breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 
Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her 

dear  delight. 
"  Leave   me   not   wild    and    drear   and 

comfortless, 
As   silent   lightning  leaves  the   starless 

night ! 
Leave     me     not !  "  cried     Urania  .-  her 

distress 
Roused  Death  :  Death  rose  and   smiled, 

and  met  her  vain  caress. 

"Stay  yet  awhile!  speak  to  me  once 

again ; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live  ; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning 

brain 
That  word,  that  kiss,  shall  all   thoughts 

else  survive, 
With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 
Now  thou  art   dead,  as  if  it   were  a  part 
Of   thee,    my    Adonais!     I  would    give 


All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art! 
But  I  am   chained  to   Time,  and  cannot 
thence  depart  ! 

'•O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths 

of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though 

mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  where  was 

then 
Wisdom   the   mirrored  shield,  or  scorn 

the  spear  ? 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle, 

when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent 

sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled 

from  thee  like  deer. 

11  The     herded     wolves,    bold     only    to 

pursue  ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the 

dead  ; 
The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner 

true 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion  ; — how 

they  fled, 
When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow, 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And    smiled  ! — The    spoilers    tempt   no 

second  blow, 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn 

them  lying  low. 

"  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  rep- 
tiles spawn  ; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again  : 
So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men  : 
A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven, 

and  when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that   dimmed   or 

shared  its  light 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's 
awful  night." 

Thus    ceased  she :    and    the   mountain 

shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles 

rent ; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his 

song 


SHELLEY 


363 


In  sorrow  ;  from  her  wilds  Ierne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music 
from  his  tongue. 

Midst  others  of    less    note,   came    one 

frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men  ;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose   thunder   is   its   knell;  he,   as   I 

guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the   world's  wil- 
derness, 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged 

way, 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father 
and  their  prey. 

A  pardlike  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked  ; — a  Power 
Girt    round     witli     weakness  ; — it    can 

scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour  ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A   breaking    billow  ; — even    whilst    we 

speak 
Is  it    not    broken?    On   the   withering 

flower 
The  killing  sun   smiles   brightly  :  on   a 

cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while 

the  heart  may  break. 

His  head  was  bound   with  pansies  over- 
blown. 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and 

blue  ; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress 

cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses 

grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday 

dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  thai  grasped  it; 

of  that  crew 
lb'  came  Hie  last,  neglected  and  apart; 
A  herd-abandoned   deer  struck  by  the 

hunter's  dar< . 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial    moan 
Smiled  through  their   tears;  well  knew 

that  genl  le  hand 
Who  in  another's  late  now  wept  his  own  ; 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land, 
He     sung     new     sorrow  ;      sad     Urania 

scanned 


The   Stranger's   mien,   and   murmured: 

"  Who  art  thou?  " 
He  answered  not,   but   with   a  sudden 

hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined 

brow, 
Which  was  like   Cain's  or   Christ's — oh, 

that  it  should  be  so  1 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the 

dead  ? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle 

thrown  ? 
What  form  leans  sadly   o'er  the  white 

deathbed, 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 
The    heavy    heart    heaving    without    a 

moan  ? 
If  it   be  He,  who,  gentlest   of  the  wise, 
Taught,    soothed,     loved,    honored   the 

departed  one  ; 
Let  me     not   vex,   with    inharmonious 

sighs 
The    silence    of    that   heart's   accepted 

sacrifice. 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh  I 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could 

crown 
Life's  early  cup  with   such  a  draught  of 

woe  ? . 
The    nameless   worm   would   now  itself 

disown  : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,   hate,  and 

wrong, 
But  what   was   howling    in   one   breast 

alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Win  ise  master's  hand  is  cold,  wdiose  silver 

lyre  unstrung. 

Live    thou,    whose   infamy    is   not  thy 

fame  ! 
Live  !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from 

me, 
Thou   noteless   blot  on   a    remembered 

name  ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be  ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'er- 

flow  : 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall   cling 

to  thee  ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon   thy  secret 

brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou 

shalt — as  now.1 

1  See  the  note  on  page  254. 


364 


BRITISH    POETS 


Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream 

lie  low  ; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps   with   the   enduring 

dead  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar   where  he  is  sitting 

now. — 
Dust  to   the   dust!  but  the  pure,  spirit 

shall  How 
Back  to  the   burning   fountain   whence 

it  came, 
A  portion  of  the   Eternal,    which   must 

glow 
Through  time   and   change,   unquench- 

ably  the  same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid 

hearth  of  shame. 

Peace,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,   he   doth 

not  sleep — 
He  hath  awakened   from   the   dream  of 

life— 
'Tis  we,  who  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife. 
And   in    mad    trance,    strike   with   our 

spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings. —  lir<;  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel  ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  with- 
in our  living  clay. 

He   has   outsoared   the   shadow   of   our 

night  ; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain. 
And  that  unrest  which   men  miscall  de- 

light, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 
From  the  contagion   of  the  world's  slow 

stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray 

in  vain  ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to 

burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented 

urn. 

He  lives,  he   wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead, 

not  he  ; 
Mourn  not   for   Adonais, — Thou   young 

Dawn  [thee 

Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,   for  from 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone  ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 
Cease  ye   faint    flowers  and  fountains, 

and  thou  Air 
Which  like   a   mourning  veil   thy   scarf 

hadst  thrown 


O'er  the  abandoned   Earth,  now  leave  it 

bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on 

its  despair ! 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature  :   there   is 

heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder  to  the  song  of   night's  sweet 

bird  ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and 

stone, 
Spreading   itself    where'er  that   Power 

may  move 
Which  has   withdrawn  his  being  to   its 

own  • 
Which   wields    the   world     with   never 

wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it 

above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made   more  lovely  :  he 

doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the   one  Spirit's   plastic 

stress 
Sweeps  through   the   dull  dense   world, 

compelling  there 
All  new  successions  to   the   forms   they 

wear ; 
Torturing     th'     unwilling     dross     that 

checks  its  flight    • 
To  its  own  likeness,  as   each   mass   may 

bear  ; 
And  bursting  in  its  oeauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the 

Heaven's  light. 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be   eclipsed,  but   are   extinguished 

not ; 
Like   stars   to    their    appointed    height 

the_y  climb 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot 

blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty 

thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live 

there 
And   move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark 

and  stormy  air. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from    their   thrones,   built   beyond 

mortal  thought, 
Far  in  the  Unapparent,     Chatterton 


SHELLEY 


365 


Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet   faded   from    him  ;    Sidney,   as    he 

fought 
And  as  lie  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved 
Sublimel}'  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot. 
Arose ;      and      Lucan,     by     his     death 

approved : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing 
_ reproved. 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth 

are  dark 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot 

die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
'•  Thou  art  become  as  one  of   us,"   they 

cry, 
"  It  was   for   thee   yon   kingless  sphere 

lias  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper 

of  our  throng  !  " 

Who  mourns    for   Adonais  ?     Oh   come 

forth 
Fond   wretch  !    and    know  thyself  and 

him  aright. 
Clasp     with     thy     panting     soul      the 

pendulous  Earth  ; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond   all     worlds,    until   its   spacious 

might 
Satiate    the    void   circumference  :   then 

shrink 
Even    to   a   point   within   our   day  and 

'dght  ; 
And  keep  thy    heart  light  lest  it  make 

thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured 

thee  to  the  brink. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre 
Oh!  not  of   him,    but   of   our   joy:   'tis 

nought 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie    buried    in    the    ravage   they    have 

wrought  ; 
For  such  as  he  can   lend, — they  borrow 

not 
Glory  from  those  who    made   the    world 

their  prey  ; 
And    he   is    gathered    to    the    kings   of 

thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's 

decay, 
4.nd  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass 

away. 


Go  thou  to  Rome. — at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness  ; 
And    where    its   wrecks   like   shattered 

mountains  rise, 
And     flowering     weeds,     and    fragrant 

copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness, 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the 

dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers   along   the 

grass  is  spread. 

And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which 

dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sub- 
lime. 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble  ;  and 

beneath. 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched    in   Heaven's  smile   their 

camp  of  death 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  ex- 
tinguished breath. 

Here  pause  :  these  graves  are  all  too 
young  as  yet 

To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which 
consigned 

Its  charge  to  each  ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 

Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning 
mind, 

Break  it  not  thou  !  too  surely  shalt  thou 
find  [home, 

Thine  own  well  full,   if   thou   returnest 

Of  tears  and  gall.  From  the  world's 
hitter  wind 

Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 

What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  be- 
come ? 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and 

pass  ; 
Heaven's   light   forever  shines,   Earth's 

shadows  fly  ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it    to    fragments. 

—Die, 
If    thou    wouldst   be    with   that   which 

thou  di  >st  seek  ! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled  !— Rome's  azure 

sky,  [are  weak 

Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words. 
The   glory  they   transfuse   with  fitting 

truth  to  speak. 


<oo 


BRITISH    POETS 


Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink, 

my  Heart  ? 
Thy    hopes   are  gone   before :   from   all 

things  here 
They  have  departed;  thou shouldst now 

depart ! 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year, 
And  man.  and  woman  ;  and  what   still 

is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee 

wither. 
The    soft    sky    smiles, — the   low     wind 

whispers  near ; 
'Tis  Adonais  calls  !  oh,    hasten    thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can 

join  together. 

That  Light     whose    smile    kindles   the 

Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work 

and  move. 
That  Benediction  which    the    eclipsing 

Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustain- 
ing Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly 

wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and 

sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams 

on  me, 
Consuming     the    last    clouds   of     cold 

mortality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked 

in  song 
Descends    on   me ;   my   spirit's  bark    is 

driven, 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the    trem- 
bling throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the    tempest 

given  ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered    skies   are 

riven  ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar  ; 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost   veil 

of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons    from     the    abode    where    the 

Eternal  are.  1821.     1821. 

LIFE  MAY  CHANGE,  BUT    IT  MAY 
FLY  NOT 

Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not ; 
Kope  may  vanish,  but  can  die  not  ; 
Truth  be  veiled,  but  still  it  burnetii  ; 
Love  repulsed, — but  it  returneth  I 


Yet  were  life  a  charnel  where 
Hope  lay  coffined  with  Despair  ; 
Yet  were  truth  a  sacred  lie, 
Love  were  lust — If  Liberty 

Lent  not  life  its  soul  of  light, 
Hope  its  iris  of  delight, 
Truth  its  prophet's  robe  to  wear, 
Love  its  power  to  give  and  bear. 

From  Hellas.    1821.      1822. 

WORLDS  ON  WORLDS   ARE  ROLL- 
ING  EVER 

Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever 

From  creation  to  decay, 
Like  the  bubbles  on  a  river 
Sparkling,  bursting,  borne  away. 
But  they  are  still  immortal 
Who,  through  birth's  orient  portal 
And  death's  dark  chasm  hurrying  to  and 
fro, 
Clothe  their  unceasing  flight 
In  the  brief  dust  and  light 
Gathered  around  their  chariots  as  thej 
go; 
New  shapes  they  still  may  weave, 
New  gods,  new  laws  receive, 
Bright  or  dim  are  they  as  the  robes  they 
last 
On  Death's  bare  ribs  had  cast. 

A  power  from  the  unknown  God, 
A  Promethean  conqueror  came  ; 
Like  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 
A  mortal  shape  to  him 
Was  like  the  vapor    dim 
Which  the  orient  planet  animates   with 
light ; 
Hell,  Sin,  and  Slavery  came, 
Like  bloodhounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  preyed,  until  their  Lord   had  taken 
flight  ; 
The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  shall  set : 
While  blazoned  as  on  heaven's  immortal 
noon 
The  cross  leads  generations  on. 

Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of   sleep 

From  one  whose  dreams  are  Paradise 
Fly,  when  the  fond  wretch  wakes  to 
weep, 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank 

eyes  ; 
So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair, 
The  Powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding  star  of  Bethlehem  i 


SHELLEY 


367 


Apollo,  Pan.  and  Love, 

And  even  Olympian  Jove 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared 
on  them  ; 

Our  hills  and  seas  and  streams 

Dispeopled  of  their  dreams, 
Their  wafers  turned  to  blood,  their  dew 

to  tears, 

Wailed  for  the  golden  years. 

From  Hellas.     1S.U.     1822. 

SONGS  FROM  HELLAS 

Darkness  has  dawned  in  the  East 

On  the  noon  of  time : 
The  death-birds  descend  to  their  feast, 

From  the  hungry  clime. 
Let  Freedom  and  Peace  flee  far 

To  a  sunnier  strand. 
And  follow  Love's  folding  star 

To  the  Evening  land  ! 

The  young  moon  has  fed 
Her  exhausted  horn, 
With  the  sunset's  fire: 
The  weak  day  is  dead, 

But  the  night  is  not  born  ; 
&nd,  like  loveliness  panting  with  wild 
desire  [light, 

While  it  trembles  with  fear  and  de- 
Hesperus  flies  from  awakening  night, 
And  pauts  in  its  beauty  and  speed  with 
light 
Fast  flashing,  soft,  and  bright. 
Tliou  beacon  of  love  !  thou  lamp  of  the 
free  ! 
Guide  us  far,  far  away, 
To    climes    where    now   veiled   by   the 
ardor  of  day 
Thou  art  hidden 
From  waves  on  which  weary  noon 
Faints  in  her  summer  swoon, 
Between  Kingless  continents  sinless 
as  Eden,  [lably 

Around  mountains  and  islands  invio- 
Prankt  on  the  sapphire  sea. 

Through  the  sunset  of  hope, 
Like  the  shapes  of  a  dream, 
What     Paradise     islands    of    glory 
gleam  ! 
Beneath  Heaven's  cope, 
Their  shadows  more  clear  float  by — ■ 
The  sound   of  their  oceans,   the  Light 

of  their  sky, 
The    music    and   fragrance    their  soli- 
tudes breathe 
Burst,  like  morning  on  dream,  or  like 
Heaven  on  death 


Through  the  walls  of  our  prison  ; 
And  Greece,  which  was  dead,  is  arisen  \ 
1821.  1822. 

THE  WORLD'S  GREAT  AGE  BEGINS 
ANEW 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn  : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires 

gleam. 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far  ; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning  star. 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize  ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again, 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

Oh,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be  ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free: 

Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendor  of  its  prime  ; 
And  leave,  if  nought  so  bright  may  livej 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued  :  1 

1  Saturn  rind  Love  were  among  the  deities  of  a 
n-al  or  imaginary  state  of  innocence  and  happi- 
ness. All  those  who  fell,  or  the Uods  of  Greece, 
Asia,  and  Egypt;  the  One  who  rote,  ox  Jesus 
Christ,  at  whose  appearance  the  idols  of  the 
Pagan  World  were  amerced  of  their  worship; 
and  the  ni'1,11/  unsubdued,  or  the  monstrous  00- 
jecl  3  of  the  idolatry  of  <  'hina,  India,  the  Antarc- 
tic islands,  and  the  native  t idics  of  America, 
certainly  have  reigned  over  the  understandings 
of  men  in  conjunction  or  in  succession,  during 
periods  in  which  all  we  know  of  evil  has  been  in 
a  state  of  portentous,  and,  until  the  revival  ot 
learning  and  the  arts,  perpetually  increasing 
activity.     (From  Shelley's  Note.) 


36S 


BRITISH   POETS 


Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers, 
But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

lb.  cease  !  must  bate  and  death  return? 

Cease  !  must  men  kill  and  die? 
Cease  !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
Oh,  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last  ! 

Final  Chorus  from  Hellas. 

TO-MORROW 

Where  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow? 
When  young  and  old  and  strong  and 
weak, 
Rich  and  poor,  through  joy  and  sorrow, 

Thy  sweet  smiles  we  ever  seek, — 
In  thy  place — ah  !  well-a-day  ! 
We  find  the  thing  we  fled — To-day. 

1821.     1824. 

TO 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not. 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 
1821.     1824. 

WITH  A  GUITAR,  TO  JANE 

Ariel  to  Miranda.— Take 

This  slave  of  Music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee, 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till  joy  denies   itself  again, 

And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain  ; 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken  ; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who, 


From  life  to  life,  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness  ;■ — for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own. 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples,  lie 

Lit   you  o'er  the  trackless  sea," 

Flitting  on,  your   prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 

In  her  interlunar  swoon, 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel. 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth, 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity. 

Many  changes  have  been  run, 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  tracked  your    steps,  and  served 

your  will ; 
Now,  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 
This  is  all  remembered  not  ; 
And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  sprite  is 
Imprisoned,  for  some  fault  of  his, 
In  a  body  like  a  grave  ; — 
From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave, 
For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 
A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 
To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 
Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 
The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 
Rocked  in  that  repose  divine 
On  the  wind-swept  Apennine  ; 
And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 
And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast, 
And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 
And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 
And  all  of  love  ;  and  so  this  tree, — 
Oh  that  such  our  death  may  be  ! — 
Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 
To  live  in  happier  form  again  : 
From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest 

star, 
The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar, 
And  taught  it  justly  to  reply, 
To  all  who  question  skilfully, 
In  language  gentle  as  thine  own  ; 
Whispering  in  enamored  tone 
Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 
And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells  ; 
For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 
Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 
Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  many-voiced  fountains  ; 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 


SHELLEY 


369 


The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 

Tlie  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew 

And  airs  of  evening  ;  and  it  knew 

That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound, 

Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 

As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 

Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way — 

All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well 

The  spirit  that  inhabits  it  ; 

't  talks  according  to  the  wit 

)f  its  companions  ;  and  no  more 

s  heard  than  has  been  felt  before, 

3y  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day  : 

But  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 

Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 

It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 

for  our  beloved  Jane  alone. 

1822.     1832-1833. 

LINES:  "WHEN  THE   LAMP    IS 
SHATTERED  " 

Whex  the  lamp  is  shattered 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead — 

When  the  cloud  is  scattered 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 
Swppt  tones  are  remembered  not ; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendor 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute  : — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell. 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

24 


When  hearts  have  once  mingled 
Love  lirst  leaves  the  well-built  nest, 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possessed. 

O  Love  !  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  tilings  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,   your  home,  and  your 
bier  ? 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 
As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  : 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds   come. 
1822.     1824. 

SONG  FROM  CHARLES  THE   FIRST 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning   for  her 
love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough  ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 
No  flower  upon  the  ground, 

And  little  motion  in  the  air 
Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 

1822.     1824. 

A  DIRGE 

Rough  wind,  that  moanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song  ; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long  ; 
Sad  storm,  whose  tears  are  vain, 
Bare  woods,  whose  branches  strain, 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main, 

Wail,  for  the  world's  wrong  ! 

1822.     1824. 


KEATS 

LIST   OF  REFERENCES 

Editions 

**  Complete  Works,  4  volumes,  edited  by  H.  Buxton  P'orman,  1883, 
new  edition  18S9.  —  Complete  Works,  5  volumes,  edited  by  H.  Buxton 
Forman,  Glasgow  and  New  York,  1900-1901.  —  Complete  Works,  4  vol- 
umes, edited  by  N.  H.  Dole,  London  and  Boston,  1904  (Laurel  Edition). 
—  Complete  Poetical  Works,  together  with  the  Letters,  1  volume, 
edited  by  H.  E.  Scudder,  1899  (Cambridge  Edition).  —  Poetical  Works, 
1  volume,  edited  by  F.  T.  Palgrave,  1884  (Golden  Treasury  Series). — ■ 
Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  1902  (Globe  Edition).  —  *  Poetical  Works, 
1  volume,  edited  by  E.  de  Selincourt,  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  1905.  —  *  Poeti- 
cal Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  H.  Buxton  Forman,  1906  (Oxford  Edition). 

Biography 

*  Milnes  (R.  M.)  (Lord  Houghton),  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Remains, 
1st  edition,  1848;  2nd,  revised,  edition,  1867.- — •  *  Colvin  (Sidney), 
Keats  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series),  1887.  —  *  Rossetti  (W.  M.),  Keats 
(Great  Writers  Series),  1887.  —  Sharp  (J.),  John  Keats,  his  Life  and 
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*Hancock  (A.  E.),  John  Keats;  a  literary  Biography,  1908.  —  Wolff 
(Lucien),  John  Keats,  sa  vie  et  son  ceuvre,  1910. 

Reminiscences  and  Early  Criticism 

Hunt  (Leigh),  Lord  Byron  and  some  of  his  Contemporaries.  —  Hunt 
(Leigh),  Autobiography.  — ■  Hunt  (Leigh),  Review  of  La  Belle  Dame  sans 
Merci,  in  The  Indicator,  May  10,  1890;  Review  of  the  Poems  of  1820,  in 
The  Indicator  of  August  2  and  9,  1820.  (Given  in  Forman's  edition  of 
Keats,  Vol.  II).  —  Hunt  (Leigh),  Imagination  and  Fancy,  1844.  —  ?Gif- 
ford  (William),  Review  of  Endymion,  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  No.  37, 
1818. — Jeffrey  (Lord  Francis),  Edinburgh  Review,  No.  67,  Art.  10, 
August,  1820:  Keats'  Poetry.  —  Mitford  (M.  L.),  Recollections  of  a 
Literary  Life.  —  Clarke  (Charles  and  Mary  Cowden),  Recollections  of 
Writers.  —  De  Quincey,  Works,  Masson's  edition,  Vol.  XL  —  Haydon 
(B.  R.),  Correspondence  and  Table-Talk.  —  See  also  Medwin's  Life  of 
Shelley,  Shelley  Memorials  by  Lady  Shelley,  Taylor's  Life  of  B.  R.  Haydon, 
Medwin's  Conversations  of  Lord  Byron,  George  Paston's  B.  R.  Haydon 
and  his  Friends,  1905,  and  A.  B.  Miller's  Leigh  Hunt's  Relations  with 
Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats,  1909. 

Later  Criticism 

*  Arnold  (M.),  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series,  1888.  —  Bradley 
(A.  C),  Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry:  The  Letters  of  Keats,  1909.— 
Bridges  (Robert  S.),  Keats,  a  critical  essay,  1895.  —  Brooke  (S.  A.), 
Studies  in  Poetry,    1907.  —  Dowden    (Edward),   Studies  in   Literature: 

37° 


KEATS  37i 

Transcendental  Movement  and  Literature,  1878.  —  Gosse  (E.),  Critical 
Kit-kats,  1896.  —  *Lang  (A.),  Letters  on  Literature,  1889.  —  Lang  (A.), 
Poets'  Country,  1907.  —  "Lowell,  Prose  Works,  Vol.  I:  Keats  (Essay  of 
1854). — Mabie  (H.  W.),  Essays  in  Literary  Interpretation:  John  Keats, 
Poet  and  Man,  1892. — Masson  (David),  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  Keats, 
and  Other  Essays,  187-1.  —  More  (Paul  E.),  Shelburne  Essays,  Fourth 
Series,  1906.  —  Payne  (W.  M.),  The  Greater  English  Poets  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,  1907.  —  Reed  (Myrtle),  The  Love  Affairs  of  Literary  Men, 
1907. — Ricketts  (A.),  Personal  Forces  in  Modern  Literature,  1906. — 
Robertson  (J.  M.),  New  Essays  towards  a  Critical  Method, ,  1897.  — 
:;;Swini;urne  (A.  C),  Miscellanies,  18S6. — Texte  (Joseph),  Etudes  de 
Littierature  europeenrie:  Keats  et  le  neo-hellenisme  dans  la  poesie  anglaise, 
1898. — Torrey  (Bradford),  Friends  on  the  Shelf,  1906.  —  Watson, 
(William),  Excursions  in  Criticism:  Keats'  Letters,  1893. — Woodberry 
(G.  E.),  Studies  in  Letters  and  Life,  1890. 

Caine  (T.  Hall),  Cobwebs  of  Criticism,  1883.  —  Dawson  (W.  J.), 
Makers  of  English  Poetry  (1890),  1906.  —  De  Vere  (A.),  Essays,  chiefly 
on  Poetry,  1887.  —  Hudson  (W.  IL),  Studies  in  Interpretation:  Keats, 
Clough,  Arnold,  1S96.  —  Hutton  (R.  H.),  Brief  Literary  Criticisms,  1906. 
—  Nencioni  (E.),  Letteratura  inglese- (on  Colvin's  Biography).  —  Symons 
(A.),  The  Romantic  Movement  in  English  Poetry,  1909. 

Tributes  in  Verse 

**  Shelley,  Adonais.  —  *  Shelley,  Fragment  on  Keats'  Epitaph.  — 
Hunt  (Leigh),  Foliage,  or  Poems  Original  and  Translated:  To  John  Keats; 
On  Receiving  a  Crown  of  Ivy  from  the  Same;  On  the  Same;  *  To  the  Grass- 
hopper and  the  Cricket.  —  Palgrave  (F.  T.),  Lyrical  Poems:  Two  Graves 
at  Rome.  —  *Rossetti,  Five  English  Poets:  John  Keats.  —  *Gilder  (R. 
W.),  Poems:  An  Inscription  in  Rome.  —  Longfellow,  Keats,  a  Sonnet.  — ■ 
Lowell,  Poems:  Sonnet  to  the  Spirit  of  Keats.  —  Moore  (G.  L.),  Keats, 
a  Sonnet. — Tabb  (John  B.),  Keats,  a  Sonnet.  —  Payn  (James),  Stories 
from  Boccaccio,  and  other  Poems:  Sonnet  to  John  Keats.  —  Scott  (W.  B.), 
Poems:  Sonnet  on  the  Inscription,  Keats'  Tombstone;  Ode  to  the  Memory 
of  John  Keats.  —  *Spingarn  (J.  E.),  in  Columbia  Verse,  1892-97:  Keats.  — 
Griswold  (G.).  in  Harvard  Lyrics,  1899:  To  Keats.  —  Carman  (Bliss), 
By  the  Aurelian  Wall.  —  *Reese  (Lizette  R.),  A  Branch  of  May. — 
De  Vere  (Aubrey),  Sonnet  to  Keats.  —  *Browning  (E.  B.),  in  Aurora 
Leigh,  Book  I.  —  *Browning  (R),  Popularity. — Johnson  (P.  U.), 
The  Name  writ  in  Water;  the  Century,  February,  1906.  —  Thomas  (Edith 
M.),  The  Guest  at  the  Gate,  1909:  Bion  and  Adonais;  The  House  Beside 
the  Spanish  Steps.  —  van  Dyke  (Henry),  The  White  Bees,  1909:  Two 
Sonnets;  from  the  Atlantic,  November,  1906.- — Stringer  (Arthur), 
The  Woman  in  the  Rain  and  other  Poems,  1907.  —  Braithwaite  (W.  S.), 
Lyrics  of  Life  and  Love,  1907.  —  Stafford  (W.  P.),  Dorian  Days,  1909.  - 
Scheffauer  (IL),  booms  of  Life,  1909:  Keats  at  Winter  Sundown. — 
Lanier  (Clifford),  Apollo  and  Keats  on  Browning,  1909.  —  Barker  (E.), 
Keats;  in  the  Forum,  March,  1909. 


KEATS 


IMITATION  OF  SPENSER  i 

Now  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber 

came, 
And  her  first  footsteps  touch'd  a  verdant 

hill ; 
Crowning  its  lawny  crest  with  amber 

flame, 
Silv'ring  the  untainted  gushes  of  its  rill ; 
Which,  pure  from  mossy  beds,  did  down 

distill, 
And  after  parting  beds  of  simple  flowers, 
By  many  streams  a  little  lake  did  fill, 
Which  round  its  marge  reflected  woven 

bowers, 
And,  in  its  middle  space,  a  sky  that  never 

lowers. 

There  the  king-fisher  saw  his  plumage 
bright 

Vieing  with  fish  of  brilliant  dye  below  ; 

Whose  silken  fins,  and  golden  scales 
light 

Cast  upward,  through  the  waves,  a  ruby 
glow : 

There  saw  the  swan  his  neck  of  arched 
snow, 

And  oar'd  himself  along  witli  majesty  ; 

Sparkled  his  jetty  eyes ;  his  feet  did 
show 

Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony, 

And  on  his  back  a  fay  reclined  volup- 
tuously. 

Ah  !  could  I  tell  the  wonders  of  an  isle 
That    in   that  fairest    lake    had  placed 

been, 
I  could  e'en  Dido  of  her  grief  beguile  ; 
Or  rob  from  aged  Lear  his  bitter  teen  : 
For  sure  so  fair  a  place  was  never  seen, 
Of  all  that  ever  charm'd  romantic  eye  : 

1  "  It  was  the  Faerie  Queene  that  awakened 
his  genius.  In  Spenser's  fairy-land  he  was  en- 
chanted, breathed  in  a  new  world,  and  became 
another  being;  till,  enamored  of  the  stanza,  he 
attempted  to  imitate  it,  and  succeeded.  .  .  . 
This,  his  earliest  attempt,  the  'Imitation  of 
Spenser',  is  in  his  first  volume  of  poems." 
(Quoted  by  Colvin  from  the  Houghton  MSS.) 


It  seem'd  an  emerald  in  the  silver  sheen 
Of   the  bright  waters ;  or  as   when  on 

high, 
Through  clouds  of  fleecy  white,  laughs 

the  cerulean  sky. 

And  all  around  it  dipp'd  luxuriously 
Slopings  of  verdure  through  the  glossy 

tide, 
Which,  as  it  were  in  gentle  amity, 
Rippled  delighted  up  the  flowery  side  ; 
As  if  to  glean  the  ruddy  tears,  it  tried, 
Which  fell  profusely  from  the  rose-tree 

stem  ! 
Haply  it  was  the  workings  of  its  pride, 
In  strife  to  throw  upon  the  shore  a  gem 
Outvieing  all  the  buds  in  Flora's  diadem. 
1813  or  18 U.     18 17.1 

TO  SOLITUDE 

O  SOLITUDE  !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell, 
Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings  ;  climb  with  me  the 

steep, — 
Nature's  observatory — whence  the  dell, 
Its  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell 
May  seem  a  span  ;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 
'Mongst   boughs    pavilion'd   where    the 

deer's  swift  leap 
Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  fox-glove 

bell. 
But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes 

with  thee, 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an   innocent 

mind, 
Whose   words   are   images  of  thoughts 

refin'd, 
Is  my  soul's  pleasure  ;  and  it  sure  must  be 
Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind, 
When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits 

flee.  91815.     May  5,  181 G.2 

1  The  dates  for  Keats'  poems  are  made  up  from 
Sidney  Colvin's  careful  study  of  the  order  of 
composition  of  the  poems,  in  his  Life  of  Keats, 
and  from  H.  Buxton  Forman's  excellent  notes  in 
his  edition  of  Keats'  Works. 

*  In  Leigh  Hunt's  Examiner.  Probably  the 
first  lines  of  Keats  ever  printed. 


372 


KEATS 


373 


HOW     MANY     BARDS     GILD     THE 
LAPSES  OF  TIME 

How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time! 
A  few  of  them  have  ever  been  the  food 
Of  my  delighted  fancy, — I  could  brood 
Over  their  beauties,  earthly,  or  sublime  : 
And  often,  when  I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme. 
These  will  in  throngs  before   my  mind 

intrude  : 
But  no  confusion,  no  disturbance  rude 
Do  they  occasion  :  'tis  a  pleasing  chime. 
So  the  unnumber'd  sounds  that  evening 

store  ; 
The  songs  of  birds — the  whisp'ring  of  the 

leaves — 
The  voice  of  waters — the  great  bell  that 

1  leaves 
With     solemn     sound, — and     thousand 

others  more, 
That  distance  of  recognizance  bereaves, 
Make  pleasing  music,  and  not  wild  up- 
roar. 918 16.     1817. 

KEEN,  FITFUL   GUSTS   ARE  WHIS- 
PERING  HERE  AND   THERE 

Keen,   fitful  gusts  are  whispering  here 

and  there 
Among  trfie  bushes  half  leafless,  and  dry; 
The  stars  look  very  cold  abont  the  sky, 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  foot  to  fare. 
Yet  feel  I  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air. 
Or  of  the  dead  leaves  rustling  drearily, 
Or  of  those   silver  lamps  that  burn  on 

high. 
Or  of  t lie  distance  from  home's  pleasant 

lair  : 
For  I  am  brimful  of  the  friendliness 
That  in  a  little  cottage  I  have  found  ; 
Of  fair-hairYl  Milton's  eloquent  distress. 
And  all  Ids  love  for  gentle  Lycid  drown'd; 
Of  lovely  Laura  in  her  light  green  dress. 
And        faithful       Petrarch       gloriously 

crown'd.  91816.     1817. 

TO  ONE  WHO  HAS  BEEN   LONG  IX 
CITY  PENT 

To  one  who  lias  been   long  in  city   pent 
lis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a 

prayer 
Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's 

content. 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 


And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment? 
Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 
Watching  the   sailing   cloudlet's   bright 

career, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided 

by: 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ethersilently. 
June,  IS  16.    1817. 

ON    FIRST    LOOKING    INTO    CHAP- 
MAN'S   HOMER 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of 

gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms 

seen  ; 
Round    many    western    islands   have   I 

been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 
That  deep-browed   Homer  ruled  as  his 

demesne  : 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman   speak   out  loud 

and  bold  : 
Then  felt  I   like   some  watcher  of   the 

skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like   stout  Cortez  when  with   eagle 

eyes 
He  star'd  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Look'd   at  each  other  with  a  wild  sur- 
mise— 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

1816.     Dec.  1,  1816. 

GREAT    SPIRITS    NOW   ON    EARTH 
ARE  SOJOURNING 

Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourn- 
ing ; 

He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake, 

Who  on  llelvellyn's  summit,  wide 
awake, 

Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's 
wing; 

He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring, 

The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's 
sake  : 

And  lo  ! — whose  steadfastness  would 
never  take 

A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whis- 
pering. 

And  other  spirits  there  are  standing 
apart 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come  ; 


374 


BRITISH   POETS 


These,  these  will  give  the  world  another 

heart 
And  other  pulses.    Hear  ye  not  the  hum 
Of  mighty  workings  in  the  human  mart? 

Listen  awhile  ye  nations,  and  he  dumb. 
'November.  IS  16.     1817.' 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND 
CRICKET 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the 

hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will 

run 
From   hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new- 
mown  mead  ; 
That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the 

lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights;  for  when  tired  out 

with  fun 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant 

weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never  ; 
On   a  lone  winter    evening,  when  the 

frost 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove 

there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing 

ever, 
And  seems   to  one   in  drowsiness   half 

lost, 
The   Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy 

hills.         December  30,  1816.     1817. 

SLEEP   AND  POETRY 

il  As  I  lay  in  my  bed  slepe  full  unmete 
"Was  unto  me,  but  why  that  I  ne  might 
"Rest  I  ne  wist,  for  there  n"as  erthly  wight 
"  [As  I  suppose]  had  more  of  hertis  ese 
"  Than  I,  for  I  n'ad  sicknesse  nor  disese." 

Chaucer. 


What  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in 

summer? 
What  is  more  soothing  than  the  pretty 

hummer 
That    stays    one   moment    in    an   open 

flower, 
And    buzzes    cheerily    from    bower    to 

bower  ? 
What   is   more   tranquil   than  a   musk- 
rose  blowing 
In  a   green    island,  far   from   all   men's 

knowing? 
More   healthful    than    the    leanness   of 

dales  ? 


More  secret  than  a  nest  of  nightingales  ? 

More  serene  than  Cordelia's  counte- 
nance? 

More  full  of  visions  than  a  high  ro- 
mance ? 

What,  but  thee,  Sleep  ?  Soft  closer  of 
our  eyes ! 

Low  murmurer  of  tender  lullabies  1 

Light  hoverer  around  our  happy  pil- 
lows ! 

Wreather  of  poppy  buds,  and  weeping 
willows  ! 

Silent  entangler  of  a  beauty's  tresses  ! 

Most  happy  listener  !  when  the  morning 
blesses 

Thee  for  enlivening  all  the  cheerfu? 
eyes 

That  glance  so  brightly  at  the  new  sun 
rise. 

But  what  is  higher  beyond  thought  thai? 
thee? 

Fresher  than  berries  of  a  mountain  tree ! 

More  strange,  more  beautiful,  more 
smooth,  more  regal. 

Than  wings  of  swans,  than  doves,  than 
dim-seen  eagle? 

What  is  it?  And  to  what  shall  I  com- 
pare i  t  ? 

It  has  a  glory,  and  nought  else  can 
share  it : 

The  thought  thereof  is  awful,  sweet,  and 
holy, 

Chasing  away  all  worldliness  and  folly  ; 

Coming  sometimes  like  fearful  claps  of 
thunder, 

Or  the  low  rumblings  earth's  regions 
under ; 

And  sometimes  like  a  gentle  whispering 

Of  all  the  secrets  of  some  wondrous 
thing 

That  breathes  about  us  in  the  vacant 
air  : 

So  that  we  look  around  with  prying 
stare, 

Perhaps  to  see  shapes  of  light,  aerial 
limning, 

And  catch  soft  floatings  from  a  faint- 
heard  hymning  ; 

To  see  the  laurel  wreath,  on  high  sus- 
pended, 

That  is  to  crown  our  name  when  life  is 
ended. 

Sometimes  it  gives  a  glory  to  the  voice, 

Ami  from  the  heart  up-springs,  rejoice! 
rejoice  I 

Sounds  which  will  reach  the  Framer  of 
all  things, 

And  die  away  in  ardent  in  titterings. 


KEATS 


375 


No  one  who  once  the  glorious   sun  has 

seen 
And  all  the   clouds,  and  felt  his  bosom 

clean 
For  his  great  Maker's  presence,  but  niust 

know 
What   'tis   I   mean,    and  feel  his  being 

glow  : 
Therefore  no  insult  will  I  give  his  spirit, 
By  telling    what    he   sees    from  native 

merit. 

O  Poesy  !    for  thee  I  hold  my  pen 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of   thy   wide   heaven — Should   I   rather 

kneel 
Upon  some  mountain-top  until  I  feel 
A   glowing    splendor    round   about   me 

hung. 
And  echo  back  the  voice  of  thine  own 

tongue  ? 
O  Poesy  !    for  thee  I  grasp  my  pen 
That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 
Of  thy  wide   heaven  ;  yet,  to  my  ardent 

prayer, 
Yield  from  thy  sanctuary  some  clear  air, 
Smoothed  for  intoxication  by  the  breath 
Of   flowering   bays,   that   I   may   die   a 

death 
Of  luxury,  and  my  young  spirit  follow 
The   morning    sun-beams  to   the    great 

Apollo 
Like  a  fresh  sacrifice  :  or  if  I  can  bear 
The  o'erwhelming  sweets,  'twill   bring 

me  to  the  fair 
Visions  of  all  places  :  a  bowery  nook 
Will  be  elysium — an  eternal  book 
Whence  I  may  copy  many  a  lovely  saying 
About    the    leaves,    and    flowers — about 

the  playing 
Of  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains  :  and 

the  shade 
Keeping    a    silence    round    a    sleeping 

maid 
And    many  a  verse  from  so  strange  in- 
fluence 
That    we    must   ever    wonder    how,  and 

whence 
It  came.     Also  imaginings  will  hover 
Round  my  fireside,  and  haply  there  dis- 
cover 
Vistas     of     solemn  beauty,     where    I'd 

wander 
In  happy  silence,  like  the  clear  meander 
Through   its    lone    vales  ;    and    where    I 

fi  Mind  a  spot 
Of  awfuller  shade,  or  ail  enchanted  grot. 
Or  a  green  hill  o'erspread  with  chequered 

dress 


Of  flowers,  and  fearful  from  its  love- 
liness, 

Write  on  my  tablets  all  that  was  per- 
mitted. 

All  that  was  for  our  human  senses  fitted. 

Then  the  events  of  this  wide  world  I'd 
seize 

Like  a  strong  giant,  and  my  spirit  teaze 

Till  at  its  shoulders  it  should  proudly  see 

Wings  to  find  out  an  immortality. 

Stop  and  consider  !  life  is  but  a  day  : 
A  fragile  dew-drop  on  its  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's   summit  ;  a  poor  Indian's 

sleep 
While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous 

steep 
Of  Montmorenci.     Why  so  sad  a  moan  ? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale  ; 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil ; 
A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air  ; 
A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or 

care 
Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 

O  for  ten  years,  that  I  may  overwhelm 
Myself  in  poesy  ;  so  I  may  do  the  deed 
That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. 
Then  I  will  pass  the  countries  that  I  see 
In  long  perspective,  and  continually 
Taste   their   pure   fountains.     First   the 

realm  I'll  pass 
Of  Flora,  and  old  Pan  ;  sleep  in  the  grass, 
Feed  upon  apples  red.  and  strawberries, 
And  choose  each  pleasure  that  my  fancy 

sees ; 
Catch     the     white-handed    nymphs    in 

shady  places, 
To     woo    sweet    kisses     from    averted 

faces, — 
Play   with    their    fingers,    touch    their 

shoulders  white 
Into  a  pretty  shrinking  with  a  bite 
As  hard  as  iips  can  make  it  :  till  agreed, 
A  lovely  tale  of  human  life  we'll  read. 
And  one  will  teach  a  tame  dove  how   it 

best 
May  fan  the  cool  air  gently  o'er  my  rest  ; 
Another,  bending  o'er  her  nimble  tread, 
Will  set  a  green  robe  floating  round  her 

head, 

And  still   will   dance   with   ever  varied 

ease, 
Smiling  upon  the  flowers  and  the  trees  : 
Another  will  entice  me  on,  and  on 
Through  almond  blossoms  and  rich  cin- 
namon ; 
Till  in  the  bosom  of  a  leafv  world 


376 


BRITISH  POETS 


We   rest   in  silence,  like  two   gems  up- 

c in  I'd 
In  the  recesses  of  a  pearly  shell. 

And  can  I  ever  bid  these  joys  farewell  ? 
Yes,  I  must  pass  them  for  a  nobler  life. 
Where  I  may  find  the  agonies,  the  strife 
Of  human  hearts  :  for  lo  !  I  see  afar, 
O'er-sailing  the  blue  cragginess,  a  car 
And   steeds   with   streamy-  manes — the 

charioteer 
Looks  out  upon  the  winds  with  glorious 

fear  : 
And     now    the     numerous     tramplings 

quiver  lightly 
Along   a   huge   cloud's   ridge  ;  and  now 

witli  sprightly 
Wheel  downward  come  they  into  fresher 

skies, 
Tipt  round  with   silver  from  the   sun's 

bright  eyes. 
Still   downward   with   capacious    whirl 

they  glide  ; 
And  now  I  see  them  on  a  gi-een-hiH's 

side 
In  breezy  rest  among  the  nodding  stalks. 
The  charioteer  with  wond'rous  gesture 

talks 
To  the  trees  and  mountains  ;  and  there 

soon  appear 
Shapes  of  delight,  of  mystery,  and  fear, 
Passing  along  before  a  dusky  space 
Made,  by  some   mighty   oaks  :   as   they 

would  chase 
Some  ever-fleeting  music  on  they  sweep. 
Lo  !    how    they    murmur,    laugh,    and 

smile,  and  weep : 
Some   with   upholden  hand  and  mouth 

severe  ; 
Some  with  their  faces  muffled  to  the  ear 
Between   their   arms  ;    some,    clear    in 

youthful  bloom, 
Go    glad    and    smilingly    athwart    the 

gloom  ; 
Some  looking  back,  and  some  with  up- 
ward gaze  ; 
Yes,  thousands  in  a  thousand  different 

ways 
Flit  onward — now  a  lovely   wreath  of 

girls 
Dancing  their  sleek   hair   into    tangled 

curls  ; 
And  now  broad  wings.     Most  awfully 

intent 
The   driver  of  those  steeds  is  forward 

bent, 
And   seems  to   listen  :    O  that  I  might 

know  [glow. 

All  that  he  writes  with  such  a  hurrying 


The  visions  all  are  fled — the  car  is  fled 
Into   the  light   of   heaven,  and  in  their 

stead 
A  sense  of  real  things  comes   doubly 

strong, 
And,  like  a  muddy  stream,  would   bear 

along 
My  soul  to  nothingness  :  but  I  will  strive 
Against  all   doubtings,   and    will   keep 

alive 
The  thought  of   that  same  chariot,  and 

the  strange 
Journey  it  went. 

Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that 

the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont   of  old  ?    prepare  her 

steeds, 
Paw  up  against  the  light, and  do  strange 

deeds 
Upon  the  clouds?  Has  she  not  shewn  us 

all? 
From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the 

small 
Breath  of  new  buds   unfolding  ?     From  I 

the  meaning 
Of  Jove's  large  eye-brow,  to  the  tender 

greening 
Of   April   meadows  ?      Here    her    altar 

shone, 
E'en  in  this  isle  ;  and  who  could  paragon 
The  fervid  choir  that  lifted  up  a  noise 
Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise 
Its  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound, 
Huge   as   a   planet,   and   like   that   roll 

round, 
Eternally  around  a  dizzy  void? 
Ay,  in  those  days  the  Muses  were  nigh 

cloy'd 
With  honors  ;  nor  had  any  other  care 
Than  to  sing  out  and  soothe  their  wavy 

hair. 

Could    all    this    be    forgotten  ?     Yes,  a 

schism 
Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 
Made   great   Apollo   blush   for   this   his 

land. 
Men  were  thought  wise  who   could   not 

understand 
His  glories  :  with  a  puling  infant's  force 
They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking  horse. 
And   thought  it   Pegasus.      Ah   dismal 

soul'd  ! 
The  winds   of  heaven    blew,  the  ocean 

roll'd  [blue 

Its  gathering  waves — ye  felt  it  not.    The 


KEATS 


377 


Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 
Of  summer  nights  collected  still  to  make 
The     morning     precious  :     beauty    was 

awake  ! 
Why  were  ye  not  awake?     But  ye  were 

dead 
To  tilings  ye  knew  not  of, — were  closely 

wed 
To  must}'  laws  lined  out  with   wretched 

rule 
And  compass  vile  :   so  that  ye  taught  a 

school 
Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and 

fit, 
Till,  like   the   certain  wands   of  Jacob's 

wit, 
Their  verses  tallied.    Easy,  was  the  task  : 
A   thousand   handicraftsmen   wore   the 

mask 
Of  Poesy.     Ill-fated,  impious  race  ! 
That  blasphemed  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his 

face, 
And  did  not  know   it, — no,   they   went 

about, 
Holding  a  poor,  decrepit  standard  out 
Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottos,  and  in 

large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau  ! 

O  ye  whose  charge 
It  is  to  hover  round  our  pleasant  hills  ! 
Whose  congregated  majesty  so  fills 
My    boundly   reverence,   that  I   cannot 

trace 
Your   hallowed   names,    in   this  unholy 

place, 
So   near   those   common   folk  ;    did  not 

their  shames 
Affright  you?    Did  our  old  lamenting 

Thames 
Delight    you  ?      Did    ye    never    cluster 

round 
Delicious  Avon,  with  a  mournful  sound, 
And  weep?  Or  did  ye  wholly  bid  adieu 
To  regions   where   no   more   the  laurel 

grew  ? 
Or  did  ye  stay  to  give  a  welcoming 
To  some  lone  spirits  who  could  proudly 

sing 
Their  youth  away,  and  die  ?     'Twas  even 

so  : 
But  let  me  think  away  those  times  of 

woe  : 
Now    'tis    a     fairer    season  ;    ye    have 

breathed 
Rich    benedictions    o'er    us;    ye    have 

wreathed 
Fresh    garlands :    for   sweet    music   has 

been  heard 


In  many   places  ; — some   has   been   up- 

stirr'd 
From  out  its  crystal  dwelling  in  a  lake. 
By   a  swan's  ebon   bill  ;   from   a   thick 

brake, 
Nested  and  quiet  in  a  valley  mild, 
Bubbles  a  pipe  ;   fine  sounds  are  floating 

wild 
About  the  earth  :  happy  are  ye  and  glad. 

These  things  are  doubtless  :  yet  in  truth 

we've  had 
Strange  thunders  from  the  potency  of 

song  ; 
Mingled  indeed  with  what  is  sweet  and 

strong. 
From   majesty  :  but   in  clear  truth  the 

themes 
Are  ugly  clubs,  the  Poets  Polyphemes 
Disturbing  the  grand  sea.     A  drainless 

shower 
Of  light  is  poesy  ;  'tis  the   supreme  of 

power ; 
'Tis  might  half  slumb'ring  on   its  own 

right  arm. 
The  very  archings  of  her  eye-lids  charm 
A  thousand  willing  agents  to  obey, 
And  still  she  governs  with  the  mildest 

sway  : 
But  strength  alone  though  of  the  Muses 

born 
Is  like  a  fallen  angel :  trees  uptorn, 
Darkness,  and  worms,  and  shrouds,  and 

sepulchres 
Delight  it;  for  it  feeds  upon  the  burrs 
And  thorns  of  life  ;  forgetting  the  great 

end 
Of  poesy,  that  it  should  be  a  friend 
To  soothe  the  cares,  and  lift  the  thoughts 

of  man. 

Yet  I  rejoice  :  a  myrtle  fairer  than 
E'er  grew    in   Paphos,  from   the  bitter 

weeds 
Lifts  its  sweet  head  into  the  air,  and  feeds 
A  silent  space  with  ever  sprouting  green. 
All  tenderest  birds  there  find  a  pleasant 

screen, 
Creep   through   the   shade  with  jaunty 

fluttering, 
Nibble  the  little  cupped  flowers  and  sing. 
Then   let    us  clear    away   the    choking 

thorns 
From   round   its  gentle   stem  ;   let    the 

young  fawns, 
Yeaned    in    after  times,    when   we   are 

flown, 
Find  a  fresh  sward  beneath  it,  overgrown 
With  simple  flowers  :  let  there  nothing  be 


37^ 


BRITISH    POETS 


More   boisterous  than  a  lover's   bended 

knee  : 
Nought  more  ungentle  than  the  placid 

look 
Of  one  who  leans  upon  a  closed  book  ; 
Nought  more  untranquil  than  the  grassy 

slopes 
Between  two  hills.     All  hail  delightful 

hopes ! 
As  she  was  wont,  th'  imagination 
Into  most  Lovely  labyrinths  will  be  gone. 
And  they  shall  be  accounted  poet  kings 
"Who  simply  tell  the  most  heart-easing 

things. 
O  may  these  joys  be  ripe  before  I  die. 

Will  not  some  say  that  I  presumptuously 
Have  spoken?  that  from  hastening  dis- 
grace 
'Twere  better  far  to  hide  my   foolish 

face  ? 
That  whining  boyhood  should  with  re- 
verence bow 
Ere  the  dread  thunderbolt  could  reach  ? 

How  ! 
If  I  do  hide  myself,  it  sure  shall  be 
In  the  very  fane,  the  light  of  Poesy  : 
If  I  do  fall,  at  least  I  will  be  laid 
Beneath  the  silence  of  a  poplar  shade  ; 
And  over  me  the  grass  shall  be  smooth 

shavt  n  : 
And   there   shall   be   a   kind    memorial 

graven. 
But  off  Despondence  !  miserable  bane  ! 
They  should  not  know  thee,  who  athirst 

to  gain 
A  noble  end.  are  thirsty  every  hour. 
What  though  I  am  not  wealthy  in  the 

dower 
Of  spanning  wisdom  ;  though  I  do  not 

know 
The  shiftings  of  the  mighty  winds  that 

blow 
Hither    and    thither    all   the   changing 

thoughts 
Of  man  :  though  no  great  minist'ring 

reason  sorts 
Out  the  dark  mysteries  of  human  souls 
To  clear  conceiving  :  yet  there  ever  rolls 
A  vast  idea  before  me,  and  I  glean 
Therefrom  my  liberty  ;  thence  too  I've 

seen 
The  end  and  aim  of  Poesy.     'Tis  clear 
As  anything  most  true  ;  as  that  the  year 
Is  made  of  the  four  seasons — manifest 
As  a  large  cross,  some  old  cathedral's 

crest, 
Lifted  to  the  white  clouds.     Therefore 

should  I 


Be  but  the  essence  of  deformity, 

A  coward,  did  my  very  eye- lids  wink 

At  speaking  out  what  I  have  dared  to 

think. 
Ah  !  rather  let  me  like  a  madman  run 
Over  some  precipice  ;  let  the  hot  sun 
Melt  my  Dedalian  wings,  and  drive  me 

down 
Convuls'd  and  headlong  !     Stay  !  an  in- 
ward frown 
Of  conscience  bids   me  be  more  calm 

awhile. 
An  ocean  dim,  sprinkled  with  many  an 

isle, 
Spreads  awfully  before  me.     How  much 

toil  ! 
How  many  days  !    what  desperate  tur- 
moil ! 
Ere  I  can  have  explored  its  widenesses. 
Ah,  what  a  task  !  upon  my  bended  knees, 
I  could  unsay  those — no,  impossible  ! 
Impossible  ! 

For  sweet  relief  I'll  dwell 
On    humbler    thoughts,    and     let     this 

strange  assay 
Begun  in  gentleness  die  so  away. 
E'en   now   all   tumult   from  my  bosom 

fades  : 
I  turn  full  hearted  to  the  friendly  aids 
That  smooth  the  path  of  honor  ;  brother- 
hood, 
And   friendliness   the  nurse  of   mutual 

good. 
The  hearty  grasp  that  sends  a  pleasant 

sonnet 
Into  the  brain  ere  one  can  think  upon  it ; 
The    silence    when    some    rhymes    are 

coming  out ; 
And     when     they're     come,    the    very 

pleasant  rout : 
The    message    certain    to    be   done   to- 
morrow. 
'Tis  perhaps  as  well  that  it  should  be  to 

borrow 
Some  precious  book  from  out  its  snug 

retreat, 
To  cluster  round  it  when  we  next  shall 

meet. 
Scarce  can  I  scribble  on  ;  for  lovely  airs 
Are  fluttering  round  the  room  like  doves 

in  pairs  ; 
Many  delights  of  that  glad  day  recalling. 
When  first  my  senses  caught  their  tender 

falling. 
And    with    these    airs    come    forms  of 

elegance 
Stooping  their  shoulders   o'er  a  horse's 

prance, 


KEATS 


379 


Careless,    and    grand — fingers   soft   and 

round 
Parting  luxuriant  curls  ; — and  the  swift 

bound 
Of  Bacchus  from  his  chariot,  when  his 

eye 
Made  Ariadne's  cheek  look  blushingly. 
Tims  I  remember  all  the  pleasant  flow 
Of  words  at  opening  a  portfolio. 

Things  such  as  these  are  ever  harbingers 
To  trains  of  peaceful  images:  the  stirs 
Of   a   swan's   neck    unseen    among    the 

rushes : 
A  linnet  starting  all  about  the  bushes: 
A   butterfly,  with    golden   wings   broad 

parted 
Nestling  a  rose,  convuls'd  as  though  it 

smarted 
With  over  pleasure — many,  many  more. 
Might  I  indulge  at  large   in  all  my  store 
Of  luxuries  :  yet  I  must  not  forget 
Sleep,  quiet,  with  his  poppy  coronet: 
For  what  there  may  be  worthy  in  these 

rhymes 
I   partly   owe   to   him :    and    thus,    the 

chimes 
Of  friendly  voices  had  just  given  place 
To  as  sweet  a  silence,  when  I  gan  retrace 
The  pleasant  day,  upon  a  couch  at  ease. 
It  was  a  poet's  house1  who  keeps  the  keys 
Of  pleasui^e's  temple.     Round  about  were 

hung 
The  glorious  features  of  the  bards  who 

sung 
Tn  other  ages — cold  and  sacred  busts 
Smiled  at  each   other.     Happy  lie  who 

trusts 
To  clear  Futurity  his  darling  fame! 
Then  there  were  fauns  ami  satyrs  taking 

aim 
At  swelling  apples  with  a  frisky  leap 
And   reaching    fingers,  'mid  a   luscious 

heap 
Of  vine  leaves.     Then  there  rose  to  view 

a  fane 
Of  liny  marble,  and  thereto  a  train 
Of  nymphs  approaching   fairly  o'er  the 

award  : 

One,  loveliest,   boiling  her  white  band 

toward 
The  dazzling  sun-rise  :  two  sisters  sweet 
Bending  their  graceful   figures  till  they 

tneel 
Over  the  trippings  of  a  little  child  : 
And  some  are  hearing,  eagerly,  the  w  ild 

1  Leigh  Hunt's.    The  following  linps  ari 
scription   of  the   room   in  which  the  poem  was. 
written,  with  its  decorations 


Thrilling  liquidity  of  dewy  piping. 

See,  in  another  picture,  nymphs  are 
wiping 

Cherishingly  Diana's  timorous  limbs  ;— 

A  fold  of  lawny  mantle  dabbling  swims 

At  the  bath's  edge,  and  keeps  a  gentle 
motion 

With  the  subsiding  crystal :  as  when 
ocean 

Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smooth- 
ness o'er 

Its  rocky  marge,  and  balances  once 
more 

The  patient  weeds  ;  that  now  unshent 
by  foam 

Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home. 

Sappho's    meek    head    was    there    half 

smiling  down 
At  nothing  ;  just  as  though  the  earnest 

frown 
Of  over  thinking  had  that  moment  gone 
From  off  her  brow,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

Great  Alfred's  too,  with  anxious,  pity- 
ing eyes, 

As  if  be  always  listened  to  the  sighs 

Of  the  goaded  world  ;  and  Kosciusko's 
worn 

By  horrid  suffrance — mightily  forlorn. 

Petrarch,   outstepping  from  the   shady 

green, 
Starts  at   the  sight  of  Laura ;  nor  can 

wean 
His  eyes  from  her    sweet  face.     Most 

happy  they  ! 
For  over  them  was  seen  a  free  display 
Of  out-spread  wings,  and  from  between 

them  shone 
The  face  of  Poesy  :  from  off   her  throne 
She  overlook'd  things  that  I  scarce  could 

tell. 
The  very  sense  of  where  I  was  might 

well 
Keep  Sleep   aloof  :  but  more   than  that 

there  came 
Thought   after    thought   to  nourish   up 

the  flame 
Within  my  breast  :  so  that  the  morning 

light 
Surprised  me  even  from  a  sleepless  night; 
And  up  I  rose   refresh'd,  and  glad,  and 

gay. 
Resolving  to  begin  that  very  day 
These  lines;    and     howsoever  they    be 

done. 
I  leave  them  as  a  father  does  his  son. 
flSlG.  1817. 


3So 


BRITISH   POETS 


AFTER  DARK  VAPORS  HAVE 
OPPRESSED  OUR  PLAINS 

After  dark  vapors  have  oppressed  our 
plains 

For  a  long  dreary  season,  conies  a  day 

Born   of    the  gentle  South,  and  clears 
away 

From    the   sick    heavens  all   unseemly 
stains.  [pains, 

The   anxious   month,  relieved    from   its 

Takes  as  a  long-lost  right  the  feel  of 
May, 

The  eyelids  with  the  passing  coolness 
play. 

Like  rose   leaves  with  the  drip  of  sum- 
mer rains. 

And  calmest  thoughts  come  round  us — 
as,  of  leaves 

Budding, — fruit   ripening   in  stillness, — 
autumn  suns 

Smiling  at  eve  upon  the  quiet  sheaves, — 

Sweet  Sappho's  cheek, — a    sleeping  in- 
fant's breath, — 

The  gradual  sand  that  through  an  hour- 
glass runs, — 

A  woodland  rivulet,  a  Poet's  death. 
January,  IS  17.     February  23, 1817. 

TO  LEIGH  HUNT,  ESQ. 

[Dedication  of  the  volume  of  1817] 

Glory  and  loveliness  have  passed  away  ; 
For  if  we  wander   out  in   early  morn, 
No    wreathed  incense  do    we  see    up- 
borne 
Into  the  east,  to  meet  the  smiling  day  : 
No   crowd  of   nymphs   soft  voic'd  and 

young,  and  gay, 
In    woven     baskets    bringing    ears    of 

corn , 
Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 
But  there  are   left   delights   as   high  as 

these, 
And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny, 
That   in  a  time,    when  under    pleasant 

trees 
Pan  is  no  longer  sought.  I  feel  a  free 
A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please 
With   these   poor  offerings,  a  man  like 
thee.  1817.     1817. 

ON  SEEING  THE   ELGIN  MARBLES 

Mi  spirit  is  too  weak — mortality 
Weighs  heavily  on  me  like  unwilling 
sleep, 


.And  each  imagin'd  pinnacle  and  steep 
Of  godlike  hardship  tells  me  I  must  die 
Like  a  sick  Eagle  looking  at  the  sky. 
Yet  'tis  a  gentle  luxury  to  weep 
That  I  have  not   the   cloudy  winds  to 

keep, 
Fresh  for  the  opening   of   the  morning's 

eye. 
Such  dim-conceived  glories  of  the  brain 
Bring    round    the    heart    an   undeseri- 

bable  feud  ; 
So  do  these  wonders  a  most  dizzy  pain. 
That    mingles   Grecian  grandeur    with 

the  rude 
Wasting  of  old   Time — with  a  billowy 

main — 
A  sun — a  shadow  of  a  magnitude. 

1817.     March  9,  1817. 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF  LEANDER 

Come  hither  all  sweet  maidens  soberly, 
Down  looking  aye,  and  with  a  chastened 

light 
Hid  in  the  fringes  of  your  eyelids  white. 
And  meekly  let  your  fair  hands  joined 

be, 
As  if  so  gentle  that  ye  could  not  see, 
Untouched,   a   victim   of   your    beauty 

bright, 
Sinking  away  to  his  young  spirit's  night, 
Sinking  bewildered  'mid  the  dreary  sea  : 
Tis  young  Leander  toiling  to-liis  death  ; 
Nigh  swooning,  he  doth  purse  his  weary 

lips 
For  Hero's  cheek,   and  smiles    against 

her  smile. 
O  horrid  dream  !  see  how  his  body  dips 
Dead-heavy  ;  arms  and  shoulders  gleam 

awhile  : 
He's  gone  ;  up  bubbles  all  his  amorous 

breath  !  t  .  .  .  .  1829. 

ON  THE  SEA 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 

Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty 
swell 

Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till 
the  spell 

Of  Hecate  leaves  them  their  old  shad- 
owy sound. 

Often  'tis  in  such  gentle  temper  found, 

That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest 
shell 

Be  moved  for  days  from  whence  it  some- 
time fell, 

When  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  un- 
bound. 


K  K  ATS 


38i 


Oh   ye  !  who  have  your  eye-balls  vexed 

and  tired, 
Feast   them  upon  the  wideness    of  the 

Sea  ; 
Oh  ye  !     whose    ears   are   dinned   with 

uproar  rude. 
Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody, — 
Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth,  and 

brood 
Until  ye  start,   as  if    the    sea-nympbs 

quired  !  August,  1817.     1848. 

WHEN  I   HAVE  FEARS  THAT  I 
MAY  CEASE  TO  BE 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming 

brain, 
Befoi-e  high  piled  books,  in  charact'ry, 
Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripen'd 

grain  ; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd 

face. 
Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of 

chance  ; 
And   when  I   feel,  fair   creature  of  an 

hour  ! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 
Of    unreflecting    love!  —  then    on     the 

shore 
Of   the  wide  world  I  stand   alone,  and 

think 
Till  Love   and  Fame  to  nothingness  do 

sink.  1817.     1848. 

FROM   ENDTMION 
BOOK  I 

PROEM 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever  : 
Its  loveliness  increases  ;  it  will  never 
Pass   into   nothingness  ;    but   still    will 

keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet   dreams,  and  health,  and 

quiet  breathing. 
Therefore,    on    every    morrow,    are   we 

wreathing 
A  flowery  band   to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman 

il  earth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 
Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkened 

ways 


Made  for  our  searching  :  yes,  in  spite  of 

all, 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the 

pall 
From  our  dark   spirits.     Such  the  sun, 

the  moon, 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady 

boon 
For  simple  sheep  ;  and  such  are  daffodils 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in  ;  and 

clear  rills 
That    for  themselves   a   cooling  covert 

make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season  ;  the   mid-forest 

brake, 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose 

blooms  : 
And  such   too   is  the   grandeur  of   the 

dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead  ; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or 

read  : 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink. 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour  ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round   a   temple   become 

soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the 

moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering 

light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom 

o'ercast, 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore,    'tis    with     full    happiness 

that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys  :  so  I  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din  ; 
Now  while   the  early  builders   are   just 

new. 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Brin^-  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as 

the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly 

si  eer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours. 
With   streams  that  deepen  fresbly  into 

bowers. 


382 


BRITISH   POETS 


Many  and  many  ;i  verse  I  hope  to  write, 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and 

white, 
Hide  in  deep  herbage  ;   and  ere  yet  the 

bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet 

peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary, 
See   it  half   finished  :    but  let  Autumn 

bold, 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold, 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness  : 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly 

dress 
My  uncertain  path  with  green,   that  I 

may  speed 
Easily   onward,   thorough   flowers    and 

weed. 

HYMN  TO  PAN 

O  thou,    whose   mighty   palace   roof 

dotli  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life, 

death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness  ; 
Who  lov'st  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels 

darken  ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost 

sit,  and  hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture 

breeds 
The    pipy    hemlock    to    strange    over- 
growth ; 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou 

now, 
By  thy  love's  milky  brow  ! 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  vis,  great  Pan  ! 

O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet, 
turtles 

Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong 
myrtles. 

What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 

Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt 
the  side 

Of  thine  enmossed  realms:  O  thou,  to 
whom 

Broad  leaved  fig  trees  even  now  fore- 
doom 

Their  ripen'd  fruitage;  yellow  girted 
bees 


Their  golden  honeycombs  ;  our  village 
leas 

Their  fairest-blossom'd  beans  and  pop- 
pied corn  ; 

The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  un- 
born, 

To  sing  for  thee ;  low  creeping  straw- 
berries 

Their  summer  coolness  ;  pent  up  butter- 
flies 

Their  freckled  wings;  yea,  the  fresh 
budding  year 

All  its  completions — be  quickly  near. 

By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain 
pine, 

O  forester  divine  ! 

Thou,  to  whom  every  fawn  and  satyr 
flies 
For  willing  service  ;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half  sleeping 

fit  ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's 

maw  ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewildered    shepherds     to     their    path 

again  ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy 

main, 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads'  cells, 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out- 
peeping  ; 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leap- 
ing, 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the 

crown 
With  silvery  oak  apples,  and  fir  cones 

brown — 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  king  ! 

O   Hearkener    to    the    loud    clapping 

shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A   ram   goes   bleating :    Winder  of   the 

horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender 

corn 
Anger  our  huntsman  :    Breather   round 

our  farms. 
To   keep  off   mildews,  and  all  weather 

harms  : 
Strange      ministrant      of     undescribed 

sounds, 
That    come    a    swooning    over    hollow 

grounds. 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors: 


KEATS 


363 


Di-ead  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see, 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 
The   many  that   are   come   to  pay  their 

vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows  ! 

Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ;  such  as  dodge 
Conception     to     the    very    bourne      of 

heaven. 
Then   leave  the  naked  brain  :    be  still 

the  leaven, 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded 

earth 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth  : 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity  ; 
A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea  ; 
An  element  filling  the  space  between  ;    ■ 
An  unknown — but  no  more  :  we  humbly 

screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly 

bending, 
And  giving  out   a  shout  most  heaven- 
rending, 
Conjure    thee   to  receive    our    humble 

Paean, 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  ! 

THE  COMING  OF  DIAN 

[Endymion  speaks,  to  his  Sister  Peona.] 

"  This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky, 
Till  it  begins  to  progress  silverly 
Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood, 
Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  winding 

flood 
Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent 

moon  ; 
And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June. 
Had  I  been  used  to  pass  1113-  weary  eves  ; 
There  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 
So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power, 
And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  hour, 
When  lie   doth   lighten   up   the   golden 

reins. 
And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 
His  snorting  four.    Now  when  his  chariot 

last 
Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast. 
There  blossom'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 
Of  sacred  ditamy,  and  poppies  red  : 
At  which  I   wondered  greatly,  knowing 

well 
That  but  one  night  had    wrought  this 

flowery  spell  ; 
And,  sitting  down  close    by,  began   to 

muse 


What  it  might  mean.     Perhaps,  thought 

I.  Morpheus, 
In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook  ; 
Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uptook 
Her  ebon  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth, 
Had   dipt   his   rod   in  it  :  such   garland 

wealth 
Came  not  by  common  growth.     Thus  011 

I  thought, 
Until  my  head  was  dizzy  and  distraught. 
Moreover,  through  the  dancing  poppies 

stole 
A  breeze,  most  softly  lulling  to  my  soul  ; 
And  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 
Of  colors,  wings,    and  bursts  of  spangly 

light ; 
The  which   became   more  strange,  and 

strange,  and  dim, 
And  then  were  gulf'd  in  a  tumultuous 

swim  : 
And  then  I  fell  asleep.     Ah,  can  I  tell 
The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befell  ? 
Yet  it  was  but  a  dream  :  j'et  such  a  dream 
That  never  tongue,  although  itovertetin 
With   mellow   utterance,  like  a  cavern 

spring, 
Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 
All  1  beheld  and  felt.     Methought  I  lay 
Watching  the  zenith,  where  the  milky 

way 
Among     the   stars    in   virgin   splendor 

pours  : 
And  travelling  my  eye,   until   the  doors 
Of  heaven  appeared  to  open  for  my  flight, 
I  became  loth  and  fearful  to  alight 
From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward 

glance  : 
So  kept  me  stedfast  in  that  airy  trance, 
Spreading  imaginary  pinions  wide. 
When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide, 
And  faint  away,   before  my  eager  view  : 
At  which  I  sigli'd  that  I  could  not  pursue, 
And  dropped  my  vision  to  the  horizon's 

verge ;  [emerge 

And  lo  !  from  opening  clouds,  I  saw 
The  loveliest  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 
A  shell   for  Neptune's   goblet  :  she  did 

soar 
S.>  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul 
Commingling    with  her  argent   spheres 

did  roll 
Through    clear  and  cloudy,  even  when 

she  went 
At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapory  tent — 
Whereat,    methought,    the    lidless-eyed 

train 
Of  planets  all  Were  in  the  blue  again. 
To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more 

I  rais'd 


3»4 


BRITISH    POETS 


My  sight  right  upward  :  but  it  was  quite 

dazed 
1\\    a    bright  something,   sailing  down 

apace, 
Making  me  quickly  veil   my  eyes  and 

face  : 
Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities. 
Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies  ! 
Whence  that  completed  form  of  all  com- 
pleteness ? 
Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all 

sweetness  ? 
Speak,    stubborn    earth,    and    tell    me 

where,  O  where 
1  last  1  hou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair  ? 
Not  oat-sheaves  drooping  in  the  western 

sun  ;  [shun 

Not — thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister  !  let  me 
Such  follying  before  thee — yet  she  had, 
Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me 

mad  ; 
And  they  were  simply  gordiari'd  up  and 

braided. 
Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded, 
Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and 

orbed  brow  ; 
The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not 

how, 
With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  ejres, 
Blush-tinted    cheeks,    half    smiles,   and 

faintest  sighs. 
That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit 

clings 
And  plays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  slings 
Of  human  neighborhood  envenom  all. 
Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call  ? 
To  what  high  fane  ? — Ah  !  see  her  hover- 
ing feet, 
More    bluely   vein'd,    more    soft,   more 

whitely  sweet 
Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she 

rose 
From   out  her  cradle  shell.     The  wind 

out-blows 
Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ; 
Tis  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  mil- 
lion 
Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wert  to 

shed. 
Over  the  darkest,  lushest  blue-bell  bed, 
Handfuls  of  daisies." — "  Endymion,  how 

strange ! 
Dream  within  dream!" — "  She  took  an 

airy  range, 
And  then,  towards  me.  like  a  very  maid, 
Came    blushing,    waning,    willing,    and 

afraid. 
And  press'd  me  by  the  hand  :  Ah  !  'twas 

too  much  ; 


Methought   I   fainted    at   the   charmed 

touch, 
Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  one 
Who   dives    three    fathoms   where    the 

waters  run 
<  I  urgling  in  beds  of  coral  :  for  anon, 
I  felt  upmounted  in  that  region 
Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery 

forth, 
And  eagles  struggle  with  the  buffeting 

north 
That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone  ; — 
Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone. 
But  lapp'd  and  lull'd  along  the  danger- 
ous sky. 
Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journey- 
ing high, 
And   straightway   into  frightful  eddies 

swoop'd  ; 
Such  as  aye  muster  where  gray  time  has 

scoop'd 
Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  mountain's 

side  : 
Their  hollow  sounds  arous'd  me,  and  I 

sigh'd 
To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my 

bliss — 
I  wras  distracted ;  madly  did  I  kiss 
The  wooing  arms   which  held  me,  and 

did  give 
My  eyes  at  once  to  death  :  but  'twas  to 

live, 
To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold 

fount 
Of  kind  and  passionate  looks  ;  to  count, 

and  count 
The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that 

seem'd  [deem'd 

A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  re- 
And  plundered  of  its  load  of  blessedness. 
Ah,   desperate  mortal!  I  ev'n  dar'd   to 

press 
Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 
And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 
Into  a  warmer  air  :  a  moment  more, 
Our  feet   were   soft   in  flowers.     There 

was  store 
Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Some- 
times 
A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  bines, 
Loiter'd  around  us;  then  of  honey  cells, 
Made    delicate    from    all     white-flower 

bells ; 
And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest, 
An   arch   face   peep'd, — an   Oread   as   I 

guess'd. 

"Why  did  I   dream   that   sleep   o'er* 
power'd  me 


KEATS 


38S 


In  midst  of  all  this  heaven  ?     Why  not 

see. 
Far  off,  the  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark. 
And  stave  them  from  me  ?     But  no,  like 

a  spark 
That  needs  must   die,   although  its  little 

beam 
Reflects  upon  a  diamond,  my  sweet  dream 
Fell  into  nothing— into  stupid  sleep. 
And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 
A  careful   moving  caught   my  waking 

ears, 
And  up  I  started:  Ah!    my  sighs,   my 

tears. 
My  clenched  hands  ; — for  lo  !  the  poppies 

hung  [sung 

Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,   the  ouzel 
A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 
Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away, 
With  leaden  looks  :  the  solitary  breeze 
Bluster'd,and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did 

teaze 
With    wayward     melancholy  ;     and     I 

thought. 
Mark   me,    Peona  !    that    sometimes   it 

brought, 
Faint   fare-thee-wells,  and  sigh-shrilled 

adieus  ! — 
Away  I  wander'd — all  the  pleasant  hues 
Of  heaven  and  earth  had  faded  :  deepest 

shades 
"Were   deepest    dungeons  ;    heaths    and 

sunny  glades 
Were  full  of  pestilent  light  ;  our  taintless 

rills 
Seem'd  sooty,  and  o'er-spread  with  up- 

turn'd  gills 
Of  dying  fish  ;  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 
In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  out- 
grown 
1  ike  spiked  aloe.     If  an    innocent  bird 
Before  my  heedless  footsteps  stirr'd,  and 

stirr'd 
In  little  journeys.  I  beheld  in  it 
A  disguis'd  demon,  missioned  to  knit 
My  sold  with  under  darkness  ;  to  entice 
My   stumblings    down    some  monstrous 

precipice  : 
Therefore  I  eager  followed,  and  did  curse 
The  disappointment.     Time,   that  aged 

nurse, 
Rock'd    me   to    patience.       Now,    thank 

gentle  heaven  ! 
These  things,  with  all  their  comfortings, 

are  given 
To  my  down-sunken    hours,    and    with 

thee, 
Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 
Of  weary  life." 

25~ 


FROM  BOOK  II 

INVOCATION  TO  THE    POWER  OF  LOVE 

0  sovereign  power  of  love  !  O  grief  ! 

O  balm  ! 
All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool,  and 

calm, 
And     shadowy,    through    the    mist    of 

passed  years  : 
For  others,  good  or  bad,  hatred  and  tears 
Have   become  indolent  ;    but   touching 

thine, 
One  sigh  doth  echo,  one  poor  sob  doth 

pine, 
One  kiss  brings  honey-dew  from  buried 

days. 
The   woes   of  Troy,   towers   smothering 

o'er  their  blaze, 
Stiff-holden  shields,  far-piercing  spears, 

keen  blades, 
Struggling,  and  blood,  and  shrieks — all 

dimly  fades 
Into  some  backward  corner  of  the  brain  ; 
Yet.  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 
The  close  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  sweet. 
Hence,  pageant   history  !  hence,  gilded 

cheat ! 
Swart  planet  in  the  universe  of  deeds  ! 
Wide  sea,  that  one   continuous  murmur 

breeds 
Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory  ! 
Many  old  rotten-timber 'd  boats  there  be 
Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 
To  goodly  vessels  :  many  a  sail  of  pride. 
And  golden  keel'd,   is   left  unlaunch'd 

and  dry. 
But  wherefore  this  ?    What  care,  though 

owl  did  fly 
About    the    great    Athenian    admiral's 

mast  ? 
What  care,  though  striding  Alexander 

past 
The  Indus  with  his  Macedonian  numbers  ? 
Though   old    Ulysses  tortured    from   his 

slumbers 
The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care? — Juliet 

leaning 
Amid    her    window-flowers, — sighing, — 

weaning 
Tenderly. her    fancy    from   its   maiden 

snow,  [flow 

Doth  more  avail    than   these:  the  silver 
Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den. 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-day  of  empires.  Fearfully 
Must  such    conviction    come  upon  his 

head, 


386 


BRITISH   POETS 


Who,  thus  far.  discontent,  lias  dared  to 
tread, 

Without  one  muse's  smile,  or  kind  be- 
hest, 

The  path  of  love  and  poesy.     But  rest. 

In  chafing  restlessness,  is  yet  more 
drear 

Than  to  be  crush'd,  in  striving  to  uproar 

Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of 
song. 

So  once  more  days  and  nights  aid  me 
along. 

Like  legion'd  soldiers. 

FROM  BOOK  IV 

ROUNDELAY 

"  O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health,  from  vermeil 
lips  ? 

To  give  maiden  blushes 

To  the  white  rose  bushes? 
Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

"  O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye  ? — 

To  give  the  glow-worm  light? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night, 
To  tinge,  on  siren  shores,  the  salt  sea- 
spray  ? 

"  O  Sorrow, 
Why  dost  borrow 
The   mellow   ditties   from   a   mourning 
tongue  ? — 
To  give  at  evening  pale 
Unto  the  nightingale, 
That   thou   mayst   listen  the  cold  dews 
among  ? 

"  O  Sorrow, 

"Why  dost  borrow 

Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of 
May  ?— 
A  lover  would  not  tread 
A  cowslip  on  the  head, 

Though  he   should  dance   from   eve  till 
peep  of  day — 
Nor  any  drooping  flower 
Held  sacred  for  thy  bower, 

Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

"To  Sorrow, 
I  bade  good-morrow, 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  be- 
hind ; 


Bill  eheerly.  cheerly, 

She  loves  me  dearly  ; 
She  is  so  ccuist ant  to  me,  and  so  kind  : 

I  would  deceive  her 

And  so  leave  her, 
But  ah  !  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 

"Beneath    my  palm  trees,  by  the  river 

side, 
I  sat  a-weeping  :  in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept,— 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 

"Beneath  my  palm  trees,  by  the  river 

side, 
I  sat  a-weeping  :  what  enamor'd  bride. 
Cheated   by    shadowy   wooer  from  the 

clouds, 
But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm  trees  by  a  riverside? 

"  And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers  :  the  rills 
Into  the  wide    stream   came  of    purple 

hue — 
'  Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew  ! 
The   earnest  trumpet   spake,  and  silver 

thrills 
From    kissing    cymbals     made  a  merry 

din — ■ 
'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  kin  ! 
Like   to  a  moving  vintage   down    they 

came, 
Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all 

on  flame  ; 
All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant 

valley, 
To  scare  thee,  Melancholy  ! 
O    then,    O  then,   thou  wast   a    simple 

name  ! 
And  I  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By     shepherds,  is   forgotten,   when,     in 

June, 
Tall  chestnuts  keep   away   the  sun   and 

moon  : — 
I  rush'd  into  the  folly  ! 

"Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus 

stood. 
Trifling  his  ivy-dart,  in  dancing  mood,- 

Wil  h  sidelong  laughing  ; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His  plump  white  arms,  and  shoulders, 
enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite  : 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  lie  on  did  pass 

Tipsily  quaffing. 


KEATS 


387 


;-  Whence     came    ye.    merry    Damsels  ! 

whence  came  ye  ! 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Whv  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate, 
Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate? — 
'  We  follow   Bacchus  !     Bacchus  on  the 
wing, 
A  conquering  ! 
Bacchus,  young  Bacchus  !  good  or  ill  be- 

tide, 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms 

wide  : — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 
To  our  wild  minstrelsy  !' 

"  Whence  came  ye.  jolly  Satyrs  !  whence 
came  ye  ! 

So  man}",  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 

Whv    have    ve  left  your  forest    haunts, 
why  left 
Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft? — 

'For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel 
tree  ; 

For  wine   we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow 
brooms. 
And  Cold  mushrooms  ; 

For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the 
earth  ; 

Great  God  of  breathless  cups  and  chirp- 
ing mirth  ! — 

Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  mad  minstrelsy  !  ' 

"  Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great 

we  went,  [tent. 

And.  save    when    Bacchus   kept  his  ivy 
Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants, 

With  Asian  elephants  : 
Onward  these  myriads — with  song  ami 

dance, 
AY i 1 1 1  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians' 

prance, 
Web-footed  alligators,  crocodiles, 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  files. 
Plump  in  fan  1    laughers  mimicking   the 

ooil 
' )!'  seamen,  ami  stoul  galley-rower's  (oil  : 
With  toying   oars  ami    silken   sails  they 

glide. 
Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide. 

"  Mounted  on   panthers' furs  and  lions' 

ma  lies,  [plains  ; 

From  rear  to    \an  they  scour  about  the 

A  three  days' journey  in  a  moment  done  : 

And  always,  at  t  lie  rising  of  the  sun, 
About  the   wilds    they  hunt    with  spear 
and  horn. 
On  spleenful  unicorn. 


"  I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown  1 
I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring  1 
I  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce  ! 
The   kings  of   Inde  their   jewel-sceptres 

vail, 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled 

hail ; 
Great   Brahma  from  his   mystic  heaven 
groans, 
And  all  his  priesthood  moans, 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye- wink  turning 

pale. — 
Into    these    regions    came    I   following 

him, 
Sick-hearted,  weary — so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear 

Alone,  without  a  peer  : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  .mayest 
hear. 

"  Young  stranger ! 

I've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure   throughout  every 
clime  : 

Alas  !  'tis  not  for  me  ! 

Bewitch'd  I  sure  must  be, 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

"  Come  then.  Sorrow  ! 

Sweetest  Sorrow  ! 
Like  an   own   babe  I  nurse  thee   on  my 
breast : 

I  thought  to  leave  thee 

A  ml  deceive  thee, 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  ihee  best. 

"  There  is  not  one, 

No,  no.  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lordly  maid  ; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

A  ml  her  brother. 
Her   playmate,   and   her  woo-^r   in   the 
shade." 

THE   FEAST   OF    DIAN 

Who,  who  from  Dian's  feas* would  be 

away  ? 
For  all  fcha  golden  bowers  of  the  day 
Are  empty  left?    Who,  who  away  would 

be 
From  Cynthia's  wedding  and  festivity? 
Nut      Hesperus:     lo  1     upon     hisj     rttvei 

w  i  1 1  gs 
He  leans  away  for  highest  heaven  and 

sings, 


3ss 


BRITISH  POETS 


Snapping  bis  lurid  fingers  merrily!— 

Ah.  Zephyrus  !  art  here,  and  Flora,  too  ! 

Ye  tender  bibbers  of  the  rain  and  dew, 
Young  playmates  of  the  rose  and  daffo- 
dil, 

Be  careful,  ere  ye  enter  in,  to  till 
Your  baskets  high 

With  fennel  green,  and  balm,  and  gold- 
en pines, 

Savory,  latter  mint,  and  columbines, 

Cool    parsley,    basil  sweet,   and    sunny 
i  hyme  ; 

Yea,    every    flower  and   leaf   of   every 
clime. 

All  gather'd  in  the  dewy  morning  :  hie 
Away  !  fly.  fly  !— 

Crystalline  brotherof  the  belt  of  heaven, 

Aquarius!  to  whom  king;  Jove  has  given 

Two    liquid     pulse    streams    'stead    of 
feather'd  wings, 

Two  fan-like  fountains,— thine  illumin- 
ings 

For  Dian  play  : 

Dissolve  the  frozen  purity  of  air  ; 

Let    thy    white    shoulders    silvery   and 
bare 

Shew    cold    through     watery    pinions ; 
make  more  bright 

The  Star-Queen's  crescent  on  her  mar- 
riage night : 

Haste,  haste  away  ! — 

Castor  has  tamed  the  planet  Lion,  see  ! 

And  of  the  Bear  has  Pollux  mastery  : 

A   third   is   in   the    race !    who    is    the 
third, 

Speeding  away  swift  as  the  eagle  bird? 
The  tramping  Centaur! 

The   Lion's   mane's   on   end :    the   Bear 
how  fierce ! 

The    Centaur's    arrow   ready   seems   to 
pierce 

Some  enemy  :  far  forth  his  bow  is  bent 

Into  the  blue  of  heaven.     He'll  beshent, 
Pale  unreleotor, 

When  he  shall  hear  the  wedding  lutes  a- 
playing.— 

Andromeda!  sweet  woman!  why  delay- 
ing 

80  timidly  among  the  stars  :  comehither  ! 

Join  this  bright  throng,  and  nimbly  fol- 
low whither 

They  all  are  going. 

Danae's  Son,  before  Jove  newly  bow'd, 

Has    wept    for    thee,    calling    to   Jove 
aloud. 

Thee,  gentle  lady,  did  he  disenthral : 

Ye  shall  for  ever  live  and  love,  for  all 
Thy  tears  are  flowing. 

1817.     1818. 


ROBIN  HOOD 

No  !  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pal] 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years  : 
Many  times  have  winter's  shears, 
Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces. 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more ; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amaz'd  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon, 
Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you  ; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold  ; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent ; 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din  ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn  ; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "  grene  shawe  ;" 
All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  turfed  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze  : 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fall'n  beneath  the  dockyard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas  ; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — strange  !  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money  ! 

So  it  is  :  yet  let  us  sing, 
Honor  to  the  old  bow-string  I 
Honor  to  the  bugle-horn  ! 
Honor  to  the  woods  unshorn! 
Honor  to  the  Lincoln  green  I 


KEATS 


389 


Honor  to  the  archer  keen  ! 
Honor  to  tight  Little  John, 
And  the  horse  lie  rode  upon  ! 
Honor  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood  ! 
Honor  to  Maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood-clan  ! 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 

February  3,  ISIS.     1820. 

IN  A  DREAR-NIGHTED  DECEMBER 

In  a  drear- nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 

Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity  : 

The  north  cannot  undo  them, 

With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them  ; 

Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  brook. 

Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 

Apollo's  summer  look  ; 

But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 

They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 

Never,  never  petting 

About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah  !  would  'twere  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

fl818.     1829. 

TO  AILSA  ROCK 

Hearken.  4hou  craggy  ocean  pyramid  ! 

Give  answer  from  thy  voice,  the  sea- 
fowls'  screams  ! 

When  were  thy  shoulders  mantled  in 
hugo  streams  ? 

When,  from  thesun,  was  thy  broad  fore- 
head hid  ? 

How  longis't  since  the  mighty  power  bid 

Thee  heave  to  airy  sleep  from  fathom 
dreams  ? 

Sleep  in  the  lap  of  thunder  or  sun- 
beams. 

Or  when  grj.y  clouds  are  thy  cold  cover- 
lid. 

Thou  answc  r'st  not ;  for  thou  art  dead 
asleep  ; 


Thy  life  is  but  two  dead  eternities — 
The  last  in  air,  the  former  in  the  deep, 
First   with    the   whales,   last    with   the 

eagle-skies — 
Drown'd  wast  thou  till  an   earthquake 

made  thee  steep, 
Another  cannot  wake  thv  giant  size. 
July,  18-18.     1819. 

THE  HUMAN  SEASONS 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the 

year  ; 
There  are  four  seasons  in  the   mind  of 

man  : 
He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  f  ancy  clear 
Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span  : 
He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 
Spring's  honey 'd  cud  of  youthful  thought 

he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 
Is  nearest  unto  heaven  :  quiet  coves 
His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his 

wings 
He  furleth  close  ;  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness — to  let  fair  tilings 
Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 
He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 
Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  na- 
ture. tl818.     1819. 

TO  HOMER 

Standing  aloof  in  giant  ignorance, 

Of  1  bee  I  hear  and  of  the  Cyclades, 

As  one  who  sits  ashore  and  longs  per- 
chance 

To  visit  Dolphin-coral  in  deep  seas. 

So  thou  wast  blind  ; — but  then  the  veil 
was  rent. 

For  Jove  uncurtained  Heaven  to  let  thee 
live, 

And  Neptune  made  for  thee  a  spumy 
tent, 

And  Pan  made  sing  for  thee  his  forest- 
hive. 

Ave,  on  the  shores  of  darkness  there  is 
light, 

And  precipices  show  untrodden  green. 

There  is  a  budding  morrow  in  mid- 
night,1 

There  is  a  i  riple  sight  in  blindness  keen  ; 

Such  seeing  hadst  tbou,  as  it  once 
befell 

To  Dian,  Queen  of  Earth,  and  Heaven, 
and  Hell.  ISIS,     is  is. 

1  Fornran  records  in  his  notes  that  Rossetti 
considered  this  to  be  "Keats"  flnesi  single  liae 
of  poetry.'1     (KeatS'  Works.  II.,  238.) 


39° 


BRITISH  POETS 


LINES 

ON 

THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

SOULS  of  Poets  (lead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  ?     O  generous  food  ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 

Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away, 

Nobody  knew  whither]  till 

An  astrologer's  old  quill 

To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 

Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 

Underneath  a  new  old  sign 

Sipping  beverage  divine, 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 

The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 

ISIS.     1820. 

FANCY 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth  ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond 

her  : 
Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 
She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloud  ward  soar. 
O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 
Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 
And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming  ; 
Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 
Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 
Cloys  with  tasting:  What  do  then? 
Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 
The  sear  fagot  blazes  bright, 
Spirit  of  a  winter's  night  ; 
When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 
And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 
From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon  ; 


When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 
In  a  dark  conspiracy. 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  self-overaw'd 

fancy,  high-commission'd  : — send  her\ 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her: 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather  ; 

All  the  buds  and  hells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray  ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  : 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And    thou   shalt   quaff   it : — thou    shalt 

hear 
Distant  harvest-carols  clear ; 
Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 
Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  : 
And,  in  the  same  moment — hark  1 
'Tis  the  earl}'  April  lark, 
Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 
Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 
Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 
White-plum'd  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 
Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May  ; 
And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 
Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep  ; 
And  the  snake  all  winter  thin 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 
Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 
When  the  henbird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest  ; 
Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering, 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 
Every  thing  is  spoilt  by  use  : 
Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gaz'd  at?     Where's  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 
Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary  ?    Where's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 
Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 


KEATS 


391 


Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 

Tliee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind  : 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide  ; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipped  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And    Jove    grew     languid. — Break    the 

mesh 
Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash  ; 
Quickty  break  her  prison-string 
And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. — 
Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam. 
Pleasure  never  is  at  home.  1818.     1820. 

ISABELLA 

OR 

THE   POT  OF   BASIL 

A  STORY   FROM  BOCCACCIO 

Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel  I 

Lorenzo,    a    young  palmer    in    Love's 
eye! 
They  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion 
dwell 
Without    some    stir   of    heart,   some 
malady  ; 
They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how 
well 
It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by  ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same 

roof  sleep 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly 
weep. 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  ten- 
derer, 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer 
still; 
He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden 
stir. 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing 
fill: 
And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her.  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden 
rill; 
Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name, 
She  spoilt   her   half-done  broidery  with 
the  same. 

lie  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the 
latch, 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his 
eyes  ; 


And    from     her     chamber- window    he 
would  catch 
Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon 
spies  ; 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he 
watch, 
Because  her  face   was   turn'd   to   the 
same  skies  ; 

And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night  out- 
wear, 

To  hear  her  morning-step  upon  the  stair. 

A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad 
plight 
Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break 
of  June : 
"To-morrow  will  I  bow  to  my  delight, 
To-morrow     will     I    ask     my    lady's 
boon." — 
"  O  may  I  never  see  another  night, 
Lorenzo,    if     thy     lips    breathe    not 
love's  tune."  — 
So  spake  they  to  their  pillows  :  but,  alas, 
Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass  ; 

Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouched  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose"s  just  domain, 
Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's,  who  doth 
seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant's  pain  : 
"  How  ill  she  is,"   said  he,    "  I  may   not 
speak, 
And  yet   I   will,  and  tell  my  love  all 
plain  : 
If  looks   speak   love-laws,  I   will   drink 

her  tears. 
And   at   the  least  'twill  startle   off   her 
cares." 

So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His   heart   beat    awfully   against   his 
side  ; 
And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 
For  power  to  speak  ;  but  still  the  ruddy 
tide 
Stifled    his    voice,    and    puls'd    resolve 
away — 
Fever'd    his  high  conceit  of  such  a 
bride, 
Yet  brought  him  to  the  meekness  of  a 

child  : 
Alas!  when  passion  is  both  meek  and 
wild  ! 

So  once   more   he   had   wak'd    and   an- 
guished 

A  dreary  night  of  love  and  misery, 
If  Isabel's  (puck  eve  had  not  been  wed 

To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high; 


39- 


BRITISH   POETS 


She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead. 
And   straight   all  flush'd;   so,   lisped 
tenderly, 

"  Lorenzo !  " — here  she  ceas'd  her  timid 

quest, 
But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  rest. 

"  O  Isabella,  I  can  half  perceive 
That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine 
ear  : 
If  thou  didst  ever  anything  believe, 
Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how 
near 
My   soul   is   to  its   doom:  I   would   not 
grieve 
Thy   hand    by    unwelcome    pressing, 
would  not  fear 
Thine    eyes   by  gazing;    but  I  cannot 

live 
Another    night,    and    not    my    passion 
shrive. 

"  Love  !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry 

cold, 
Lady  !    thou   leadest   me   to  summer 

clime, 
And    I    must  taste  the   blossoms  that 

unfold 
In     its    ripe    warmth     this    gracious 

morning  time/' 
So  said,   his   erewhile   timid   lips    grew 

bold, 
And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rhyme  : 
Great  bliss  was  with   them,   and   great 

happiness 
Grew,    like    a    lusty    flower  in   June's 

caress. 

Parting  they  seem'd  to   tread   upon  the 
air, 
Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 
Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 
The  inward  fragrance  of  each  other's 
heart. 
She,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a  ditty  fair 
Sang,  of   delicious  love   and   honey'd 
dart  : 
He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western 

hill, 
And  bade  the  sun   farewell,  and  joy'd 
his  fill. 

All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant 
veil, 
All  close  they  met,  all  eves,   before  the 
dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant 
veil, 


Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 
Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whisper- 
ing tale. 
Ah  !  better  had  it  been  for  ever  so, 
Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their 
woe. 

Were  they  unhappy  then  ? — It   cannot 
be — 
Too  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been 
shed, 
Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee. 

Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead, 
Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see, 
Whose  matter  in  bright  goldwere  best 
be  read  ; 
Except  in  such  a  page  where  Theseus' 

spouse 
Over  the   pathless  waves  towards   him 
bows. 

But,  for  the  general  award  of  love, 
The  little  sweet  doth  kill  much  bitter- 
ness ; 
Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove, 

And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress. 
Though  young  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian 
clove 
Was  not  embalm'd,  this  truth  is   not 
the  less — 
Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring- 
bowers, 
Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison- 
flowers. 

With   her  two  brothers   this   fair  lady 
dwelt, 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandise, 
And  for  them  many  a  weary   hand   did 
swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories, 
And  many  once  proud-quiver'd  loins  did 
melt 
In  blood  from  stinging  whip  ; — with 
hollow  eyes 
Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 
To  take  the  rich-ored   driftings   of   the 
flood. 

For    them   the    Ceylon    diver   held   his 

breath, 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry 

shark ; 
For   them   his   ears   gush'd   blood  ;    for 

them  in  death 
The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with   piteous 

bark 
Lay  full  of  darts ;  for  them  alone  did 

seethe 


KEATS 


393 


A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and 
dark  : 
Half-ignorant,     they     turn'd     an    easy 

"wheel, 
That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch 
and  peel. 

Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because  their 

marble  founts 
Gush'd   with   more   pride    than   do  a 

wretch's  tears? — 
Why   were   they  proud  ?    Because  fair 

orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  ascent  than  lazar 

stairs  ? — 
Why  were  they  proud  ?    Because  red- 

lin'd  accounts 
AVere  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian 

years  ? — 
Why   were   they  proud  ?   again  we  ask 

aloud , 
Why  in  the  name  of  Glory   were  they 

proud  ? 

Yet   were  these  Florentines  as  self-re- 
tired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice, 

As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  in- 
spired, 
Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar- 
spies  ; 

The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests — the  un- 
tired 
And   parinier'd  mules  for  ducats  and 
old  lies — 

Quick  cat's-paws  on  the  generous  stray- 
away, — 

Great    wits    in    Spanish,   Tuscan,    and 
Malay. 

How  was  it  these  same  ledger-men  could 
spy 
Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest  ? 
How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 
A  straying  from  his  toil?     Hot  Egypt's 
pest 
Into  tlieir  vision  covetous  and  sly  ! 
How  could  these  money-bags  see  east 
and  west  ? — 
Yet  so  they  did — and  every  dealer  fair 
Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 

O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio  ! 

Of  thee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving 
boon, 
And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 
And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon, 
And  of  thy  lilies,  thai  do  paler  grow 
Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghit- 
tern's  tune, 


For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The    quiet    glooms   of   such   a    piteous 
theme. 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the 
tale 
Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 
There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 
To  make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme 
more  sweet  : 
But  it  is  done — succeed    the  verse  or 
fail- 
To   honor   thee,  and   thy   gone  spirit 
greet  ; 
To  stead  thee  as    a   verse   in  English 

tongue, 
An  echo  of  thee  in  the  north-wind  sung. 

These  brethren  having  found  by  many 
signs 
What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had, 
And  how  she  lov'd  him  too,  each  uncon- 
fines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  well-nigh 
mad 
That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  de- 
signs, 
Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe 
and  glad 
When  'twas  their  plan  to  coax  her  by 

degrees 
To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 

And    many  a   jealous   conference    had 
they, 
And  many  times  they   bit  their  lips 
alone, 
Before  they  fix'd  upon  a  surest  way 
To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime 
atone ; 
And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the 
bone  ; 
For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 
To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 
Into  the  sun-rise,  o'er  the  balustrade 
Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  him  they 
bent 
Their  footing  through  the  dews  ;  and 
to  him  said, 
"You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  con- 
tent. 
Lorenzo,  and   we    are   most    loth   to 
invade 
<  'aim  speculation  ;  but  if  you  are  wise, 
Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the 
skies. 


394 


URITISH    POKTS 


"To-day  we  purpose,  ay,  this  hour  we 
mount 
To    spur    three    leagues  towards  the 
Apennine  ; 
Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the   hot 
sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine." 
Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont, 
Bow'd   a    fair  greeting   to   these   ser- 
pents' whine  ; 
And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness. 
With  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracing  hunts- 
man's dress. 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along. 
Each   third   step    did   he   pause,   and 
listen'd  oft 
If  he  could  hear  his  lady's  matin-song, 
Or  the  light  whisper   of   her   footstep 
soft  ; 
And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung, 
He  heard  a  laugh  full  musical  aloft  ; 
When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features 

blight 
Smile   through    an   in-door    lattice,   all 
delight. 

"  Love,  Isabel  !  "  said  he,  "  I  was  in  pain 
Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good 
morrow  : 
Ah  !  what  if   I   should  lose  thee,  when 
so  lain 
I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 
Of  a   poor   three   hours'  absence  ?    but 
we'll  gain 
Out   of    the  amorous  dark  what  da}' 
doth  borrow. 
Goodbye!  I'll  soon  be  back." — "Good 

bye  !  "  said  she  : — ■ 
And  as'he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder'd 
man 
Rode    past    fair    Florence,    to   where 
Arno's  stream 
Gurgles  through  straiten'd   banks,  and 
still  doth  fan 
Itself  witli  dancing  bulrush,  and  the 
bream 
,  Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.     Sick 
and  wan 
The   brothers'   faces   in    the   ford   did 
seem, 
Lorenzo's  flush  with  love. — They  pass'd 

the  water 
Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 

There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in, 
There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love 
cease  ; 


Ah  !  when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  freedom 

win. 
It  aches  in  loneliness— is  ill  at  peace 
As   the    break-covert    blood-hounds    of 

such  sin  : 
They  dipp'd  their  swords  in  the  water. 

and  did  tease 
Their  horses  homeward,  with  convulsed 

spur. 
Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 

They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden 
speed , 
Lorenzo   had   ta'en    ship   for    foreign 
lands. 
Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 
In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 
Poor  Girl  !  put  on  thy  stifling  widow's 
weed, 
And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  ac- 
cursed bands ; 
To-day  thou  wilt   not  see  him,  nor  to- 
morrow, 
And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be  ; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came 
on, 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  misery  ! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone  : 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see, 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan, 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air, 
And    on    her    couch    low    murmuring, 
"  Where?     O  where?" 

But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not 
long  _ 

Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast ; 
She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 

Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest — 
Not    long — for    soon   into   her    heart   a 
throng 

Of  higher  occupants,  a  richer  zest, 
( lame  tragic  ;  passion  not  to  be  subdued, 
And  sorrow  for  her  love. in  travels  rude. 

In  the  mid  days  of  autumn, on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far 
away. 
And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  round- 
elay 
Of   death   among  the   bushes   and    the 
leaves 
To  make  all  bare   before  he   cares  to 
stray 
From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 
By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 


KEATS 


395 


Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 
Slie  ask'd  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all 
pale, 
Striving    to    be    itself,    what    dungeon 
climes 
Could   keep  him  off  so    long?    They 
spake  a  tale, 
Time  after  time,   to   quiet   her.     Their 
crimes 
Came  on  them,    like   a   smoke    from 
Hinnom's  vale  ; 
And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groan"d 

aloud, 
To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance, 
But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than 

all; 
It  came  like  a  fierce   potion,  drunk  by 

chance, 
"Which    saves   a   sick   man    from   the 

feather'd  pall 
For  some  few  gasping  moments  ;  like  a 

lance. 
Waking  an   Indian    from   his   cloudy 

hall 
With   cruel   pierce,   and   bringing   him 

again 
Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and 

brain. 

It  was  a  vision. — In  t he  drowsy  gloom. 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her   couch's 
foot 
Lorenzo    stood,   and    wept:  the    forest 
tomb 
Had  man'd  his  glossy  hair  which  once 
could  shoot 
Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 
From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  hisloamed 

ears 
Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears. 

Strange  sound   it   was,    when  the  pale 
shadow  spake ; 
For  there  was  striving,  in   its  piteous 
tongue, 
To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  wasawake, 

And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung  : 
Languor  there  was  in  it,  and   tremulous 
shake, 
As  in  a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung  ; 
And  through  it  moan'd  a  ghostly  under- 

song, 
Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral  briars 
among. 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy 
brig)  1 1 


With  love,  and  kept  all  phantom  fear 
aloof 
From  the   poor   girl    by   magic  of   their 
light, 
The  white  it  did  unthread  the  horrid 
woof 
Of  the  late  darken'd  time, — the  murder- 
ous spite 
Of  pride   and   avarice,    the  dark  pine 
roof 
In  the   forest, — and   the   sodden  turfed 

■     dell, 
Where,  without  any    word,  from  stabs 
he  fell. 

Saying  moreover,  "Isabel,  my  sweet ! 
Red   whortle-berries  droop  above  my 
head, 

And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my 
feet  ; 
Around   me   beeches  and  high  chest- 
nuts shed 

Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts  ;  a  sheep- 
fold  bleat 
Comes  from  beyond  the  river   to   my 
bed  : 

Go,   shed   one    tear   upon   my   heather- 
bloom, 

And   it    shall  comfort    me   within   the 
tomb. 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  !  alas  ! 
Upon   the     skirts    of     human-nature 
dwelling 
Alone  :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass. 
While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round 
me  knelling, 
And  glossy  bees   at  noon  do   fieldward 
pass. 
And  many  a  chapel  bell  the  hour   is 

telling, 
Paining   me    through  :    those    sounds 

grow  strange  to  me,         • 
And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 

"  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what 
is. 
And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go 
mad  ; 
Though    I    forget   the   taste   of    earthly 
bliss. 
That    paleness   warms  my   grave,  as 
though  I  had 
A  Seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 
To  lie  mv  spouse:   thy  paleness  makes 
me  glad  ; 
Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 
A  greater  love  through   ail  my  essence 
steal." 


396 


BRITISH    POETS 


The    Spirit     mourn'd      "Adieu!" — dis- 
solv'd,  and  left 
The  atom  darkness  in  aslow   turmoil; 
As  when   of   healthful   midnight   sleep 
bereft, 
Thinking  on  rugged  hours   and   fruit- 
less toil, 
We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft, 
And   see  the  spangly   gloom  froth  up 
and  boil  : 
It  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache, 
And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake  ; 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  said  she,    "  I  knew  not  this 

hard  life, 
I     thought     the     worst     was    simple 

misery  ; 
I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or 

with  strife 
PortioiTd   us — happy  days,   or  else  to 

die  ; 
But  there  is  crime — a  brother's  bloody 

knife  ! 
Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  school'd  my 

infancy  : 
I'll   visit  thee  for  tins,   and  kiss   thine 

eyes, 
And  greet  thee  morn  and  even   in  the 

skies." 

When  the  full  morning  came,  she   had 
devised 
How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie  ; 
How  she  might  find  the  clay,   so   dearly 
prized, 
And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby  ; 
How  her  short  absence    might    be    un- 
surmised, 
While  she   the  inmost   of  the   dream 
would  try. 
Resolv'd,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse, 
And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 

See.  as  they  creep  along  the  riverside, 
How  she  doth  whisper  to  that  aged 
Dame, 
And,  after  looking  round  the  champaign 
wide, 
Shows  her  a   knife. — "What  feverous 
hectic  flame 
Burns  in  thee,  child  ? — What  good  can 
thee  betide, 
That  thou  should'st  smile  again?" — 
The  evening  came, 
And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed  ; 
The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his 
head. 

Who  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  church- 
yard, 


And  let  his  spirit,  like  a   dennm-mole, 
Work    through    the    clayey     soil     and 
gravel  hard, 
To     see      skull,    coffin'd    bones,    and 
funeral  stole  ; 
Pitying  each   form  that   hungry    Death 
hath  marr'd, 
And  filling  it  once  more   with  human 
soul  ? 
Ah !  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 
When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 

She  gaz'd  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould, 
as  though 

One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell ; 
Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 

Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well ; 
Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seem'd   to 
grow, 

Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell  : 
Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden,  she  began 
To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 

Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Hersilk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies. 
She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than 
stone, 
And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 
And  freezes  utterly  unto  the  bone 
Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant's 
cries  : 
Then  'gan  she  work  again  ;    nor  stay'd 

her  care, 
But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling 
hair. 

That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering 

Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 
At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  laboring, 
And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks 
all  hoar, 
And  put  her  lean   hands   to   the   horrid 
thing  : 
Three  hours  they  labor'd  at  this  travail 
sore  ; 
At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave, 
And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 

Ah  !  wherefore  all  this   wormy   circum- 
stance ? 
Why  linger  at   the   yawning  tomb  so 
long  ? 
O  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 
The    simple    plaining    of  a  minstrel's 
song ! 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance, 
For  here,  in   truth,    it  doth  not   well 
belong 
To  speak  :— O  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale, 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 


KEATS 


397 


With  duller  steel  than  the  Persean  sword 
They  cut  away  no  formless   monster's 
head, 
Butone,  whose  gentleness  did  wellaccord 
With   death,   as    life.      The     ancient 
harps  have  said, 
Love  never  dies,    but    lives,    immortal 
Lord  : 
If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead, 
Pale  Isabella  kiss"dit,  and  low  moan'd 
'Twas  love  ;  cold, — dead  indeed,  but  not 
dethroned. 

In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home, 

And  then  the  prize  was  all  for   Isabel  : 
She  calm'd   its   wild  hair  with  a  golden 
comb, 
And  all  around  each   eve's  sepulchral 
cell 
Pointed  each  fringed  lash  ;   the  smeared 
loam 
With  tears,  aschilly  asadripping  well, 
She     drench'd     away  : — and     still     she 

comb'd,  and  kept 
Sighing  all  day — and  still  she  kiss'd,  and 
wept. 

Then   in  a  silken  scarf,   sweet  with  the 
dews 
Of   precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 
And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous 
ooze 
Through  the  cold  serpent  pipe  refresh- 
fully,— 
She  wrapp'd  it  up  ;  and  for  its  tomb  did 
choose 
A  garden-pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by 
And  cover 'd  it  with  mould  and,  o'er  it  set 
Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever 
wet. 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and 

sun, 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees, 
And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters 

run. 
A  nd  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze  ; 
Site    had    no  knowledge  when    the  day 

was  done, 
And    the  new   morn  she  saw  not :  but 

in  peace 
Hllng  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore. 
And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  core. 

And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tens, 
Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beauti- 
ful it  grew, 

So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  peers 
Of  Basil-tufts  in  Florence  ;  for  it  drew 


Nurture  besides,  and  life,  from  human 

fears, 
From  the  fast  mouldering  head    there 

shut  from  view  : 
So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed, 
Came    forth,    and    in   perfumed    leafits 

spread. 

O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly  ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh  ! 

Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,   and 

smile  ; 

Lift   up   your    heads,   sweet    Spirits, 

heavily, 

And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cypress 

glooms,  [tombs. 

Tinting   with  silver    wan   your   marble 

Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 
From    the    deep    throat   of  sad   Mel- 
pomene ! 
Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go, 
And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery  ; 
Sound  mournfully    upon  the    winds  and 
low  ; 
For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 
Among  the  dead  :    She   withers,   like   a 

palm 
Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 

O  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself  ; 
Let  not  quick    Winter  chill  its  dying 
hour ! — 
It  may  not  be — those  Baalites  of  pelf, 
Her    brethren,    noted     the    continual 
shower 
From  her  dead  eves  ;  and  many  a  curious 
elf, 
Among  her   kindred,    wonder'd   that 
such  dower 
Of   youth   and  beauty  should  be  thrown 

aside 
By  one  mark'd  out  to  be  %  Noble's  bride. 

And,    furthermore,   her   brethren  won- 
der'd much 
Why   she   sat   drooping   by   the  B;isil 
green. 
And  why  it  flourish'd.  ashy  magic  touch  ; 
Greatly  they  wonder'd  what  the  thing 
might  mean 
They  could  not  surely   give  belief,   that 
such 
A  very  nothing  would  have  power   to 
wean 
Her   from    her  own   fair    youth,     and 
pleasures  gay,  [hiy. 

And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  de- 


J9« 


BRITISH    POETS 


Therefore  i  licy  w  atch'd  a  time  when  they 
might  sift 
This    hidden     whim  ;    and    long   they 
watch'd  in  vain ; 
For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift, 

And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pa  in  ; 
An  I  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as 
swift 
As    bird   on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs 
again  ; 
And.  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 
Beside  her  Basil,    weeping  through   her 
hair. 

Yet  they  oontriv'd  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 
And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place  : 

The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid 
spot, 

And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face  ; 

The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had 
got, 
And  so   left   Florence   in  a   moment's 
space, 

Never  to  turn  again. — Away  they  went, 

With  blood  upon  their  heads,  to  banish- 
ment. 

O  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away  ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly  ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day. 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh  ! 
Spirits  of  grief,  sing   not  your  "  Well-a- 
way !  " 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die  : 
Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete, 
Now  they    have   ta'en  away    her   Basil 
sweet. 

Piteous  she  look'd  on  dead  and  senseless 
things, 
Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously  : 
And   with    melodious  chuckle    in    the 
strings 
Of   her    lorn   voice,     she     oftentimes 
would  cry 
After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings, 
To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was  ;  and 
why 
'Twas  hid  from   her  :    "  For   cruel   'tis," 

said  she, 
"  To  steal  m}'  Basil-pot  away  from  me." 

A  nd  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 

Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
No  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but   did 
mourn 
In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 
And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  horn 
From  mouth  to  mouth  through  all  the 
country  pass'd  : 


Still  is  the  burthen  sung — "  O  cruelty, 
"  To   steal      my    Basil-pot     away    from 
me  !  "  ISIS.     1820. 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 

St.  Agnes' Eve— Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl;  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through   the 

frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb    were   the     Beadsman's    fingers, 

while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  with- 
out a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while 
his  prayer  he  saith. 

His   prayer  he   saith,  this   patient,  holy 

man 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and   riseth   from 

his  knees, 
And   back   returneth,  meagre,  barefoot, 

wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees: 
The  sculpturd  dead,  on  each  side,  seem 

to  freeze, 
Emprison'd  in   black,  purgatorial   rails: 
Knights,  ladies,  praying    in    dumb   ora- 

t'ries, 
He  passeth  by  ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think    how  they   may   ache   in   icy 

hoods  and  mails. 

Northward  he   turneth   through  a  little 

door, 
And    scarce    three    steps,   ere    Music's 

golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to   tears   this   aged   man   and 

poor  ; 
But  no  —already  had  his  deathbell  rung  ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life   were   said  and 

sung  : 
His  was    harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes' 

Eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon   among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept   awake,  for   sinners' 

sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  pre- 
lude soft  ; 

And  so  it  ohanc'd,  for  many  a  door  was 
wide, 

From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 

The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to 
chide :  [pride, 

The  level  chambers,   ready   with   the1'"' 


KEATS 


399 


Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand 
guests  : 

The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 

Star'd  where  upon  their  heads  the  cor- 
nice rests, 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put 
cross-wise  on  their  breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows   haunting   fairily 
The  brain,  new  stuff'd,  in    youth,  with 

triumphs  gay 
Of   old    romance.     These    let    us   wish 

away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one   Lady 

there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  win- 
try day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd   St.  Agnes'   saintly 

care, 
As  she  had  heard  old   dames  full  many 
times  declare. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young   virgins  might    have    visions  of 

delight, 
And  soft  adorings   from  their  loves  re- 
ceive 
Upon  the  honey'd   middle  of  the   night 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they   must   retire, 
And   couch   supine   their   beauties,  lily 

white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  re- 
quire 
Of  Heaven   with  upward  eyes  for  all 
that  they  desire. 

Full     of    this    whim     was     thoughtful 

Madeline  ; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She   scarcely   heard  :    her  maiden   eyes 

divine. 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping 

train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all  :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And    back   retir'd  ;  not   cool'd   by   high 

disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  other- 
where : 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweet- 
est of  the  year. 

She  danc'd  along  with  vague,  regardless 

eyes. 
Anxious  her  lips,   her  breathing  quick 

and  short : 


The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand  : 
she  sighs 

Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd 
resort 

Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 

'Mid  looks  Of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and 
scorn, 

Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy  ;  all  amort, 

Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  un- 
shorn, 

And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 
morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the 

moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart 

on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd   from  moonlight,  stands  he, 

and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That   he   might    gaze   and    worship   all 

unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in 

sooth  such  things  have  been. 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzz'd   whisper 

tell: 
All    eyes    be    muffled,    or    a    hundred 

swords 
Will  storm   his   heart,    Love's   fev'rous 

citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian 

hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against   his    lineage  :    not    one    breast 

affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save   one  old   beldame,  weak   in    body 

and  in  soul. 

Ah,   happy  chance!  the  aged  creature 

came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's 

flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The    sound    of    merriment   and   chorus 

bland  : 
He  startled  her  ;  but  soon  she  knew  his 

face, 
And  grasp'd   his  fingers  in  her  palsied 

hand, 
Saying,    "Mercy,    Porphyro!    hie    thee 

from  this  place  ; 
They   are  all  here  to-night,   the  whole 

blood-thirsty  race  ! 


400 


BRITISH   POETS 


Get  hence!  get  hence!  there's  dwarfish 

Hildebrand  : 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  lit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house 

and  land  : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not 

a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me  ! 

flit! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away."— "Ah,  Gossip 

dear, 
We're   safe  enough  ;   here  in  this  arm- 
chair sit, 
And  tell  me  how  " — "  Good  Saints  !  not 

here,  not  here  ; 
"  Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones 

will  be  thy  bier." 

He  folio  w'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing    the   cobwebs   with   his   lofty 

plume ; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a — well-a- 

day !  " 
He   found   him    in   a   little    moonlight 

room, 
Pale,  lattic'd,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"Now    tell     me    where     is    Madeline," 

said  he, 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may 

see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving 

piously." 

"  St.  Agnes  !     Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And   be  liege-lord   of  all  the   Elves  and 

Fays, 
To  venture  so  :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer 

plays 
This   very   night ;  good  angels   her  de- 
ceive ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle 
time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid 
moon, 

While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 

Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 

Who  keepeth  clos'd  a  wond'rous  riddle- 
book, 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when 
she  told 

Bis  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could 
brook 


Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchant- 
ments cold, 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends 
old. 

Sudden    a    thought  came    like  a   full- 
blown rose, 
Flushing  his   brow,  and  in   his   pained 

heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame 

start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art  : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and 

dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  ! — 

I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that 
thou  didst  seem. 

"I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I 

swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro:  " O  may  I  ne'er  find 

grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its 

last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face: 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears  ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's 

ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more 

fang'd  than  wolves  and  bears." 

"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble 
soul  ? 

A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken  church- 
yard thing, 

Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  mid- 
night toll  ; 

Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and 
evening, 

Were  never  miss'd."  Thus  plaining, 
doth  she  bring 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Por- 
phyro ; 

So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 

Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal 
or  woe. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him.  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there 

hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless 

bride, 


KEATS 


401 


While  legion'cLfairies  pac'd  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy - 

eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin   paid    his   Demon  all  the 

monstrous  debt. 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the 

Dame : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored 

there 
Quickly     on    this    feast-night :    by   the 

tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to 

spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait   here,   my   child,    with    patience ; 

kneel  in  prayer 
The   while :   Ah  !   thou  must  needs  the 

lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among 

the  dead." 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The     lover's    endless     minutes     slowly 

pass'd  ; 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his 

ear 
To  follow  her  ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through   many   a   dusky   gallery,  they 

gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,   hush'd, 

and  chaste  ; 
Where    Porphyro   took   covert,    pleas'd 

amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues 

in  her  brain. 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When    Madeline,    St    Agnes'    charmed 

maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware  : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring- 
dove fray'd  and  fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 
Its   little   smoke,    in  pallid   moonshine, 

died  : 
She  clos'd  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  : 
No  uttered  syllable,  or.  woe  betide! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
26 


Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ; 
As     though    a    tongueless    nightingale 

should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled, 

in  her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple  arch'd  there 

was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of 

knot-grass. 
And   diamonded   with  panes  of  quaint 

device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd 

wings ; 
And    in    the    midst,    'mong    thousand 

heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazon- 

ings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood 

of  queens  and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry 

moon, 
And   threw  warm  gules   on   Madeline's 

fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace 

and  boon  ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together 

prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint  : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  :  Porphyro  grew 

faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from 

mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she 

frees  ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice  ;    by  de- 
grees 
Her  rich  attire   creeps  rustling  to  her 

knees  ; 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  seaweed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and 

sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But   dares   not   look  behind,    or  all  the 
charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly 

nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she 

lay. 
Until   the   poppied  warmth  of  sleep  op- 

press'd 


402 


BRITISH    POETS 


Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued 
away  ; 

Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  mor- 
row-day ; 

Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and 
pain  ; 

Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart 
Paynims  pray  ; 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from 
rain, 

As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a 
bud  again. 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  en- 
tranced, 

Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 

And  iisten'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it 
chanced 

To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness  ; 

Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did 
he  bless, 

And  breath'd  himself:  then  from  the 
closet  crept, 

Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 

And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent, 
stepped, 

And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where, 
lo  ! — how  fast  she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded 
moon 

Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 

A  table,  and,  half-anguish'd,  threw 
thereon 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and 
jet  :— 

O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet  ! 

The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  cla- 
rion, 

The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  cla- 
rionet, 

Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying 
tone  : — 

The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the 
noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  laven- 
der'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought 

a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 

gourd  ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy 
curd,  [mon  ; 

And   lucent   syrops,    tinct   with    cinna- 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From   Fez  ;  and   spiced  dainties,  every 
one,  [banon. 

From   silken   Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Le- 


These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing 

hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver :    sumptuous    they 

stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling   the   chilly   room  with  perfume 

light.— 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  sei'aph  fair, 

awake ! 
Thou    art    my    heaven,     and    I    thine 

eremite  : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes' 

sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my 

soul  doth  ache." 

Thus   whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved 

arm 
Sank   in  her  pillow.      Shaded  was  her 

dream 
By   the   dusk    curtains  : — 'twas   a   mid- 
night charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The   lustrous  salvers  in   the  moonlight 

gleam  : 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  stedfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 
So    mus'd  awhile,   entoil'd    in    vvoofed 
phantasies. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tend- 

erest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since 

mute, 
In  Provence  call'd,  "La  belle  dame  sans 

mercy  :  " 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft 

moan  : 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  sud- 
denly 
Her  blue  aff  rayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh 

expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And    moan    forth   witless     words    with 

many  a  sigh  ;  [keep  ; 

While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would 
Who    knelt,    with    joined     hands    and 

piteous  eye,  [dreamingly. 

Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so 


KEATS 


403 


"Ah,  Porphyro!"  said  she,  "but  even 
now 

Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine 
ear, 

Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and 
clear : 

How  chang'd  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill, 
and  drear ! 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complain- 
ings dear  ! 

Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not 
where  to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  fiush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing 

star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire   heaven's    deep 

repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution    sweet :    meantime    the    frost 

wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp 

sleet 
Against  the    window-panes ;  St.  Agnes' 

moon  hath  set. 

'Tis  dark :    quick   pattereth   the    flaw- 
blown  sleet : 
"  This    is    no    dream,    my     bride,    my 

Madeline  ! " 
'Tis  dark :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and 

beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and 

pine. — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither 

bring  ? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though    thou     forsakest     a     deceived 

thing ; — 
A   dove  forlorn  and  lost  with   sick  un- 

pruned  wing." 

"My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely 

bride  ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 
Thy   beauty's  shield,   heart-shap'd   and 

vermeil  dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my 

rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish 'd  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy 

nest 


Saving  of  thy  sweet  self  ;  if  thou 
think'st  well 

To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  in- 
fidel. 

"  Hark  !  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery 

land. 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
Arise — arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ;— 
The     bloated     wassaillers     will     never 

heed : — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,— 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy 

mead  : 
Awake  !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors   I  have  a 

home  for  thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,    beset  with 

fears, 
For    there    were   sleeping   dragons    all 

around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready 

spears- 
Down   the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way 

they  found. — 
In  all  the  house   was  heard  no  human 

sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by 

each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,   hawk, 

and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar  ; 
And  the    long  carpets  rose  along  the 

gusty  floor. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide 

hall ; 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch,  they 

glide  ; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook 

his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  : 
By   one,    and  one,   the  bolts    full    easy 

slide : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn 

stones  ; — 
The  key  turns,   and  the   door  upon  its 

hinges  groans. 

And  they  are  gone :  ay.  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many 

a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade 

and  form 


404 


BRITISH  POETS 


Of  witch,   and  demon,  and  large  coffin- 
worm, 

Were  long  be-nigh  tmar'd.     Angela  the 
old 

Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face 
deform  ; 

The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  avestold, 

For   aye  unsought  for  slept  among  his 
ashes  cold. 

January,  1819.     1820. 

THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  MARK 
A  Fragment 

Upon  a  Sabbath-day  it  fell  ; 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell, 
That  call'd  the  folks  to  evening  prayer  ; 
The  city  streets  were  clean  and  fair 
From  wholesome  drench  of  April  rains  ; 
And,  on  the.  western  window  panes, 
The  chilly  sunset   faintly  told 
Of  unmatur'd  green  valleys  cold, 
Of  the  green  thorny  bloomless  hedge, 
Of  rivers  new  with  spring-tide  sedge, 
Of  primroses  by  shelter'd  rills, 
And  daisies  on  the  aguish  hills. 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath- bell  : 
The  silent  streets  were  crowded  well 
With  staid  and  pious  companies, 
Warm  from  their  fire-side  orat'ries  ; 
And  moving,  with  demurest  air, 
To  even-song,  and  vesper  prayer. 
Each  arched  porch,  and  entry  low. 
Was   fill'd  with  patient  folk  and  flow. 
With  whispers  hush,    and  shuffling  feet, 
While  play'd  the  organ  loud  and  sweet. 

The  bells  had  ceas'd,  the  prayers  begun, 
And  Bertha  had  not  yet  half  done 
A  curious  volume,  patch'd  and  torn, 
That  all  day  long,  from  earliest  morn, 
Had  taken  captive  her  two  eyes, 
Among  its  golden  broideries  ; 
Perplex'd  her  with  a  thousand  things, — 
The  stars  of  Heaven,  and  angels'  wings, 
Martyrs  in  a  fiery  blaze, 
Azure  saints  and  silver  rays, 
Moses'  breastplate,  and  the  seven 
Candlesticks  John  saw  in  Heaven, 
The  winged  Lion  of  St.  Mark, 
And  the  Covenantal  Ark, 
With  its  many  mysteries, 
Cherubim  and  golden  mice. 

Bertha  was  a  maiden  fair, 
Dwelling  dn  th'old  Minster-square  ; 
From  her  fire-side  she  could  see, 
Sidelong,  its  rich  antiquity, 


Far  as  the  Bishop's  garden-wall  ; 
Where  sycamores  and  elm-trees  tall, 
Full-leav'd,  the  forest  had  outstript, 
By  no  sharp  north-wind  ever  nipt, 
So  shelter'd  by  the  mighty  pile. 
Bertha  arose,  and  read  awhile, 
With  forehead  'gainst  the  window-pane 
Again  she  try'd,  and  then  again, 
Until  the  dusk  eve  left  her  dark 
Upon  the  legend  of  St.  Mark. 
From  plated  lawn-frill,  fine  and  thin, 
She  lifted  up  her  soft  warm  chin. 
With  aching  neck  and  swimming   eyes, 
And  daz'd  with  saintly  imageries. 

All  was  gloom,  and  silent  all, 
Save  now  and  then  the  still  foot-fall 
Of  one  returning  homewards  late, 
Past  the  echoing  minster-gate. 
The  clamorous  daws,  that  all  the  day 
Above  tree-tops  and  towers  play, 
Pair  by  pair  had  gone  to  rest, 
Eacli  in  its  ancient  belfry  nest, 
Where  asleep  they  fall  betimes, 
To  music  and  the  drowsy  chimes. 

All  was  silent,  all  was  gloom, 
Abroad  and  in  the  homely  room  : 
Down  she  sat,  poor  cheated  soul  ; 
And  struck  a  lamp  from  the  dismal  coal; 
Lean'd  forward,  with    bright  drooping 

hair 
And  slant  look,  full  against  the  glare. 
Her  shadow,  in  uneasy  guise, 
Hover'd  about,  a  giant  size, 
On  ceiling-beam  and  old  oak  chair, 
The  parrot's  cage,  and  panel  square  ; 
And  the  warm  angled  winter-screen, 
On  which  were  many  monsters  seen, 
Call'd  doves  of  Siam,  Lima  mice, 
And  legless  birds  of  Paradise, 
Macaw,  and  tender  Avadavat, 
And  silken-furr'd  Angora  cat. 
Untir'd  she  read,  her  shadow  still 
Glower'd  about,  as  it  would  fill 
The  room  with  wildest  forms  and  shades, 
As  though  some  ghostly  queen  of  spades 
Had  come  to  mock  behind  her  back, 
And  dance,  and    ruffle    her    garments 

black. 
Untir'd  she  read  the  legend  page, 
Of  holy  Mark,  from  youth  to  age, 
On  land,  on  sea,  in  pagan  chains, 
Rejoicing  for  his  many  pains. 
Sometimes  the  learned  eremite, 
With  golden  star,  or  dagger  bright, 
Referr'd  to  pious  poesies 
Written  in  smallest  crow-quill  size 
Beneath  the  text  :  and  thus  the  rhyme 


KEATS 


4°5 


Was  parcel'd  out  from  time  to  time  : 

"  Als  writeth  he  of  svvevens, 

Men  han  before  they  wake  in  bliss, 
Whanne  that  hir  friendes  thinke  him 

bound 
In  crimped  shroude  farre  under  grounde  : 
And  how  a  lit  ling  childe  mote  be 
Asfuut  er  its  nativitie, 
Gif  that  the  modre  (God  her  blesse  !) 
Kepen  in  solitavinesse. 
And  kissen  devout  the  holy  croce. 
Of  Goddes  love,  and  Sathan's  force, — 
He  writith  ;  and  thinges  many  mo 
Of  swiche  thinges  I  may  not  show. 
Bot  I  must  tellen  verilie 
Somdel  of  Sainte  Cicilie, 
And  chiefly  what  he  auctorethe 
Of  Sainte  Markis  life  and  dethe  :  " 

At  length  her  constant  eyelids  come 
Upon  the  fervent  martyrdom  ; 
Then  lastly  to  his  holy  shrine, 
Exalt  amid  the  tapers'  shine 
At  Venice, — 
January  and  September,  1819.   1848. 

ODE  ON  INDOLENCE 

"  They  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin." 

One  morn  before  me  were  three  figures 
seen , 
With  bowed  necks,  and  joined  hands, 
side-faced  ; 
And  one  behind  the  other  stepp'd  serene, 
In  placid  sandals,  and  in  white  robes 
graced  ; 
They  pas?  :l,  like  figures  on  a  marble  urn, 
When  shifted  round  to  see  the  other 
side  ; 
They  came  again  ;  as  when  the  urn 
once  more 
Is   shifted  round,   the  first  seen  shades 
return  ; 
And  they  were  strange  to  me,  as  may 
betide 
With  vases,  to  one  deep  in  Phidian 
lore. 

How  is  it  Shadows  !  that  I  knew  ye  not  ? 
How    v  ,„me  ye  muffled  in  so  hush  a 
mask  ? 
Was  it  a  silent  deep-disguised  plot 
To   steal   away,   and  leave  without  a 
task 
My   idle   days  ?    Ripe   was  the  drowsy 
hour  ; 
The  blissful    cloud  of    summer-indo- 
lence 


Benumbed  my  eyes  ;  my  pulse  grew 
less  and  less  ; 
Pain  had  no  sting,  and  pleasure's  wreath 
no  flower : 
O  why  did  ye  not  melt,  and  leave  my 
sense 
Unhaunted  quite  of  all  but — noth- 
ingness ? 

A  third  time  passed  they  by,  and,  pass- 
ing, turn'd 
Each  one  the  face  a  moment  whiles  to 
me  ; 
Then  faded,  and  to  follow  them  I  burn'd 
And  ach'd  for  wings,  because  I  knew 
the  three  ; 
The  first  was  a  fair  Maid,  and  Love  her 
name ; 
The    second   was   Ambition,    pale   of 
cheek, 
And   ever   watchful  with   fatigued 
eye; 
The  last,  whom  I  love  more,  the  more  of 
blame 
Is  heap'd  upon  her,  maiden  most  un- 
meet,— 
I  knew  to  be  my  demon  Poesy. 

They   faded,    and    forsooth !    I   wanted 
wings  : 
O  folly  !  What  is  Love  ?  and  where  is 
it? 
And  for  that  poor  Ambition  !  it  springs 
From  a  man's  little  heart's  short  fever- 
fit  ; 
For  Poesy  ! — no, — she  has  not  a  joy, — 
At  least  for  me, — so  sweet  as  drowsy 
noons, 
And  evenings  steep'd  in  honied  in- 
dolence ; 
O,  for  an  age  so  sheltered  from  annoy, 
That  I  may  never  know  how  change 
the  moons, 
Or  hear  the  voice  of  busy  common- 
sense  ! 

And  once  more  came  they  by  ; — alas  ! 
wherefore  ? 
My  sleep  had  been  embroider'd  with 
dim  dreams ; 
My  soul  had   been  a  lawn  besprinkled 
o'er 
With  flowers,  and  stirring  shades,  and 
baffled  beams:  [fell, 

The  morn  was  clouded,  but  no  shower 
Tho'  in  her  lids  hung  the  sweet  tears 
of  May  ; 
The  open  casement  press'd  a  new- 
leav'd  vine, 


406 


BRITISH   POETS 


Let  in  the  budding  warmth  and  thros- 
tle's lay ; 
O  Shadows !  'twas  a  time  to  bid  fare- 
well ! 
Upon  your  skirts  had  fallen  no  tears 
of  mine. 

So,  ye  three  Ghosts,  adieu  !    Ye  cannot 
raise 
My  head  cool-bedded  in  the  flowery 
grass  ; 
For  I  would  not  be  dieted  with  praise, 

A  pet-lamb  in  a  sentimental  farce  ! 
Fade  softly  from  my  eyes,  and  be  once 
more 
In  masque-like  Figures  on  the  dreamy 
urn  ; 
Farewell !  I  yet  have  visions  for  the 
night, 
And  for  the  day  faint  visions  there  is 
store  ; 
Vanish,     ye     Phantoms !     from     my 
idle  spright. 
Into  the  clouds,  and  never  more  re- 
turn !  March,  1819.     1848. 

ODE 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double  lived  in  regions  new? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon  ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous  ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Brows'd  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns  ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  tiling, 
But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth  ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again  ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week  ; 


Of  their  sorrows  and  delights  ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites  ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame  ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ! 

1819.     1820. 

ODE    TO  PSYCHE 

0  Goddess!  hear  these  tuneless  num- 

bers, wrung 
By  sweet    enforcement  and   remem- 
brance dear, 
And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be 
sung 
Even  into  thine  ownsoft-conched  ear  ; 
Surely  I  dreamt  to-day,  or  did  I  see 
The   winged    Psyche   with    awaken'd 
eyes  ? 

1  wander'd  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly, 
And,    on   the   sudden,    fainting   with 

surprise,  [side 

Saw  two  fair  creatures,  couched  side  by 

In  deepest   grass,   beneath    the  whis- 

p'ring  roof 
Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,  where 
there  ran 
A  brooklet,  scarce  espied  : 
'Mid  hush'd,    cool-rooted    flowers,    fra- 
grant-eyed, 
Blue,  silver-white,  and  budded  Tyrian, 
They  lay  calm-breathing  on  the  bedded 
grass  ; 
Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pin- 
ions too ; 
Their   lips  touch'd   not,   but   had  not 
bade  adieu, 
As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber, 
And  ready  still  past  kisses  to  outnumber 
At  tender  eye-dawn  of  aurorean  love  : 

The  winged  boy  I  knew  ; 
But  who  wast  thou,  O  happy,  happy 
dove? 
His  Psyche  true  ! 

O  latest  born  and  loveliest  vision  far 

Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy  I 
Fairer  than  Phoebe's  sapphire-region'd 
star,  [sky ; 

Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the 
Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou 
hast  none, 
Nor  altar  heap'd  with  flowers  ; 


KEATS 


407 


Nor  virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours  ; 

No  voice,  no  lute,    no  pipe,  no  incense 

sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming  ; 

No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

0  brightest !  though  too  late  for  antique 

vows, 

Too,  too  late   for  the   fond  believing 
lyre, 
When    holy    were  the  haunted   forest 
boughs, 

Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire  ; 
Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retir'd 

From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans, 

Fluttering   among  the   faint   Olymp- 
ians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 
So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours  ; 
Thy  voice,   thy  lute,   thy  pipe,   thy  in- 
cense sweet 
From  swinged  censer  teeming  ; 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  oracle,  thy 
heat 
Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane 
In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind, 
Where  branched  thoughts,  new  grown 
with  pleasant  pain, 
Instead  of  pines  shall  murmur  in  the 
wind  : 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd 
trees 
Fledge     the    wild-ridged    mountains 
steep  by  steep ; 
And    there    by    zephyrs,    streams,  and 
birds,  and  bees, 
The  moss-lain  Dryads  shall  be  lull'd  to 
sleep ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
With  the  wreath'd  trellis   of  a  working 
brain, 
With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  with- 
out a  name, 
With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could 
feign, 
Who  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed 
the  same :  Pig^ 

And  there  shall  be    for  thee  all  soft  de- 

That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 
A.  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at 
night, 
To  let  the  warm  Love  in  ! 

April,  1S19.     1820. 


ODE   ON   A  GRECIAN  URN 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou  foster-child  of   silence  and  slow 
time, 
Sylvan   historian,   who  canst  thus  ex- 
press 
A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our 
rhyme : 
What  leaf-fring'd  legend  haunts  about 
thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What   men  or  gods  are  these  ?    What 

maidens  loth  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?    What   struggle  to 
escape  ? 
What    pipes  and   timbrels?     What 
wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  un- 
heard 
Are  sweeter  ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes, 
play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,   but,  more  en- 
dear'd, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  : 
Fair    youth,    beneath    the    trees,   thou 
canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be 
bare  ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou 
kiss 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do 
not  grieve  ; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not 
thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be 
fair  ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot 
shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid   the  Spring 
adieu  ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
More  happy   love  !  more   happy,   happy 
love  ! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 
For    ever    panting,     and    for    ever 
young  ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and 
cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching 
tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 
To   what  green  altar,   O   mysterious 
priest. 


4o8 


BRITISH    POETS 


Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the 
skies, 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands 
dressed? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with   peaceful  cit- 
adel, 
Is  emptied  of  this   folk,   this  pious 
morn  ? 
And,  little  town,   thy  streets  for  ever- 
more 
Will  silent  be  ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  re- 
turn. 

O  Attic  shape  !     Fair    attitude  !   with 
brede 
Of   marble   men    and    maidens   over 
wrought, 
With  forest  branches  and   the   trodden 
weed  ; 
Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  lis  out  of 
thought 
As  doth  eternity  :     Cold  Pastoral ! 
When  old  age  shall  this  generation 
waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other 
woe 
Than  ours,  a   friend  to  man,  to   whom 
thou  say'st, 
"  Beauty   is  truth,  truth  beauty,  "  — 
that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye   need 
to  know. 

1819.     January,  1820. 

ODE    TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numb- 
ness pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had 
drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One    minute   past,  and    Lethe-wards 
had  sunk : 
Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But   being  too  happy  in  thine  happi- 
ness.— 
That   thou,   light  winged  Dryad  of 
the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of    beechen     green,     and     shadows 
numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated 
ease. 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage  !    that  hath 

been  [earth, 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved 


Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 
Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun- 
burnt mirth  ! 

0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippo- 

crene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the 
brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth  ; 
That  I   might   drink,  and    leave  the 
world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the 
forest  dim  : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou    among    the   leaves   hast 
never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,   where   men  sit  and  hear  each 
other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray 
hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre- 
thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of 
sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
Where     Beauty     cannot     keep     her 
lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond 
to-morrow . 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 
Not    charioted    by    Bacchus   and   his 
pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 
Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes   and 
retards : 
Already  with  thee  !    tender  is  the  night, 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is-  on  her 
throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry 
Fays; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save   what   from   heaven  is  with  the 
breezes  blown 
Through     verdurous     glooms     and 
winding  mossy  ways. 

1  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my 

feet, 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the 
boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each 
sweet 
Wherewith     the     seasonable    month 
endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree 
wild  ; 


KEATS 


409 


White    hawthorn,   and    the    pastoral 
eglantine  ; 
Fast   fading   violets  cover 'd   up  in 
leaves  ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,   full  of  dewy 
wine. 
The   murmurous   haunt   of  flies  on 
summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and,  for  many  a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful 
Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused 
rhyme, 
To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no 
pain, 
While   thou  art   pouring  forth  thy 
soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  wouldst   thou  sing,   and   I   have 
ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal 
Bird  ! 
No    hungry    generations    tread   thee 
down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was 
heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a 
path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when, 
sick  for  home, 
She  stood   in  tears  amid  the  alien 
corn  : 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd     magic   casements,    opening 
on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  for- 
lorn. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 
To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole 
self! 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  fam'd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !   adieu  !  thy    plaintive   anthem 
fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still 
stream,  [deep 

Up  the  hill-side  :  and  now  'tis  buried 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 
Fled  is  that   music  : — Do  I    wake  or 
sleep?      May,  1819.     July,  1819. 


ODE    ON    MELANCHOLY 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 
Wolf's-bane,   tight-rooted,  for  its  poi- 
sonous wine  ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 
By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proser- 
pine ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 
Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth 
be 
Your    mournful    Psyche,    nor    the 
downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries  ; 
For  shade  to    shade    will    come    too 
drowsily, 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of 
the  soul. 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 
Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping 
cloud, 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers 
all, 
And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April 
shroud  ; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose, 
Or  on   the  rainbow  of   the  salt  sand- 
wave, 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies  ; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and   let  her 
rave, 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peer- 
less "eyes. 

She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that 
must  die  ; 
And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 
Turning    to   poison    while    the     bee- 
mouth  sips : 
Ay.  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 
Veil'd     Melancholy     has   her     sovran 
shrine, 
Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose 
strenuous  tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate 
fine  : 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her 
might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies 
hung.  1819.     1820. 

TO  AUTUMN 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close   bosom-friend   of   the  maturing 
sun  ; 


410 


BRITISH    POETS 


Conspiring  with  him  Jiow  to  load  and 
bless 
With  fruit  the   vines  that  round  the 
thatch-eves  run  ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage- 
trees, 
And  till  all  fruit   with  ripeness  to  the 
core  ; 
To  swell  the  gourd,   and   plump  the 
hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set   budding 
more, 
And  still  more,   later  flowers   for  the 

bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never 
cease, 
For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their 
clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy 
store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may 
find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing 
wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drows'd   with   the  fume  of  poppies, 
while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its 
twined  flowers  : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost 
keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours 
by  hours. 

Where  are  the   songs  of  Spring?  Ay, 
where  are  they  ? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  mu- 
sic too, — 
While    barred  clouds    bloom  the  soft- 
dying  day, 
And    touch    the    stubble-plains  with 
rosy  hue  ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir   the  small  gnats 
mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or 
dies  ; 
And   full-grown  lambs  loud   bleat  from 
hilly  bourn  ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing ;   and   now   with 
treble  soft  [croft  ; 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden - 
And  gathering  swallows   twitter  in 
the  skies. 

September,  1819..   1820. 


HYPERION 

A    FRAGMENT 
BOOK    I, 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 
Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of 

morn, 
Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one 

star, 
Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 
Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair  ; 
Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 
Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was 

there, 
Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs   not   one     light     seed     from     the 

feather'd  grass, 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,    there  did 

it  rest. 
A  stream  went   voiceless  by,  still  dead- 
ened more 
By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 
Spreading  a  shade :  the  Naiad  'mid    her 

reeds 
Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the     margin-sand    large    foot- 
marks went, 
No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had 

stray 'd, 
And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden 

ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless, 

dead, 
Unsceptred ;    and    his    realmless    eyes 

were  closed  ; 
While  his  bow'd   head  seem'd   list'ning 

to  the  Earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort 

yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him 
from  his  place  ; 

But  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred 
hand 

Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bend- 
ing low 

With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew 
it  not. 

She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  infant  world  ; 

By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 

Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height :  she  would 
have  ta'en 

Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck  ; 

Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel. 

Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian 
sphinx, 

Pedestal'd  haply  in  a  palace  court, 


KEATS 


411 


When  sages  look'd   to  Egypt  for  their 

lore. 
But  oh !  how  unlike    marble  was  that 

face : 
How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 
Sorrow   more   beautiful   than    Beauty's 

self. 
There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard, 
As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  : 
As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,   and  the  sullen 

rear 
Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 
One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching 

spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just 

there, 
Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  ; 
The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words 

she  spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ  tone : 
Some  mourning   words,    which  in   our 

feeble  tongue 
Would  come  in  these   like  accents ;  O 

how  frail 
To  that  large   utterance  of    the  early 

Godsl 
"  Saturn,  look  up  ! — though   wherefore, 

poor  old  King  ? 
I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no  not  one  : 
I    cannot    say,    '  O    wherefore   sleepest 

thou?'  [earth 

For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the 
Knows  thee   not,    thus   afflicted,    for   a 

God; 
And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
Has  from   thy  sceptre  pass'd  ;  and  all 

the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  com- 
mand, 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  : 
And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised 

hands 
Scorches    and    burns    our  once    serene 

domain. 
O  aching  time  !  O  moments  big  as  years  ! 
All  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous 

trutli , 
And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn,  sleep   on  : — O  thoughtless,  why 

did  I 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude? 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 
Saturn,  sleep  on  !   while  at  thy   feet  I 

weep." 


As   when,   upon  a   tranced    summer- 
night, 
Those  green-rob'd  senators  of    mighty 

"  woods, 
Tall    oaks,      branch-charmed     by     the 

earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without 

a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies 

off, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave  ; 
So    came  these   words    and  went ;  the 

while  in  tears 
She  touch'd  her  fair  large  forehead  to 

the  ground, 
Just  where   her  falling  hair  might  be 

outspread 
A  soft  and  silken  mat  for  Saturn's  feet. 
One   moon,    with  alteration  slow,    had 

shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night, 
And  still  these  two  were  postured  mo- 
tionless, 
Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cav- 
ern ; 
The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the 

earth, 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 
Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up 
His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom 

gone. 
And  all  the   gloom   and   sorrow  of   the 

place, 
And  that   fair  kneeling  Goddess ;   and 

then  spake, 
As  with  a  palsied  tongue,  and  while  his 

beard 
Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady : 
"  O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyperion, 
Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face  ; 
Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it  ; 
Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 
Is  Saturn's  ;  tell  me,  if  thou  hear'st  the 

voice 
Of  Saturn  ;   tell  me,   if  this   wrinkling 

brow, 
Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem, 
Peers   like   the   front   of  Saturn.     Who 

had  power 
To  make  me  desolate  ?  whence  came  the 

strength  ? 
How   was  it  nurtur'd  to  such  bursting 

forth, 
While    Fate    seem'd    strangled    in    my 

nervous  grasp  ? 
But  it  is  so  ;  and  I  am  smother'd  up, 
And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 
Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 


412 


BRITISH    POETS 


Of  admonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas, 
Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvest- 
ing. 
And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in. — lam  gone 
Away  from  my  own  bosom  :  I  have  left 
My  strong  identity,  my  real  self. 
Somewhere    between    the    throne,   and 

where  I  sit 
Here  on  this    spot   of    earth.     Search, 

Thea,  search  ! 
Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them 

round 
Upon  all  space  :  space  starr'd.  and  lorn 

of  light  ; 
Space  region'd  with  life-air  ;  and  barren 

void  ; 
Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell. — 
Search,  Thea,    search  !   and   tell   me,    if 

thou  seest 
A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  wTay 
With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 
A  heaven  he  lost  ere  while  :   it  must — it 

must 
Be    of  ripe    progress — Saturn    must   be 

King. 
Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory  ; 
There  must  be  Gods  thrown   down,  and 

trumpets  blown 
Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 
Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan, 
Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  ami  silver  stir 
Of  strings   in  hollow   shells  ;  and  there 

shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  sur- 
prise 
Of   the  sky-children  ;  I   will   give  com- 
mand : 
Thea !   Thea  !   Thea  !  where  is  Saturn  ?  " 

This  passion  lifted  him  upon  his  feet, 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air, 
His  Druid  locks  to  shake  and  ooze  with 

sweat, 
His  eyes  to  fever  out,  his  voice  to  cease. 
He  stood,  and  heard  not  Thea's  sobbing 

deep ; 
A  little  time,  and  then  again  he  snatch'd 
Utterance  thus. — "  But  cannot  I  create? 
Cannot  I  form?  Cannot  I  fashion  forth 
Another  world,  another  universe, 
To  overbear  and  crumble  this  to  nought  ? 
Where   is   another   chaos  ?     Where?'' — 

That  word  [quake 

Found   way   unto  Olympus,  and   made 
The  rebel  three.— Thea  was  startled  up, 
And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope, 
As  thus  she  quick-voic'd  spake,  yet  full 

of  awe. 


"  This  cheers  our  fallen  house  :  come 
to  our  friends, 

0  Saturn  !  come  away,  and  give  them 

heart : 

1  know  the  covert,  for  thence  came   I 

hither." 
Thus   brief ;  then  with   beseeching  eyes 

she  went 
With    backward    footing    through    the 

shade  a  space : 
He  follow'd,  and  she  turn'd  to   lead   the 

way 
Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded   like 

the  mist 
Which  eagles  cleave   upmounting   from 

their  nest. 

Meanwhile  in  other  realms  big  tears 

were  shed, 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like 

woe, 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen   of 

scribe  : 
The    Titans   fierce,    self-hid,  or  prison- 
bound. 
Groan'd  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more , 
And  listen'd  in  sharp  pain   for   Saturn's 

voice. 
But  one  of  the   whole   mammoth-brood 

still  kept 
His  sov'reignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty  ; — 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sat,  still  snuff'd  the  incense,  teeming 

up 
From     man     to    the    sun's     God ;    yet 

unsecure  : 
For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 
Fright   and  perplex,  so  also    shuddered 

he— 
Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated 

screech , 
Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing-bell. 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp  ; 
But  horrors,  portion'd  to  a  giant  nerve, 
Oft  made  Hyperion  ache.     His  palace 

bright 
Bastion'd  with  pyramids  of  glowing  gold, 
And  touch'd     with    shade    of    bronzed 

obelisks, 
Glar'd  a  blood-red  through  all  its  thou- 
sand courts, 
Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries  ; 
And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds 
Flush'd  angerly  :  while  sometimes  eagle's 

wings, 
Unseen    before   by   Gods   or    wondering 

men,  [were  heard, 

Darken'd  the  place  ;  and  neighing  steeds 


KEATS 


4*3 


Not  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering 

men. 
Also,   when   he   would  taste  the  spicy 

wreaths 
Of  incense,  breath'd  aloft   from  sacred 

hills, 
Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 
Savor  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal  sick  : 
And   so,    when   harbor'd   in   the  sleepy 

west, 
After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day, — 
For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch 
And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody, 
He  pac'd  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 
With  stride  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall  ; 
'While  far  within  each  aisle  and   deep 

recess, 
His  winged  minions  in  close    clusters 

stood, 
Amaz'd  and  full  of  fear  ;  like  anxious  men 
Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting 

troops, 
When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements 

and  towers. 
Even  now,  while  Saturn,  rous'd  from  icy 

trance, 
Went  step  for  step  with  Thea  through 

the  woods, 
Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear, 
Came  slope  upon  the  threshold   of  the 

west ; 
Then,  as  was  wont,  his  palace-door  flew 

ope 
In  smoothest  silence,  save  what  solemn 

tubes, 
Blown  by  the  serious  Zephyrs,  gave  of 

sweet 
And   wandering  sounds,   slow-breathed 

melodies  ; 
And  like  a  rose  in  vermeil  tint  and  shape, 
In  fragrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye, 
That  inlet  to  severe  magnificence 
Stood  full  blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 

He  enter'd,  but  he  enter'd  full  of  wrath  ; 

His  flaming  robes  stream'd  out  beyond 
his  heels, 

And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  fire. 

That  scar'd  away  the  meek  ethereal 
Hours 

And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble. 
On  he  flared, 

From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault 
to  vault, 

Through  bowers  of  fragrant  and  en- 
wreathed  light. 

And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  ar- 
cades, 

Until  he  reach'd  the  great  main  cupola  ; 


There    standing      fierce     beneath,     he 

stamped  his  foot, 
And  from  the  basements  deep  to  the  high 

towers 
Jarr'd  his  own  golden  region  ;  and  before 
The  quavering   thunder  thereupon   had 

ceas'd, 
His  voice  leapt  out,  despite  of  godlike 

curb, 
To  this  result :    "  O  dreams  of  day  and 

night ! 
O  monstrous  forms  !  O  effigies  of  pain  ! 
O  spectres  busy  in  a  cold,  cold  gloom  ! 

0  lank-ear'd  Phantoms  of  black-weeded 

pools  ! 
Why  do  I  know  ye?  why  have   I  seen 

ye?  why 
Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distraught 
To  see  and  to  behold  these  horrors  new? 
Saturn  is  fallen,  am  I  too  to  fall  ? 
Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest, 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime, 
This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light, 
These    crystalline    pavilions,    and    pure 

fanes, 
Of  all  my  lucent  empire  ?     It  is  left 
Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine. 
The  blaze,   the  splendor,   and  the  sym- 
metry, 

1  cannot  see — but  darkness,  death  and 

darkness. 
Even  here,  into  my  centre  of  repose, 
The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer, 
Insult,    and    blind,    and    stifle    up    my 

pomp. — 
Fall  ! — No,  by  Tellus  and  her  briny  robes  ! 
Over  the  fiery  frontier  of  my  realms 
I  will  advance  a  terrible  right  arm 
Shall  scare  that  infant  thunderer,  rebel 

Jove, 
And    bid    old   Saturn    take    his   throne 

again." — 
He  spake,  and  ceas'd,  the  while  a  heavier 

threat 
Held  struggle  with  his  throat  but  came 

not  forth  ; 
For  as  in  theatres  of  crowded  men 
Hubbub    increases   more   they   call   out 

"  Hush  !  " 
So  at  Hyperion's  words   the   Phantoms 

pale 
Bestirr'd  themselves,  thrice  horrible  and 

cold  ; 
And  from  the   mirror'd   level  where   he 

stood 
A  mist  arose,  as  from  a  scummy  marsh. 
At  this,  through  all  his  bulk  an  agony 
Crept  gradual,  from  the  feet  unto  the 

crown, 


4i4 


BRITISH    POETS 


Like  a  lithe  serpent  vast  and  muscular 
Making  slow  way,  with  head  and   neck 
convuls'd 

From  over-strained  might.     Releas'd,  he 

fled 
To  the  eastern  gates,  and  full  six  dewy 

hours 
Before  the  dawn  in  season   due  should 

blush, 
He  breath'd  fierce  breath  against  the 

sleepy  portals. 
Clear' d  them  of  heavy    vapors,    burst 

them  wide 
Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 
The  planet  orb  of  fire,  whereon  he  rode 
Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens 

through, 
Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds  : 
Not   therefore   veiled    quite,    blindfold, 

and  hid. 
But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres, 
Circles,    and     arcs,    and     broad-belting 

colure, 
Glow'd  through,  and  wrought  upon   the 

muffling  dark 
Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir 

deep 
Up  to  the  zenith, — hieroglyphics  old, 
Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrologers 
Then  living  on  the  earth,   with  laboring 

thought 
Won  from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries  : 
Now  lost,  save  what  we  find  on  remnants 

huge 
Of  stone,  or  marble  swart ;  their  import 

gone, 
Their   wisdom   long      since     fled. — Two 

wings  this  orb 
Possess'd   for    glory,    two    fair    argent 

wings, 
Ever  exalted  at  the  God's  approach  : 
And  now,  from   forth   the  gloom   their 

plumes  immense 
Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  outspreaded 

were ; 
While  still  the  dazzling  globe  maintain'd 

eclipse, 
Awaiting  for  Hyperion's  command. 
Fain   would   he   have   commanded,  fain 

took  throne 
And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but  for  change. 
He  might  not  : — No,  though  a   primeval 

Go<1  : 
The    sacred     seasons    might     not     be 

disturb'd. 
Therefore  the  opei'ations  of  the  dawn 
Stay'd  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  'tis  told. 
Those  silver  wings  expanded  sisterly, 
Eager  to  sail  their  orb ;  the  porches  wide 


Open'd  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night ; 
And  the   bright   Titan,   phrenzied    with 

new  woes, 
Unus'd  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 
His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time  ; 
And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds, 
Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night, 
He  stretch'd  himself  in  grief  and  radi- 
ance faint. 
There  as  he   lay,   the  Heaven  with  its 

stars 
Look'd  down  on  him  with  pity,  and  the 

voice 
Of  Ccelus,  from  the  universal  space, 
Thus  whisper'd  low  and  solemn  in   his 

ear. 
"  O  brightest  of  my  children  dear,  earth- 
born 
And  sky-engendered,  Son  of  Mysteries 
All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 
Which  met  at  thy  creating  ;  at  whose  joy 
And    palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures 

soft, 
I,  Ccelus,  wonder,  how  they  came  and 

whence ; 
And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes 

they  be, 
Distinct,  and  visible  ;  symbols  divine, 
Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 
Diffus'd    unseen      throughout     eternal 

space ; 
Of     these    new-form'd    art    thou,     oh 

brightest  child  ! 
Of    these,   thy  brethren   and   the  God- 
desses ! 
There  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebel- 
lion 
Of  son  against  his  sire.     I  saw  him  fall, 
I   saw  my  first-born  tumbled  from  his 

throne ! 
To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his 

voice 
Found   way    from  forth    the    thunders 

round  his  head  ! 
Pale  wox  I  and  in  vapors  hid  my  face. 
Art  thou,  too,  near  such  doom  ?  vague 

fear  there  is : 
For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike 

Gods. 
Divine  ye  were  created,  and  divine 
In  sad  demeanor,  solemn,  undisturb'd, 
Unruffled,  like  high  Gods,  ye  liv'd  and 

ruled : 
Now   I  behold  in  you  fear,  hope,   and 

wrath  ; 
Actions  of  rage  and  passion  ;  even  as 
I  see  them,  on  the  mortal  world  beneath, 
In  men  who  die. — This  is  the  grief,  O 
Son! 


KEATS 


415 


Sad  sign   of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and 

fall! 
Yet  do  thou  strive  ;  as  thou  art  capable. 
As  thou  canst  move  about,  an  evident 

God  ; 
And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 
Ethereal  presence : — I  am  but  a  voice  ; 
My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides, 
No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I 

avail : — 
But  thou  canst. — Be  thou  therefore  in 

the  van 
Of  circumstance  ;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's 

barb 
Before    the  tense    string   murmur. — To 

the  earth  ! 
For  there   thou   wilt  find  Saturn,    and 

his  woes. 
Meantime    I    will   keep   watch   on   thy 

bright  sun, 
And     of    thy    seasons     be    a    careful 

nurse."— 
Ere  half  this  region-whisper  had  come 

down, 
Hyperion  arose,  and  on  the  stars 
Lifted   his   curved  lids,  and   kept  them 

wide 
Until  it  ceas'd  ;  and  still  he  kept  them 

wide  : 
And  still  they   were   the  same   bright, 

patient  stars. 
Then  with  a  slow   incline  of  his   broad 

breast, 
Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas, 
Forward  he  stoop'd  over  the  airy  shore, 
And  plung'd  all  noiseless  into  the  deep 

night. 

BOOK  II 

Just  at  the  self-same  beat  of  Time's  wide 

wings 
Hyperion  slid  into  the  rustled  air. 
And   Saturn  gain'd  with  Thea  that  sad 

place 
Where  Cybele  and  the   bruised  Titans 

mourn'd. 
It  was  a  den  where  no  insulting  light 
Could   glimmer   on   their  tears;   where 

their  own  groans 
They  felt,    but  heard   not,  for  the   solid 

roar 
Of  thunderous   waterfalls  and   torrents 

hoarse, 
Pouring   a     constant    bulk,    uncertain 

where. 
Crag  jutting  forth  to  crag,    and  rocks 

that  seem'd 
Ever  as  if  just  rising  from  a  sleep, 


Forehead   to   forehead  held   their   mon- 
strous horns ; 

And  thus  in  thousand  hugest  phantasies 

Made  a  lit  roofing  to  this  nest  of  woe. 

Instead  of  thrones,  hard  flint   they  sat 
upon, 

Couches  of  rugged  stone,  and  slaty  ridge 

Stubborn'd  with  iron.     All  were  not  as- 
sembled : 

Some  chain'd  in  torture,  and  some  wan- 
dering. 

Cceus,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareus, 

Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Porphyrion, 

With  many  more,    the  brawniest   in  as- 
sault, 

Were  pent  in  regions  of  laborious  breath  ; 

Dungeon'd  in  opaque  element,  to  keep 

Their  clenched   teeth  still  clench'd,  and 
all  their  limbs 

Lock'd   up    like  veins   of  metal,    crampt 
and  screw'd  ; 

Without   a    motion,    save   of  their   big 
hearts 

Heaving  in  pain,  and  horribly  convuls'd 

With  sanguine    feverous   boiling   gurge 
of  pulse. 

Mnemosyne,  was  straying  in  the  world  ; 

Far  from   her   moon   had  Phoebe  wan- 
dered ; 

And  many  else  were  free  to  roam  abroad, 

But  for  the  main,  here  found  they  covert, 
drear. 

Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 

Lay  vast   and   edgeways  ;  like   a  dismal 
cirque 

Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor. 

When   the   chill  rain   begins  at   shut  of 
eve, 

In  dull   November,   and   their  chancel 
vault, 

The  Heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout 
night. 

Each  one  kept  shroud,  nor  to  his  neigh- 
bor gave 

Or  word,. or  look,  or  action  of  despair. 

Creus  was  one  ;  his  ponderous  iron  mace 

Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatter'd  rib  of  rock 

Told  of  his   rage,  ere  he  thus  sank  and 
pined. 

Iapetus  another  ;  in  his  grasp, 

A    serpent's    plashy    neck;    its    barbed 
tongue 

Squeez'd  from    the    gorge,    and   all    its 
uncurl'd  length 

Dead  ;  and   because  the  creature  could 
not  spit 

Its  poison   in   the    eyes   of  conquering 
Jove.  [most, 

Next   Cottus  :  prone  he  lay.  chin   upper- 


4  "' 


BRITISH   POETS 


A.3  though    in    pain  ;  for  still   upon   the 

flint 
He  ground   severe  his  skull,  with  open 

mouth 
And   eyes  at  horrid  working.     Nearest 

him 
Asia,  born  of  most  enormous  Caf, 
Who  cost   her    mother    Tellus  keener 

pangs. 
Though  feminine,  than  any  of  her  sons  : 
More  thought  than  woe  was  in  her  dusky 

face, 
For  she  was  prophesying  of  her  glory  ; 
And  in  her  wide  imagination  stood 
Palm-shaded   temples,   and   high    rival 

fanes. 
By  Oxus  or  in  Ganges'  sacred  isles. 
Even  as  Hope  upon  her  anchor  leans, 
So  leant  she,  not  so  fair,  upon  a  tusk 
Shed  from  the  broadest  of  her  elephants. 
Above  her,  on  a  crag's  uneasy  shelve, 
Upon  his  elbow  rais'd,  all  prostrate  else, 
Shadow'd    Enceladus  ;   once    tame   and 

mild 
As  grazing  ox  un worried  in  the  meads  ; 
Now     tiger-passion'd,     lion-thoughted, 

wroth. 
He  meditated,  plotted,  and  even  now 
Was  hurling   mountains   in  that  second 

war, 
Not  long  delay'd,  that  scar'd  the  younger 

Gods 
To  hide  themselves  in  forms  of  beast  and 

bird. 
Nor  far  hence  Atlas  ;  and  beside  him 

prone 
Phorcus,   the   sire  of   Gorgons.     Neigh- 

bor'd  close 
Oceanus,  and  Tethys,  in  whose  lap 
Sobb'd  Clymene  among  her  tangled  hair. 
In  midst  of  all  lay  Themis,  at  the  feet 
Of  Ops  the     queen    all    clouded    round 

from  sight  ; 
No   shape    distinguishable,    more    than 

when 
Thick  night  confounds  the  pine-tops  with 

the  clouds  : 
And  many  else  whose  names  may  not  be 

told. 
For  when  the  Muse's  wings  are  air-ward 

spread, 
Who  shall   delay   her   flight  ?     And  she 

must  chant 
Of  Saturn,    and  his  guide,  who  now  had 

climb'd  [depth 

With  damp  and  slippery  footing  from  a 
More  horrid  still.  Above  a  sombre  cliff 
Their     heads     appear'd,   and    up   their 

stature  grew 


Till  on  the  level  height  their  steps  found 

ease : 
Then  Tliea  spread  abroad  her  trembling 

arms 
Upon  the  precincts  of  this  nest  of  pain, 
And   sidelong  fix'd  her  eye   on  Saturn's 

face  : 
There  saw  she  direst  strife  ;  the  supreme 

God 
At  war  with  all  the  frailty  of  grief , 
Of  rage,  of  fear,  anxiety,  revenge, 
Remorse,  spleen,    hope,  but   most  of  all 

despair. 
Against  these  plagues  he  strove  in  vain  ; 

for  Fate 
Had  pour'd  a  mortal  oil  upon  his  head, 
A  disanointing  poison  :  so  that  Thea, 
Affrighted,  kept  her   still,  and  let  him 

pass 
First    onwards    in,     among   the   fallen 

tribe. 

As  with  us  mortal  men,   the   laden 

heart 
Is  persecuted  more,  and  fever'd  more, 
When  it  is  nighing  to  the  mournful  house 
Where  other  hearts  are  sick  of  the  same 

bruise  ; 
So  Saturn,  as  he   walk'd  into  the  midst, 
Felt  faint,  and  would  have  sunk  among 

the  rest, 
But  that  he  met  Enceladus's  eye, 
Whose   mightiness,  and   awe  of  him,  at 

once 
Came     like    an     inspiration ;    and    he 

shouted, 
"Titans,   behold   your  God  !"  at    which 

some  groan'd  ; 
Some  started  on  their  feet ;  some  also 

shouted ; 
Some  wept,  some  wail'd,  all  bow'd  with 

reverence  ; 
And  Ops,  upifting  her  black  folded  veil, 
Show'd  her    pale   cheeks,   and   all     her 

forehead  wan, 
Her  eye-brows  thin  and  jet,  and  hollow 

eyes. 
There  is  a  roaring   in  the  bleak-grown 

pines 
When  Winter  lifts  his  voice  ;  there  is  a 

noise 
Among   immortals   when   a   God   gives 

sign, 
With  hushing  finger,  how  he  means  to 

load 
His  tongue  with  the  full  weight  of  utter- 
less  thought, 
With  thunder,  and  with  music,  and  with 

pomp  : 


KEATS 


417 


Such   noise   is   like    the  roar  of  bleak- 
grown  pines  ; 
Which,  when  it  ceases  in  this   mount- 

ain'd  world, 
No  other  sound  succeeds  ;    but  ceasing 

here, 
Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  there- 
from 
Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 
Its  strain,  when  other  harmonies,  stopt 

short. 
Leave  the  dinn'd  air  vibrating  silverly. 
Thus  grew  it  up — "  Not  in  my  own  sad 

breast, 
Which    is    its    own    great    judge    and 

searcher  out, 
Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus  : 
Not  in  the  legends  of  the  first  of  days, 
Studied  from  that  old  spirit-leaved  book 
Which  starry  Uranus  with  finger  bright 
Sav'd  from  the  shores  of  darkness,  when 

the  waves 
Low-ebb'd    still   hid   it   up    in    shallow 

gloom  ; — 
And  the  which  book  ye  know  I  ever  kept 
For   my   firm-based  footstool :  — Ah,  in- 
firm ! 
Not  there,  nor  in  sign,  symbol,  or  portent 
Of  element,  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire, — 
At  war,  at  peace,  or  inter-quarrelling 
One  against  one,  or  two,  or  three,  or  all 
Each  several  one  against  the  other  three. 
As  fire  with  air  loud  warring  when  rain- 
floods 
Drown  both,  and  press  them  both  against 

earth's  face, 
Where,    finding    sulphur,    a    quadruple 

wrath 
Unhinges  the  poor  world  ; — not  in  that 

strife, 
Wherefrom  I  take  strange  lore,  and  read 

it  deep, 
Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus  : 
No,   no-where  can    unriddle,   though   I 

search, — 
And  pore  on  Nature's  universal  scroll 
Even  to  swooning,  why  ye,  Divinities, 
The  first-born  of  all  shap'd  and  palpable 

Gods, 
Should    cower    beneath    what,    in    com- 
parison. 
Is   untremendous    might.      Yet   ye   are 

here, 
O'erwhelm'd,  and  spurn'd,  and  batter'd, 

ye  are  here  ! 
O  Titans,  shall  I  say  '  Arise  ! ' — Ye  groan  ; 
Shall      I      say      '  Crouch  ! ' — Ye     groan. 

What  can  I  then  ? 
O  Heaven  wide  !     O  unseen  parent  dear  ! 
27 


What  can  I  !    Tell  me,  all  ye  brethren 

Gods, 
How  we  can  war,  how  engine  our  great 

wrath  ! 

0  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's 

ear 
Is  all  a-hunger'd.     Thou,  Oceanus, 
Ponderest  high  and  deep  ;  and  in  thy  face 

1  see,  astonied,  that  severe  content 
Which  comes  of  thought  and  musing ; 

give  us  help  !  " 

So  ended  Saturn  ;  and  the  God  of  the 

Sea, 
Sophist    and    sage,  from    no  Athenian 

grove, 
But  cogitation  in  his  watery  shades, 
Arose,  with  locks  not  oozy,  and  began, 
In  murmurs,  which   his  first-endeavor- 
ing tongue 
Caught  infant-like  from  the  far  foamed 

sands. 
"  O   ye,  whom  wrath   consumes  !    who, 

passion-stung, 
Writhe    at     defeat,    and     nurse    your 

agonies  ! 
Shut  up  your  senses,  stifle  up  your  ears, 
My  voice  is  not  a  bellows  unto  ire. 
Yet  listen,  ye  who  will,  whilst  I  bring 

proof 
How  ye,   perforce,   must  be  content  to 

stoop  ; 
And  in  the  proof  much  comfort  will 

I  give, 
If  ye  will  take  that  comfort  in  its  truth. 
We  fall  by  course  of  Nature's  law,  not 

force 
Of  thunder,  or  of  Jove.     Great  Saturn, 

thou 
Hast  sifted  well  the  atom-universe  ; 
But  for  this  reason,    that  thou   art  the 

King. 
And  only  blind  from  sheer  supremacy, 
One  avenue  was  shaded  from  thine  eyes, 
Through  which  I  wandered  to  eternal 

truth. 
And  first,  as  thou  wast  not  the  first  of 

powers. 
So  art  thou  not  the  last  ;  it  cannot  be  ; 
Thou  art  not  the  beginning  nor  the  end. 
From  chaos  and  parental  darkness  came 
Light,  the  first  fruits  of  that  intestine 

broil, 
That  sullen  ferment,  which  for  wondrous 

ends 
Was  ripening  in  itself.     The  ripe  hour 

came, 
And  with  it  light,  and  light,  engender- 
ing 


4iS 


BRITISH    POETS 


Upon      its    own     producer,     forthwith 

touch'd 
The  whole  enormous  matter  into  life. 
Upon  that  very  hour,  our  parentage, 
The  Heavens  and  the  Earth,  were  mani- 
fest : 
Then  thou  first-born,  and  we  the  giant- 
race, 
Found  ourselves  ruling  new  and  beau- 
teous realms. 
Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom 

'tis  pain  : 
O  folly  !  for  to  bear  all  naked  truths, 
And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm, 
That  is  the  top  of  sovereignty.     Mark 

well  ! 
As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  fairer,  fairer 

far 
Than  Chaos  and  blank  Darkness,  though 

once  chiefs  ; 
And  as   we  show  beyond  that  Heaven 

and  Earth 
In  form  rand  shape  compact  and  beau- 
tiful, 
In  will,  in  action  free,  companionship. 
And  thousand  other  signs  of  purer  life  ; 
So  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection  treads, 
A  power   more  strong  in  beauty,  born 

of  us 
And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 
In  glory  that  old  Darkness  :  nor  are  we 
Thereby  more  conquer'd,  than  by  us  the 

rule 
Of  shapeless  Chaos.     Say,  doth  the  dull 

soil 
Quarrel  with  the  proud  forests  it  hath 

fed, 
And   feedeth  still,   more   comely   than 

itself  ? 
Can   it    deny    the  chiefdom    of    green 

groves  ? 
Or  shall  the  tree  be  envious  of  the  dove 
Because  it  cooeth,  and  hath  snowy  wings 
To  wander  wherewithal  and  finditsjoys? 
We  are  such  forest-trees,  and  our  fair 

boughs 
Have  bred  forth,  not  pale  solitary  doves, 
But    eagles    golden-feather'd,    who    do 

tower 
Above  us  in  their  beauty,  and  must  reign 
In  right  thereof  ;  for  'tis  the  eternal  law 
That  first   in   beauty  should  be   first  in 

might  : 
Yea,  by  that  law,  another  race  may  drive 
Our  conquerors  to  mourn  as  we  do  now. 
Have  ye  beheld  the  young  God  of  the 

Seas, 
My  dispossessor  ?    Have  ye  seen  his  face  ? 
Have  ye  beheld  his  chariot,  foam'd  along 


By    noble    winged    creatures    he    hath 

made  ? 
I  saw  him  on  the  calmed  waters  scud. 
With  such  a  glow  of  beauty  in  his  eyes, 
That  it  enforc'd  me  to  bid  sad  farewell 
To  all  my  empire:  farewell  sad  I  took, 
And  hither  came,   to  see  how  dolorous 

fate 
Had  wrought  upon  ye  ;  and  how  I  might 

best 
Give  consolation  in  this  woe  extreme. 
Receive   the  truth,  and  let  it  be   your 

balm." 

Whether  through  poz'd  conviction,  or 

disdain, 
They  guarded  silence,  when  Oceanus 
Left  murmuring,  what  deepest  thought 

can  tell  ? 
But  so  it   was,    none    answer'd    for    a 

space, 
Save  one    whom    none    regarded,  Cly- 

mene  ; 
And   yet   she  answer'd  not,   only   com- 

plain'd, 
With   hectic   lips,  and  eyes  up-looking 

mild, 
Thus  wording  timidly  among  the  fierce  : 
"  O    Father,    I  am    here    the    simplest 

voice, 
And  all  my  knowledge  is  that  joy  is  gone, 
And  this  thing  woe  crept  in  among  our 

hearts, 
There  to  remain  for  ever,  as  I  fear  : 
I  would  not  bode  of  evil,  if  I  thought 
So  weak  a  creature  could  turn  off  the  help 
Which   by   just   right  should   come   of 

mighty  Gods  ; 
Yet  let  me  tell  my  sorrow,  let  me  tell 
Of  what  I  heard,  and  how  it  made  me 

weep. 
And  know  that  we  had  parted  from  all 

hope. 
I  stood  upon  a  shore,  a  pleasant  shore, 
Where  a  sweet  clime  wTas  breathed  from 

a  land 
Of  fragrance,  quietness,  and  trees,  and 

flowers. 
Full  of  calm  joy  it  was,  as  I  of  grief  ; 
Too    full    of    joy    and    soft    delicious 

warmth  ; 
So  that  I  felt  a  movement  in  my  heart 
To  chide,  and  to  reproach  that  solitude 
With  songs  of  misery,  music  of  our  woes  ; 
And  sat  me  down,  and  took  a  mouthed 

shell 
And   murmur'd   into  it,  and  made  me- 

lody- 
O  melody  no  more  !  for  while  I  sang, 


KEATS 


419 


And   with   poor  skill   let  pass  into  the 

breeze 
The  dull   shell's  echo,   from  a  bowery 

strand 
Just  opposite,  an  island  of  the  sea, 
There  came  enchantment  with  the  shift- 
ing wind, 
That  did  both  drown  and  keep  alive  my 

ears. 
I  threw  my  sbell  away  upon  tbe  sand, 
And  a  wave  fill'dit,  as  my  sense  was  fill'd 
With  that  new  blfssful  golden  melody. 
A  living  death   was    in   each  gush   of 

sounds, 
Each  family  of  rapturous  hurried  notes, 
That  fell,  one  after  one,  yet  all  at  once, 
Like  pearl  beads  dropping  sudden  from 

their  string  : 
And  then  another,  then  another  strain, 
Each  like  a  dove  leaving  its  olive  perch, 
With   music   wing'd    instead    of    silent 

plumes, 
To  hover  round  my  head,  and  make  me 

sick 
Of  joy  and  grief  at  once.     Grief  over- 
came, 
And  I  was  stopping  up  my  frantic  ears. 
When,  past  all  hindrance  of  my  trem- 
bling hands, 
A  voice  came  sweeter,  sweeter  than  all 

tune, 
And    still    it    cried,    '  Apollo !     young 

Apollo  ! 
The     morning-bright     Apollo  1     young 

Apollo  ! ' 
I     fled,     it     follow'd     me,     and     cried 

'  Apollo  ! ' 
O  Father,  and  O  Brethren,  had  ye  felt 
Those  pains  of  mine  ;   O  Saturn,   hadst 

thou  felt, 
Ye  would  not  call   this    too   indulged 

tongue 
Presumptuous,  in  thus  venturing  to  be 
heard." 

So  far  her   voice  flow'd  on,  like  timo- 
rous brook 
That,  lingering  along  a  pebbled  coast, 
Doth  fear  to  meet  the  sea :  but  sea  it 

met, 
And  shudder'd ;    for  the  overwhelming 

voice 
Of  huge  Enceladus  swallow'd  it  in  wrath: 
The    ponderous    syllables,     like    sullen 

waves 

In  the  half  glutted  hollows  of  reef-rocks, 

Came   booming   thus,  while   still   upon 

his  arm  [contempt. 

He   lean'd  ;    not   rising,    from    supreme 


"  Or  shall  we  listen  to  the  over-wise, 
Or  to  the  over-foolish  giant,  Gods? 
Not  thunderbolt  on  thunderbolt,  till  all 
That  rebel  Jove's  whole  armory  were 

spent, 
Not  world  on  world  upon  these  shoulders 

piled. 
Could  agonize  me  more  than  baby-words 
In  midst  of  this  dethronement  horrible. 
Speak  !    roar !    shout !    yell !    ye  sleepy 

Titans  all. 
Do  ye  forget  the  blows,  the  buffets  vile? 
Are  ye  not  smitten  by  a  youngling  arm  ? 
Dost  thou  forget,  sham  Monarch  of  the 

Waves, 
Thy  scalding  in  the  seas  ?    What,  have 

I  rous'd 
Your  spleens  with  so  few  simple  words 

as  these  ? 
O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  ye  are  not  lost  : 
O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  a  thousand  eyes 
Wide  glaring  for  revenge  !  " — As  this  he 

said, 
He  lifted  up  his  stature  vast,  and  stood, 
Still  without  intermission  speaking  thus  : 
"  Now  ye   are  flames,  I'll  tell  you  how 

to  burn, 
And  purge  the  ether  of  our  enemies ; 
How  to  feed  fierce  the  crooked  stings  of 

fire, 
And  singe  away  the  swollen  clouds  of 

Jove, 
Stifling  that  puny  essence  in  its  tent. 
O  let  him  feel  the  evil  he  hath  done  ; 
For  though  I  scorn  Oceanus's  lore, 
Much  pain  have  I  for  more  than  loss  of 

realms  : 
The  days  of  peace  and  slumberous  calm 

are  fled  ; 
Those  days,  all  innocent  of  scathing  war, 
When  all  the  fair  Existences  of  heaven 
Came  open-eyed  to  guess  what  we  would 

speak :— 
That  was  before  our  brows  were  taught 

to  frown, 
Before  our  lips  knew  else  but  solemn 

sounds ; 
That  was  before  we  knew   the  winged 

thing, 
Victory,  might  be  lost,  or  might  be  won. 
And  be  ye  mindful  that  Hyperion, 
Our    brightest   brother,    still   is    undis- 

graced — 
Hyperion,  lo  !  his  radiance  is  here  !  " 

All  eyes  were  on  Enceladus's  face, 
And  they  beheld,  while  still  Hyperion's 

name 
Flew  from  his  lips  up  to  the  vaulted  rocks, 


420 


BRITISH   POETS 


A  pallid  gleam  across  his  features  stern  : 
Not  savage,  for  he  saw  full  many  a  God 
Wroth    as    himself.      He    look'd    upon 

t  hem  all. 
And    in    each    face  he  saw  a  gleam  of 

light, 
Bui  splendider  in  Saturn's,  whose  hoar 

locks 
Shone  like  the  bubbling  foam  about  a 

keel 

When  the  prow  sweeps  into  a  midnight 

cove. 
In  pale  and  silver  silence  they  remain'd, 
Till  suddenly  a  splendor,  like  the  morn, 
Pervaded  all  the  beetling  gloomy  steeps, 
All  the  sad  spaces  of  oblivion, 
And  every  gulf,  and  every  chasm  old, 
And    every    height,    and    every   sullen 

depth, 
Voiceless,  or  hoarse  with  loud  tormented 

streams  : 
And  all  the  everlasting  cataracts, 
And  all  the  headlong  torrents  far  and 

near, 
Mantled   before  in  darkness  and  huge 

shade, 
Now  saw  the  light  and  made  it  terrible. 
It  was  Hyperion — a  granite  peak 
His  bright    feet  touch'd,  and  there   he 

stay'd  to  view 
The  misery  his  brilliance  had  betray'd 
To  the  most  hateful  seeing  of  itself. 
Golden  his  hair  of  short  Numidian  curl, 
Regal  his  shape  majestic,  a  vast  shade 
In  midst  of  his  own  brightness,  like  the 

bulk 
Of  Memnon's  image  at  the  set  of  sun 
To  one  who  travels   from   the   dusking 

East: 
Sighs,  too,  as   mournful   as  that   Mem- 
non's harp  [tive 
He  utter'd,  while  his  hands  contempla- 
He    press'd    together,    and    in    silence 

stood. 
Despondence  seiz'd  again  the  fallen  Gods 
At  sight  of  the  dejected  King  of  Day, 
And   many   hid   their   faces    from    the 

light : 
But  fierce  Enceladus  sent  forth  his  eyes 
Among  the  brotherhood  ;  and,  at  their 

glare, 
Uprose  Iapetus,  and  Creiis  too, 
And    Phorcus,   sea-born,   and    together 

strode 
To  where  he  towered  on  his  eminence. 
There    those    four    shouted     forth     old 

Saturn's  name  ; 
Hyperion  from  the  peak  loud  answered, 

"  Saturn  1" 


Saturn  sat  near  the  Mother  of  the  Gods, 
In  whose  face  was  no  joy,  though  all  the 

Gods 
Gave  from  their  hollow  throats  the  name 

of  "  Saturn  !  " 

BOOK  III 

Thus  in  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace, 

Amazed  were  those  Titans  utterly. 

O  leave  them,  Muse!   p  leave  them  to 

their  woes ; 
For  thou  art  weak  to  sing  such  tumults 

dii-e  : 
A  solitary  sorrow  best  befits 
Thy  lips,  and  antheming  a  lonely  grief. 
Leave  them,  O  Muse  !  for  thou  anon  wilt 

find 
Many  a  fallen  old  Divinity 
Wandering  in  vain  about    bewildered 

shores. 
Meantime    touch    piously  the    Delphic 

harp, 
And   not  a   wind  of   heaven   but    will 

breathe 
In  aid  soft  warble  from  the  Dorian  flute  ; 
For  lo  !  'tis  for  the  Father  of  all  verse. 
Flush  every  thing  that  hath  a  vermeil 

hue, 
Let  the  rose  glow  intense  and  warm  the 

air, 
And  let  the  clouds  of  even  and  of  morn 
Float  in  voluptuous  fleeces  o'er  the  hills  ; 
Let  the  red  wine  within  the  goblet  boil, 
Cold  as  a  bubbling  well ;  let  faint-lipp'd 

shells, 
On  sands,  or  in  great  deeps,  vermilion 

turn 
Through  all  their  labyrinths  ;  and  let  the 

maid 
Blush   keenly,  as  with  some  warm  kiss 

surpris'd. 
Chief  isle  of  the  embowered  Cyclades, 
Rejoice,    O    Delos,    with    thine     olives 

green, 
And  poplars,  and  lawn-shading   palms, 

and  beech, 
In  which  the  zephyr  breathes  the  loud- 
est song, 
And  hazels  thick,  dark-stemm'd  beneath 

the  shade  : 
Apollo  is  once  more  the  golden  theme  ! 
Where  was   he,  when  the  Giant  of  the 

Sun 
Stood   bright,  amid   the   sorrow   of  his 

peers  ? 
Together  had  he  left  his  mother  fair 
And   his    twin-sister    sleeping  in  their 

bower, 


KEATS 


421 


And  in  the  morning  twilight  wandered 

forth 
Beside  the  osiers  of  a  rivulet, 
Full  ankle-deep  in  lilies  of  the  vale. 
The  nightingale  had  ceas'd,  and  a  few 

stars 
Were  lingering  in  the  heavens,  while  the 

thrush 
Began  calm-throated.     Throughout  all 

the  isle 
There  was  no  covert,  no  retired  cave 
Unhaunted  by  the  murmurous  noise  of 

waves, 
Though  scarcely  heard  in  many  a  green 

recess. 
He  listen'd,  and  he  wept,  and  his  bright 

tears 
Went  trickling  down  the  golden  bow  he 

held. 
Thus  with    half-shut    suffused  eyes  he 

stood, 
While   from    beneath    some   cumbrous 

boughs  hard  by 
With  solemn    step   an  awful    Goddess 

came, 
And  there  was  purport  in  her   looks  for 

him, 
Which  he  with  eager  guess  began  to  read 
Perplex'd,     the    while    melodiously    he 

said  : 
"  How  cam'st  thou  over  the  unfooted 

sea? 
Or   hath  that  antique  mien  and   robed 

form 
Mov'd  in  these  vales  invisible  till  now? 
Sure    I     have    heard     those   vestments 

sweeping  o'er 
The  fallen  leaves,  when  I  have  sat  alone 
In  cool  mid-forest.     Surely  I  have  traced 
The  rustle  of  those  ample  skirts  about 
These    grassy    solitudes,    and  seen  the 

flowers 
Lift  up  their  heads,  as  still  the  whisper 

pass'd.  [fore, 

Goddess  !  I  have  beheld  those  eyes  be- 
And  their  eternal  calm,  and  all  that  face, 
Or   I   have   dream'd." — "  Yes,"  said  the 

supreme  shape, 
"  Thou  hast  dreaiu'd  of  me  ;  and   awak- 
ing up 
Didst  find  a  lyre  all  golden  by  thy  side, 
Whose  strings  touch'd  by  thy  fingers, 

all  the  vast 
Unwearied  ear  of  the  whole  universe 
Listen'd  in  pain  and  pleasure  at  the  birth 
Of  such  new  tuneful  wonder.     Is't  not 

strange 
That    thou   shouldst    weep,    so  gifted? 

Tell  me,  youth, 


What  sorrow  thou  canst  feel ;  for  I  am 
sad 

When  thou  dost  shed  a  tear :  explain 
thy  griefs 

To  one  who  in  this  lonely  isle  hath  been 

The  watcher  of  thy  sleep  and  hours  of 
life, 

From  the  young  day  when  first  thy  in- 
fant hand 

Pluck'd  witless  the  weak  flowers,  till 
thine  arm 

Could  bend  that  bow  heroic  to  all  times. 

Show  thy  heart's  secret  to  an  ancient 
Power 

Who  hath  forsaken  old  and  sacred 
thrones 

For  prophecies  of  thee,  and  for  the  sake 

Of  loveliness  new  born." — Apollo  then. 

With  sudden  scrutiny  and  gloomless  eyes, 

Thus  answer'd.  while  his  white  melodi- 
ous throat 

Throbb'd  with  the  syllables. — "  Mne- 
mosyne ! 

Thy  name  is  on  my  tongue,  I  know  not 
howr  ; 

Why  should  I  tell  thee  what  thou  so 
well  seest  ? 

Why  should  I  strive  to  show  what  from 
thy  lips 

Would  come  no  mystery  ?  For  me,  dark, 
dark, 

And  painful  vile  oblivion  seals  my  eyes  : 

I  strive  to  search  wherefore  I  am  so  sad, 

Until  a  melancholy  numbs  my  limbs  ; 

And  then  upon  the  grass  I  sit,  and  moan. 

Like  one  who  once  had  wings. — O  why 
should  I 

Feel  curs'd  and  thwarted,  when  the 
liegeless  air 

Yields  to  my  step  aspirant?  why 
should  I 

Spurn  the  green  turf  as  hateful  to  my 
feet? 

Goddess  benign,  point  forth  some  un- 
known thing  : 

Are  there  not  other  regions  than  this 
isle? 

What  are  the  stars?  There  is  the  sun, 
the  sun  ! 

And  the  most  patient  brilliance  of  the 
moon  ! 

And  stars  by  thousands  !  Point  me  out 
the  way 

To  any  one  particular  beauteous  star, 

And  I  will  flit  into  it  with  my  lyre, 

And  make  its  silvery  splendor  pant  with 
bliss. 

I  have  heard  the  cloudy  thunder : 
Where  is  power  ? 


42: 


BRITISH  POETS 


Whose     hand,     whose     essence,     what 

divinity 
Makes  this  alarum  in  the  elements, 
While  I  here  idle  listen  on  the  shore 
In  fearless  yet  in  aching  ignorance? 
O  tell  me,  lonely  Goddess,  by  thy  harp, 
That  waileth  every  morn  and  eventide, 
Tell  me  why  thus  I  rave,  about  these 

groves ! 
Mute  thou  remainest — Mute  !  yet  I  can 

read 
A  wondrous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face  : 
Knowledge  enormous  makes  a  God  of 

me. 
Names,  deeds,  gray  legends,  dire  events, 

rebellions, 
Majesties,  sovran  voices,  agonies, 
Creations  and  destroyings,  all  at  once 
Pour  into  the  wide  hollows  of  my  brain, 
And  deify  me,  as  if  some  blithe  wine 
Or  bright  elixir  peerless  I  had  drunk, 
And  so  become  immortal." — Thus  the 

God, 
While  his  enkindled  eyes,   with   level 

glance 
Beneath  his  white  soft  temples,  steadfast 

kept 
Trembling  with  light  upon  Mnemosyne. 
Soon  wild  commotions   shook   him,  and 

made  flush 
All  the  immortal  fairness  of  his   limbs  ; 
Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of 

death  ; 
Or  liker  still  to  one  who  should  take 

leave 
Of  pale    immortal    death,   and  with  a 

pang 
As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce 

convulse 
Die  into  life  :  so  young  Apollo  anguish'd  ; 
His  very  hair,  his  golden  tresses   famed 
Kept  undulation  round  his   eager  neck. 
During  the  pain  Mnemosyne  upheld 
Her  arms  as  one  who  prophesied. — At 

length 
Apollo   shriek'd  ; — and  lo  !  from  all   his 

limbs 
Celestial     *     ********* 

*    *    * 

September,  1818— September,  1819. 1820. 
LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

BALLAD 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ! 
The  sedge  has  wither' d  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 


0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms  I 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful —  a  faery's  child, 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 
And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone  ; 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long. 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew, 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said — 
"  I  love  thee  true." 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full 
sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep. 
And  there  I  dream'd — Ah  !  woe  betide  ! 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 
Pale  warriors,   death-pale  were   they 
all; 

They  cried—"  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall  !  " 

I  saw  their  starv'd  lips  in  the  gloam, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here, 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the 
lake 
And  no  birds  sing. 

1819.     May  10,  1820. 


KEATS 


423 


ON  FAME 


Fame,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be 
coy 

To  those  who  woo  her  with  too  slavish 
knees, 

But  makes  surrender  to  some  thought- 
less boy, 

And  dotes  the  more  upon  a  heart  at  ease  ; 

She  is  a  Gipsy, — will  not  speak  to  those 

Who  have  not  learnt  to  be  content  with- 
out her  ; 

A  Jilt,  whose  ear  was  never  whisper'd 
close, 

Who  thinks  they  scandal  her  who  talk 
about  her ; 

A  very  Gipsy  is  she,  Nilus-born, 

Sister-in-law  to  jealous  Potiphar  ; 

Ye  love-sick  Bards  !  repay  her  scorn  for 
scorn  : 

Ye  Artists  lovelorn !  madmen  that  ye 
are  ! 

Make  your  best  bow  to  her  and  bid  adieu, 

Then,  if  she  likes  it,  she  will  follow  you. 

II 

How  fever'd  is  the  man,  who  cannot 

look 
Upon  his   mortal   days  with   temperate 

blood, 
Who  vexes  all  the  leaves  of  his  life's  book, 
And  robs  his  fair  name  of  its  maiden- 
hood ; 
It  is  as  if  the  rose  should  pluck  herself, 
Or  the  ripe  plum  finger  its  misty  bloom, 
As  if  a  Naiad,  like  a  meddling  elf, 
Should  darken  her  pure  grot  with  muddy 

gloom  : 
But  the  rose  leaves  herself  upon  the  briar, 
For  winds  to  kiss  and  grateful   bees  to 

feed , 
And  the  ripe  plum   still  wears  its   dim 

attire, 
The  undisturbed  lake  has  crystal  space  ; 
Why  then  should  man,  teasing  the  world 

for  grace, 
Spoil  his  salvation  for  a  fierce  miscreed  ? 
1819.     1848. 


TO  SLEEP 

O  SOFT  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight, 
Shutting     with    careful     fingers     and 

benign, 
Our    gloom-pleased    eyes,     embowered 

from  the  light, 
Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine  : 
O  soothest   Sleep  !  if  so  it   please   thee, 

close, 
In  midst  of  this  thine  hymn,  my  willing 

eyes. 
Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 
Around  my  bed  its  lulling  charities  ; 
Then  save  me,  or  the   passed  day  will 

shine 
Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes, — 
Save  me  from  curious  conscience,   that 

still  lords 
Its  strength  for  darkness,  burrowing  like 

a  mole ; 
Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards, 
And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 
1819.     1848. 

BEIGHT    STAR!    WOULD    I    WERE 
STEADFAST   AS    THOU  ART 

Bright  star  !  would  I  were  steadfast  as 

thou  art — 
Not    in  lone    splendor  hung  aloft  the 

night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 
Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving   waters   at   their   priestlike 

task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's   human 

shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon   the   mountains  and   the 

moors — 
No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchange- 
able, 
Pillow'd  upon  my   fair   love's  ripening 

breast, 
To  feel  for  ever  its  sofjfc  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,    still    to    hear    her    tender-taken 

breath, 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 

September,  18W.    February,  184<j. 


LANDOR 

LIST  OF  REFERENCES 

Editions 

Works,  8  volumes,  Chapman  &  Hall,  London,  1874-76.  Works,  10  vol- 
umes, edited  by  C.  G.  Crump,  Tlie  Macmillan  Co.  Poems,  Dialogues  in 
Verse,  and  Epigrams,  2  volumes,  edited  by  C.  G.  Crump,  the  Macmillan  Co. 
Letters  and  other  unpublished  Writings,  edited  by  S.  Wheeler,  London, 
1897.  Letters,  Private  and  Public,  edited  by  S.Wheeler,  London,  1899. 
Selections  from  Landor,  edited  by  Sidney  Colvin  (Golden  Treasury 
Series). 

Biography 

*  Forster  (John),  W.  S.  Landor  :  A  Biography,  2  volumes,  1869  ;  also 
(abridged)  as  Vol.  I.  of  Works,  1874.  *  Colvin  (Sidney),  Landor  (Eng- 
lish Men  of  Letters  Series). 

Reminiscences  and  Early  Criticism 

Robinson  (H.  C),  Diary,  Vol.  II,   Chap.  XII,  etc.     Mitford   (M.  R.), 

Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life.  Browning  (Elizabeth  Barrett),  in  Home's 
New  Spirit  of  the  Age.  Emerson,  Natural  History  of  Intellect.  De 
Quincey,  Masson's  edition,  Vol.  XL  Duffy  (C.  Gavan),  Conversations 
with  Carlyle.  Hunt  (Leigh),  Lord  Byron  and  his  Contemporaries.  Bless- 
ingtox  (Marguerite),  The  Idler  in  Italy.  Madden  (R.  R.),  The  Literary 
Life  and  Correspondence  of  the  Countess  of  Blessington.  See  also  the 
Letters  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

Later  Criticism 

*  Boynton  (H.  W.),  Poetry  of  Landor,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Vol.  90, 
page  126,  July,  1902.  *  Colvin  (Sidney),  Preface  to  the  volume  of  Se- 
lections in  the  Golden  Treasury  Series.  *  Dowden  (Edward),  Studies  in 
Literature.  Evans  (E.  W.),  A  Study  of  Landor.  Henley  (W.  E.),  Views 
and  Reviews.  Lee  (Vernon),  Studies  in  Literary  Psychology  :  The  Rhe- 
toric of  Landor*,  in  the  Contemporary  Review,  Vol.  84,  Page  856,  1903. 
Lowell  (J.  R.),  Latest  Literary  Essays  and  Addresses.  Oliphant  (Mar- 
garet), Victorian  Age  of  English  Literature.  Saintsbury  (George), 
Essays  in  English  Literature,  Second  Series.  Scudder  (H.  E.),  Men  and 
Letters:  Landor  as  a  Classic.  *  Stedman  (E.  C),  Victorian  Poets. 
Stephen  (Leslie),  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  II.  *  Swinburne,  Miscella- 
nies.    *  Woodberry  (G.  E.),  Studies  in  Letters  and  Life. 

Brooks  (S.  W.),  English  Poets.  De  Vere  (Aubrey),  Essays,  chiefly  on 
Poetry,  Vol.  II.  Devey  (J.),  Comparative  Estimate  of  Modern  English 
Poets.      Dixon  (W.  M.),  English  Poetry.     Dowden  (Edward),    French 

424 


LANDOR 


425 


Revolution  and  English  Literature.  Nencioni  (E.),  Letteratura  inglese: 
Colvin,  Biografia  di  Landor.  Payne  (W.  M.),  Greater  English  Poets  of 
the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907.  Symons  (A.),  The  Poetry  of  Landor; 
in  the  Atlantic,  June,  1906.  Symons  (A.),  The  Romantic  Movement  in 
English  Poetry,  1909.     Whiting  (L.),  The  Florence  of     Landor,  1905. 

Tributes  in  Verse. 

**  Watson  (W.),  Landor's  Hellenics.  Japp  {A.  H.),  Landor,  in  Sted- 
man's  Victorian  Anthology.  **  Swinburne,  Poems  and  Ballads,  First 
Series:  In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor.  *  Swinburne,  Studies  in 
Song:  Song  for  the  Centenary  of  Walter  Savage  Landor. 

Bibliography 
Wheeler  (S.),  in  Letters  and  Other  Unpublished  Writings  of  Landor. 


LANDOR 


GEBIR 
BOOK    I 

The  Invasion.  The  Meeting  of  Gebir 
and  Charoba.  The  Loves  of  Ta- 
mar  and  the  sea-nymph.  the  sea- 
shell.     The  Wrestling-match. 

I  sing  the  fates  of  Gebir.     He  had 

dwelt 
Among  those   mountain-caverns  which 

retain 
His  labors  yet,  vast  halls  and  flowing 

wells, 
Nor  have   forgotten   their  old  master's 

name 
Though  sever'd  from  his  people  :   here, 

incensed 
By  meditating  on  primeval  wrongs. 
He  blew  his  battle-horn,  at  which  uprose 
Whole  nations  ;    here,  ten  thousand  of 

most  might 
He  call'd  aloud  ;   and  soon  Charoba  saw 
His  dark    helm    hover   o'er   the  land  of 

Nile. 
What    should    the  virgin  do?  should 

royal  knees 
Bend   suppliant  ?   or   defenceless   hands 

engage 
Men  of  gigantic  force,  gigantic  arms  ? 
For  'twas  reported  that  nor  sword  suf- 
ficed, 


Nor  shield  immense  nor  coat  of  massive 
mail, 

But  that  upon  their  towering  heads  they 
bore 

Each  a  huge  stone,  refulgent  as  the  stars. 

This  told  she  Dalica.  then  cried  aloud, 

"  If  on  your  bosom  laying  down  my  head 

I  sobb'd  away  the  sorrows  of  a  child. 

If   I  have  always,  and  Heav'n  knows  I 
have, 

Next  to  a  mother's  held  a  nurse's  name, 

Succor  this   one   distress,  recall    those 
days, 

Love  me,  tho'  'twere  because  you  lov'd 
me  then." 
But  whether  confident  in  magic  rites 

Or  touched  with  sexual  pride  to  stand 
implor'd, 

Dalica    smiled,    then    spake:     "Away 
those  fears, 

Though  stronger  than  the  strongest  of 
his  kind, 

He  falls  ;   on  me  devolve  that   charge  ; 
he  falls. 

Rather   than   fly  him,  stoop  thou  to  al- 
lure ; 

Nay,  journey  to  his  tents.     A  city  stood 

Upon    that    coast,   they   say,  by  Sidad 
built,  [ground 

Whose  father  Gad  built  Gadir  ;  on  tins 

Perhaps  he  sees  an  ample  room  for  war. 

Persuade  him  to  restore  the  walls  him- 
self 


426 


BRITISH   POETS 


In  honor  of  his  ancestors,  persuade  .  .  . 
Hut  wherefore  this  advice?  young,  un- 

espoused. 
Charoba      want     persuasions!      and    a 

queen  !  " 
"O    Dalica!"    the    shuddering   maid 

exclaim'd, 
"  Could  I  encounter  that  fierce  frightful 

man  ? 
Could    I    speak?   no,  nor   sigh,"     "And 

canst  thou  reign  ?  " 
Cried   Dalica  ;  "  Yield  empire  or  com- 

ply." 
Unfixed,    though   seeming   fixed,    her 

eyes  downcast, 
The  wonted  buzz  and  bustle  of  the  court 
From  far   through   sculptured  galleries 

met  her  ear ; 
Then  lifting  up  her  head,  the  evening 

sun 
Pour'd  a  fresh  splendor  on  her  burnished 

throne : 
The  fair  Charoba,  the  young  queen,  com- 
plied. 
But  Gebir,  when  he   heard  of  her  ap- 
proach, 
Laid  by  his  orbed  shield  ;  his  vizor-helm, 
His  buckler  and  his  corslet  he  laid  by, 
And  bade  that  none  attend  him  :   at  his 

side 
Two   faithful  dogs  that  urge  the  silent 

course, 
Shaggy,    deep-chested,    crouched ;    the 

crocodile, 
Crying,  oft  made  them  raise  their  flaccid 

ears 
And  push  their  heads  within  their  mas- 
ter's hand. 
There  was  a  brightening  paleness  in  his 

face, 
Such  as  Diana  rising  o'er  the  rocks 
Shower'd  on  the  lonely  Latmian  ;  on  his 

brow 
Sorrow  there  was,  yet  nought  was  there 

severe. 
But  when  the  royal  damsel  first  he  saw, 
Faint,  hanging  on   her  handmaids,   and 

her  knees 
Tottering,  as  from  the  motion  of  the 

car, 
His   eyes   looked   earnest   on    her,   and 

those  eyes 
Show'd,  if  they  had  not,  that  they  might 

have,  lov*d. 
For  there  was  pity  in  them  at  that  hour. 
With   gentle    speech,    and    more    with 

gentle  looks, 
He  sooth'd  her  ;  but  lest  Pity  go  beyond 
4nd  crost  Ambition  lose  her  lofty  aim 


Bending,  he    kissed   her  garment,    and 

retired. 
He  went,  nor  slumber'd   in  the    sultry 

noon, 
When  viands,  couches,  generous  wines, 

persuade, 
And  slumber  most  refreshes;  nor  at  night, 
When  heavy  dews  are  laden  with  disease; 
And  blindness  waits  not  therefor  linger- 
ing age. 
Ere   morning   dawn'd   behind    him,   he 

arri  ved 
At  those  rich   meadows  where    young 

Tamar  fed 
The  royal  flocks  entrusted  to  his  care. 
"  Now, "said  he  to  himself,"  will  I  repose 
At   least   this    burthen   on  a    brother's 

breast." 
His  brother  stood  before  him:  he,  amazed, 
Rear'd  suddenly  his  head,  and  thus  began. 
"Is  it  thou,  brother  !   Tamar,  is  it  thou  ! 
Why,  standing  on   the   valley's   utmost 

verge, 
Lookest   thou  on   that  dull  and  dreary 

shore 
Where  beyond  sight  Nile  blackens  all 

the  sand? 
And  why  that  sadness  ?  When  I  past  our 

sheep 
The  dew-drops  were  not  shaken  off  the 

bar, 
Therefore  if  one  be  wanting,  'tis  untold." 
"  Yes,   one    is   wanting,   nor   is   that 

untold," 
Said  Tamar  ;    "  and  this  dull  and  dreary 

shore 
Is  neither  dull  nor  dreary  at  all  hours." 
Whereon  the  tear  stole  silent  down  his 

cheek, 
Silent,  but  not  by  Gebir  unobserv'd  : 
Wondering  he  gazed  awhile,  and  pitying 

spake. 
"  Let  me  approach  thee  ;  does  the  morn- 
ing light 
Scatter  this  wan  suffusion  o'er  thy  brow, 
This  faint  blue  lustre  under   both  thine 

eyes  ?  " 
"  O  brother,  is  this  pity  or  reproach  ?" 
Cried  Tamar,  "  cruel  if  it  be  reproach, 
If  pity,  O  how  vain  !  "  "  Whate'er  it  be 
That  grieves  thee,  I  will   pity,  thou  but 

speak, 
And  I  can   tell   thee,  Tamar,  pang  for 

pang." 
"  Gebir  !   then  more  than  brothers  are 

we  now  ! 
Everything  (take  my  hand)  will  I  confess. 
I  neither  feed  the   flock   nor  watch  the 

fold; 


LANDOR 


427 


How  can  I.  lost  in  love  ?    But,  Gebir,  why 
That   anger   which    has    risen    to   your 

cheek  ? 
Can  other   men?  could  you?   what,  no 

reply  ! 
And   still  more   anger,  and   still   worse 

conceal'd  ! 
Are   these  your  promises?     your    pity 

this?" 
"Tamar,  I  well  may  pity  what  I  feel — 
Mark    me    aright  —  I    feel    for    thee  — 

proceed — 
Relate  me  all."  "  Then  will  I  all  relate," 
Said    the    young    shepherd,   gladden'd 

from  his  heart. 
"  Twas  evening,  though  not  sunset,  and 

the  tide 
Level  with  these  green  meadows,  seem'd 

yet  higher  : 
'Twas  pleasant ;  and  I  loosen 'd  from  my 

neck 
The  pipe  you  gave  me,  and  began  to  play. 

0  that  I  ne'er  had  learnt  the  tuneful  art ! 
It  always  brings  us  enemies  or  love. 
Well,  I  was  playing,  when  above  the 

waves 

Some  swimmer's  head  methought  I  saw 
ascend  ; 

I,  sitting  still,  survey'd  it,  with  my  pipe 

Awkwardly  held  before  my  lips  half- 
closed, 

Gebir  !  it  was  a  Nymph  !  a  Nymph 
divine  ! 

1  cannot  wait  describing  how  she  came, 
How  I  was  sitting,  how  she  first  assum'd 
The  sailor  ;   of  what  happen'd  there  re- 
mains 

Enough  to  say,  and  too  much  to  forget. 
The  sweet  deceiver  stepped  upon  this 

bank 
Before  I  was  aware  ;  for  with  surprise 
Moments  fly  rapid  as  with  love  itself. 
Stooping  to   tune   afresh  the  hoarsen'd 

reed, 
I  heard  a  rustling,  and  where  that  arose 
My   glance   first   lighted  on  her  nimble 

feet. 
Her  feet  resembled    those  long    shells 

explored 
By  him  who  to  befriend  his  steed's  dim 

sight 
Would  blow  the  pungent  powder  in  the 

eye. 
Her  eyes  too  !     O  immortal  Gods  !    her 

eyes 
Resembled — what  could  they  resemble  ? 

what 
Ever  resemble  those  ?   Even  her  attire 
Was  not  of  wonted  woof  nor  vulgar  art ; 


Her  mantle  show'd  the  yellow  samphire- 
pod, 
Her  girdle  the  dove-color'd  wave  serene. 
"Shepherd,"   said  she,    "and   will,  you 

wrestle  now, 
And  with   the  sailor's  hardier  race  en- 
gage ?  " 
I  was  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  and  contrived 
How  to  keep  up  contention  :  could  I  fail 
By   pressing   not    too  strongly,   yet   to 

press  ? 
"  Whether  a  shepherd,   as  indeed  you 

seem, 
Or  whether  of  the  hardier  race  you  boast, 
I  am  not  daunted  ;  no  ;  I  will  engage." 
"  But  first,"  said  she,  "  what  wager  will 

you  lay  ?  " 
"  A  sheep,"  I  answered  :  "  add  whate'er 

you  will." 
"I  can  not,"  she  replied,  "make  that 

return  : 
Our  hided  vessels  in  their  pitchy  round 
Seldom,  unless  from  rapine,  hold  a  sheep, 
But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  lustre  have  im- 
bibed 
In  the  sun's  palace-porch,  where  when 

unyoked 
His  chariot-wheel  stands  midway  in  the 

wave  : 
Shake  one  and  it  awakens,  then  apply 
Its  polisht  lips  to  j'our  attentive  ear, 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes, 
And   murmurs  as   the   ocean  murmurs 

there. 
And  I   have  others    given  me  by  the 

nymphs, 
Of  sweeter   sound   than   any   pipe   you 

have ; 
But  we,  by  Neptune  !  for  no  pipe  con- 
tend, 
This  time  a  sheep  I  win,  a  pipe  the  next." 
Now  came  she  forward  eager  to  engage, 
But  first  her  dress,  her  bosom  then  sur- 
vey'd, 
And   heav'd   it,    doubting   if   she  could 

deceive. 
Her  bosom  seem'd,  inclos'd  in  haze  like 

heav'n, 
To  baffle  touch,  and   rose  forth  unde- 
fined : 
Above  her  knee  she  drew  the  robe  suc- 
cinct, 
Above   her   breast,  and  just   below  her 

arms. 
"  This   will  preserve   my   breath   when 

tightly  bound, 
If  struggle  and  equal  strength  should  so 
constrain." 


4-^S 


BRITISH   POETS 


Thus,  pulling  1 1: » i  '1  to  fasten  it,  she  spake, 
And,  rushing  at   nie,  closed:  I  thrill'd 

throughout 
And  seem'd  to  lessen  and  shrink  up  with 

cold. 
Again  with  violent  impulse  gushed  my 

blood. 

And  hearing  nought  external,  thus  ab- 
sorb'd, 

I  heard  it,  rushing  through  each  turbid 

vein, 
Shake  my  unsteady  swimming  sight  in 

air. 
Yet  with  unyielding  though  uncertain 

arms 
I  clung  around  her  neck ;  the  vest  be- 
neath 
Rustled  against  our  slippery  limbs  en- 
twined : 
Often  mine  springing  with  eluded  force 
Started  aside  and  trembled  till  replaced  : 
And  when  I  most  succeeded,  as  I  thought, 
My  bosom  and  my  throat  felt  so  com- 
pressed 
That  life  was  almost  quivering  on  my 

lips, 
Yet  nothing  was  there  painful :  these 

are  signs 
Of  secret  arts  and  not  of  human  might ; 
What  arts  I  cannot  tell ;  I  only  know 
My   eyes   grew  dizzy  and   my  strength 

decay'd ; 
I  was  indeed  o'ercome  .  .   .  with  what 

regret, 
And  more,  with  what  confusion,  when 

I  reached 
The  fold,  and  yielding  up  the  sheep,  she 

cried, 
"  This  pays  a  shepherd  to  a  conquering 

.maid." 
She  smiled,  and  more  of  pleasure  than 

disdain 
Was  in  her  dimpled  chin  and  liberal  lip, 
And  eyes  that  languished,  lengthening, 

just  like  love. 
She  went  away  ;  I  on  the  wicker  gate 
Leant,  and  could  follow  with  my  eyes 

alone. 
The  sheep  she  carried  easy  as  a  cloak  ; 
But  when  I  heard  its  bleating,  as  I  did, 
And  saw,  she  hastening  on,  its  hinder 

feet  [slip, 

Struggle,  and  from  her  snowy  shoulder 
One   shoulder   its  poor  efforts   had  un 

veil'd,  [tears ; 

Then  all  my  passions  mingling  fell  in 
Restless  then  ran  I  to  the  highest  ground 
To  watch  her  ;  she  was  gone  ;  gone  down 

the  tide  ; 


And  the  long  moonbeam   on  the  hard 

wet  sand 
Lay  like  a  jasper  column  half  up-rear'd." 
"But,   Tamar !   tell  rne,  will  she  not 

return  ?  " 
"She  will  return,  yet  not  before  the 

moon 
Again  is  at  the  full :  she  promised  this, 
Tho'   when  she  promised  I  could   not 

reply." 
"  By  all  the  Gods  I  pity  thee  !  go  on, 
Fear   not   my   anger,   look   not   on   my 

shame, 
For  when  a  lover  only  hears  of  love 
He  finds  his  folly  out,  and  is  ashamed. 
Away  with  watchful  nights  and  lonely 

days, 
Contempt  of  earth    and    aspect  up   to 

heaven, 
With  contemplation,  witli  humility, 
A  tatter'd  cloak  that  pride  wears  when 

deform'd, 
Away  with  all  that  hides  me  from  my- 
self, 
Parts   me   from   others,  whispers  I  am 

wise : 
From  our  own  wisdom  less  is  to  be  reapt 
Than  from  the  barest  folly  of  our  friend. 
Tamar  1   thy  pastures,  large   and  rich, 

afford 
Flowers  to  thy  bees  and  herbage  to  thy 

sheep, 
But,  battened  on  too  much,  the  poorest 

croft 
Of  thy  poor  neighbor  yields  what  thine 

denies." 
They  hasten'd  to  the  camp,  and  Gebir 

there 
Resolved  his  native  country  to  forego, 
And  order'd  from  those  ruins  to  the  right 
They   forthwith    raise   a   city.      Tamar 

heard  [told, 

With  wonder,  tho'  in  passing  'twas  half- 
His  brother's  love,  and  sigh'd  upon  his 

own.  1798.1 

ROSE  AYLMER 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 
Ah  what  the  form  divine  ! 

What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 
Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

1  The  exact  Jates  of  writing,  for  nearly  all  of 
Landor's  poems,  are  unknown  ;  and  the  same  is 
true  for  Browning,  and,  on  the  whole,  for  all  of 
the  following  poets.  From  this  point  on,  there- 
fore, the  poems  of  each  author  will  be  arranged 
chronologically  according  to  the  dates  of  publi- 
cation, and  the  dates  of  writing  (if  known)  will 
be  given  only  when  especially  important. 


LANDOK. 


429 


Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee.1  1806. 

REGENERATION  2 

We  are  what  suns  and  winds  and  waters 

make  us  ;  [the  rills 

The  mountains  are  our  sponsors,  and 
Fashion   and    win   their   nursling   with 

their  smiles. 
But  where  the  land  is  dim  from  tyranny, 
There  tiny  pleasures  occupy  the  place 
Of  glories  and  of  duties  :  as  the  feet 
Of  f;ibled  fairies  when  the  sun  goes  down 
Trip    o'er    the    grass    where    wrestlers 

strove  by  day.  [above, 

Then    Justice,    call'd    the  Eternal    One 
Is  more  inconstant  than  the  buoyant  form 
That  burst  into  existence  from  the  froth 
Of  ever-varying  ocean  :  what  is  best 
Then   becomes  worst  ;    what    loveliest, 

most  deformed. 
The  heart  is  hardest  in  the  softest  climes, 
The  passions  flourish,  the  affections  die. 
O  thou  vast  tablet  of  these  awful  truths, 
That  fillest  all  the  space  between  the  seas, 
Spreading  from  Venice's  deserted  courts 
To  the  Tarentine  and  Hydruntine  mole. 
What  lifts  thee  up  ?  what  shakes   thee  ? 

'tis  the  breath  [life  ! 

Of  God.  Awake,  ye  nations  !  spring  to 
Let  the  last  work  of  his  right  hand  appear 
Fresh    with     his    image,    Man.      Thou 

recreant  slave 
That  sittest  afar  off  and  helpest  not, 
O  thou  degenerate  Albion  !  3  with  what 

shame 

1  Rose  Aylmer,  the  daughter  of  Henry,  fourth 
Baron  Aylmer,  was  Landor's  companion  in  his 
walks  about  Swansea  ("  Abertawy"  )  in  Wales. 
She  went  to  India,  and  died  there  in  1800.  Lan- 
dor  speaks  of  her  again  in  two  poems  written 
late  in  life  :  The  Three  Roses,  1858,  (see  page 
457);  and  Abertawy,  1859,  the  concluding  lines  of 
which  almost  equal  in  beauty  this  early  lyric, 
usually  considered  the  most  beautiful  of  his 
poems  : 

Where  is  she  now  ?    Call'd  far  away, 
By  oni>  she  dure. I  not  disobey, 
To  those  proud  halls,  for  youth  unfit, 
Where  princes  stand  and  judges  sit. 
Where  Ganges  rolls  his  widest  wave 
She  dropped  her  blossom  in  the  grave  ; 
Her  noble  name  she  never  changed. 
Nor  was  her  nobler  heart  estranged. 

2  Inspired  by  the  struggle  of  the  Greek  people 
for  independence. 

3  "  What  those  amongst  us  who  are  affected  by 
a  sense  of  national  honor  most  lament,  is,  that 
England,  whose  generosity  would  cost  her  noth- 
ing and  whose  courage  would  be  unexposed  to 
fatality,  stands  aloof."  (Landor,  in  the  Dedica- 
tion of  Imaginary  Conversations,  1829.) 


Do  I    survey  thee,    pushing    forth    the 

sponge 
At  thy  spear's  length,  in  mockery  at  the 

thirst 
Of  holy  Freedom  in  his  agony. 
And    prompt   and   keen   to    pierce  the 

wounded  side  ! 
Must  Italy  then  wholly  rot  away 
Amid  her  slime,  before  she  germinate 
Into  fresh  vigor,  into  form  again  ? 
What   thunder   bursts  upon   mine  ear  ! 

some  isle 
Hath  surely  risen   from  the   gulfs  pro 

found, 
Eager    to  suck  the  sunshine    from  the 

breast 
Of  beauteous  Nature,   and  to  catch  the 

gale 
From  golden  Hermus  andMelena's  brow. 
A  greater  thing  than  isle,  than  continent, 
Than  earth  itself,  than    ocean    circling 

earth, 
Hath  risen  there  ;  regenerate  Man  hath 

risen. 
Generous  old  bard  of  Chios  !  not  that  Jove 
Deprived  thee  in  thy  latter  days  of  sight 
Would  I  complain,  but   that  no  higher 

theme 
Than  a  disdainful  youth,  a  lawless  king, 
A  pestilence,  a  pyre,  awoke  thy  song, 
When  on  the  Chian  coast,  one  javelin's 

throw 
From  where  thy  tombstone,  where  thy 

cradle,    stood, 
Twice  twenty  self-devoted  Greeks  as- 

sail'd 
The  naval  host  of  Asia,  at  one  blow 1 
Scattered  it  into  air  .  .  .  and   Greece 

was  free  .  .  . 
And  ere  these  glories  beam'd,  thy  day 

had  closed. 
Let  all  that  Elis  ever  saw,  give  way, 
All   that    Olympian    Jove    e'er    smiled 

upon  : 
The  Marathonian  columns  never  told 
A  tale  more  glorious,  never  Salamis, 
Nor,  faithful  in  the  centre  of  the  false, 
Platea,  nor  Anthela,  from  whose  mount 
Benignant  Ceres  wards  the  blessed  Laws, 
And  sees  the  Amphictyon  dip  his  weary 

foot 
In  the  warm  streamlet  of  the  strait  be- 
low. 
Goddess !    altho'  thy    brow   was  never 

rear'd  [sail'd 

Among  the  powers  that  guarded  or  as- 

1  Alluding  to  the  victory  of  Canaris  over  the 
Turkish  fleet.  Compare  the  poem  of  Victor 
Hugo  on  the  same  battle,  in  Les  Orientates. 


43° 


BRITISH  POETS 


Perfidious  Ilion,  parricidal  Thebes, 
Or  other  walls  whose  war-belt  e'er  in- 
closed 
Man's  congregated  crimes  and  vengeful 

pain. 
Yet   hast  thou  touched  the  extremes  of 

grief  aud  joy  ; 
Grief  upon  Enna's  mead  and  Hell's  as- 
cent, 
A  solitary  mother  ;  joy  beyond , 
Far  beyond,  that  thy  woe,  in  this  thy 

fane  : 
The  tears   were  human,   but  the  bliss 

divine. 
I,  in  the  land  of  strangers,  and  depressed 
With   sad  and   certain  presage  for  my 

own, 
Exult    at   hope's    fresh  dayspring,  tho' 

afar, 
There  where  my  youth  was  not  unexer- 
cised 
By  chiefs  in  willing  war  and   faithful 

song  : 
Shades  as   they    were,   they   were   not 

empty  shades, 
Whose  bodies  haunt  our  world  and  blear 

our  sun, 
Obstruction    worse    than     swamp    and 

shapeless  sands. 
Peace,  praise,  eternal  gladness,   to  the 

souls 
That,   rising   from    the    seas    into   the 

heavens, 
Have  ransom'd  first  their  country  with 

their  blood  ! 
O   thou   immortal    Spartan  !    at   whose 

name 
The  marble  table  sounds  beneath  my 

palms, 
Leonidas  !  even  thou  wilt  not  disdain 
To  mingle  names  august  as  these  with 

thine  ; 
Nor  thou,  twin-star  of  glory,  thou  whose 

rays 
Stream'd   over  Corinth  on    the  double 

sea; 
Achaian  and  Saronic  ;  whom  the  sons 
Of  Syracuse,  when  Death  removed  thy 

light, 
Wept  more  than  slavery  ever  made  them 

weep, 
But  shed  (if  gratitude  is  sweet)  sweet 

tears. 
The  hand  that  then   pour'd  ashes  o'er 

their  heads 
Was  loosen'd  from  its  desperate  chain 

by  thee. 
What  now  can  press  mankind  into  one 

mass, 


For  Tyranny  to  tread  the  more  secure  ? 
From  gold  alone  is   drawn   the  guilty 

wire  [tone 

That   Adulation   trills :   she  mocks  the 
Of  Duty,  Courage,  Virtue,  Piety, 
And  under  her  sits  Hope.     O  how  unlike 
That  graceful  form  in  azure  vestarray'd, 
With  brow  serene,  and  eyes  on  heaven 

alone 
In   patience   fixed,    in    fondness   unob- 

scured  ! 
What  monsters  coil  beneath  the  spread- 
ing tree 
Of    Despotism  !     what    wastes     extend 

around  ! 
What  poison  floats    upon  the    distant 

breeze  ! 
But  who  are  those  that  cull  and  deal  its 

fruit? 
Creatures  that  shun  the  light  and  fear 

the  shade, 
Bloated    and    fierce,  Sleep's    mien  and 

Famine's  cry. 
Rise  up  again,  rise  in  thy  dignity, 
Dejected    Man  !    and  scare  this   brood 

away.  1824. 

CHILD  OF  A  DAY,  THOU  KNOWEST 
NOT 

Child  of  a  day,  thou  knowest  not 

The  tears  that  overflow  thine  urn, 
The  gushing  eyes  that  read  thy  lot, 

Nor,  if  thou  knewest,  couldst  return  ! 
And  why  the  wish  !  the  pure  and  blessed 

Watch  like  thy  mother  o'er  thy  sleep. 
O  peaceful  night !     O  envied  rest  I 

Thou  wilt  not  ever  see  her  weep. 

1831. 

LYRICS,  TO   IANTHE 

Away  my  verse  ;  and  never  fear, 

As  men  before  such  beauty  do  ; 
On  you  she  will  not  look  severe. 

She  will  not  turn  her  eyes  from  you. 
Some  happier  graces  could  I  lend 

That  in  her  memory  you  should  live. 
Some  little  blemishes  might  blend, 

For  it  would  please  her  to  forgive. 


When  Helen  first  saw    wrinkles  in  her 

face 
(Twas  when  some  fifty  long  had  settled 

there 
And    intermarried    and    branched    off 

a  wide) 


LANDOR 


43i 


She  threw  herself  upon  her  couch  and 

wept : 
On  this  side   hung   her  head,  and  over 

that 
Listlessly  she  let  fall  the  faithless  brass 
That  made  the  men  as  faithless. 

But  when  you 
Found  them,  or  fancied  them,  and  would 

not  hear 
That  they  were  only  vestiges  of  smiles, 
Or  the  impression  of  some  amorous  hair 
Astray  from  cloistered  curls  and  roseate 

band,  [perhaps 

Which  had  been  lying  there  all  night 
Upon  a  skin  so  soft,  "  No,  no,"  you  said, 
"  Sure,  they  are  coming,  yes,  are  come, 

are  here : 
Well,  and  what  matters  it,  while  thou 

art  too ! " 


Ianthe !  you  are  call'd  to  cross  the  sea  ! 

A  path  forbidden  me! 
Remember,  while  the  Sun  Ins  blessing 
sheds 
Upon  the  mountain-heads, 
How  often  we  have  watched  him  laying 
down 
His  brow,  and  dropped  our  own 
Against  each  other's,  and  how  faint  and 
short 
And  sliding  the  support ! 
What   will    succeed    it    now  ?    Mine  is 
unblessed, 
Ianthe!  nor  will  rest 
But  on  the  very  thought  that  swells  with 
pain. 
O  bid  me  hope  again  ! 
O  give  me  back  what  Earth,  what  (with- 
out you) 
Not  Heaven  itself  can  do, 
One  of  the  golden   days  that  we  have 
past  ; 
And  let  it  be  my  last ! 
Or  else  the  gift  would  be,  however  sweet, 
Fragile  and  incomplete. 


I  held  her  hand,  the  pledge  of  bliss, 
Her   hand    that   trembled   and    with- 
drew ; 

She  bent  her  head  before  my  kiss  .  . 
My  heart  was  sure  that  hers  was  true. 

Now  I  have  told  her  I  must  part, 
She  shakes  my  hand,  she  bids  adieu, 

Nor  shuns'the  kiss.     Alas,  my  heart ! 
Hers  never  was  the  heart  for  you. 


Pleasure  !  why  thus  desert  the  heart 

In  its  spring-tide  ? 
I  could  have  seen  her,  I  could  part, 

And  but  have  sigh'd  ! 

O'er  every  youthful  charm  to  stray, 

To  gaze,  to  touch  .  . 
Pleasure  !  why  take  so  much  away, 

Or  give  so  much  ! 


Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet 
The  odor  of  the  falling  spray  ; 

Life  passes  on  more  rudely  fleet, 
And  balmless  is  its  closing  day. 

I  wait  its  close,  I  court  its  gloom, 

But  mourn  that  never  must  there  fall 

Or  on  my  breast  or  on  my  tomb 
The  tear  that  would  have  sooth'd  it  all 


Past  ruin'd  Ilion  Helen  lives, 
Alcestis  rises  from  the  shades  ; 

Verse  calls  them  forth ;  'tis  verse  th^ 
gives 
Immortal  youth  to  mortal  maids. 

Soon  shall  Oblivion's  deepening  veil 
Hide  all  the  peopled  hills  you  see, 

The  gay,  the  proud,  while  lovers  hail 
These  many  summers  you  and  me. 

1831. 

FIESOLAN  IDYL 

Here,  where  precipitate  Spring,  with 
one  light  bound 

Into  hot  Summer's  lusty  arms,  expires, 

And  where  go  forth  at  morn,  at  eve,  at 
night,. 

Soft  airs  that  want  the  lute  to  play  with 
'em, 

And  softer  sighs  that  know  not  what 
they  want, 

Aside  a  wall,  beneath  an  orange-tree, 

Whose  tallest  flowers  could  tell  the  low- 
lier ones 

Of  sights  in  Fiesole  right  up  above, 

While  I  was  gazing  a  few  paces  off 

At  what  they  seem'd  to  show  me  with 
their  nods, 

Their  frequent  whispers  and  their  point- 
ing shoots, 

A  gentle  maid  came  down  the  garden- 
steps  [lap. 

And  gathered  the  pure  treasure  in  her 


43  2 


BRITISH   POETS 


1  heard  the  branches  rustle,  and  stepped 

forth 
To  drive  t lie  ox  away,  or  mule  or  goat. 
Such  I  believed  it  must  be.     How  could  I 
Let  beast  o'erpower  them  ?    When  hath 

wind  or  rain 
Borne  hard  upon  weak  plant  that  wanted 

me, 
And  I     (however    they    might    bluster 

round) 
Walked  off?    Twere  most  ungrateful: 

for  sweet  scents 
Are  the  swift  vehicles  of  still  sweeter 

thoughts, 
And  nurse  and  pillow  the  dull  memory 
That  would  let  drop  without  them  her 

best  stores. 
They  bring  me  tales  of  youth  and  tones 

of  love. 
And  'tis  and  ever  was  my  wish  and  way 
To  let  all  flowers  live  freely,  and  all  die 
( Whene'er  their  Genius  bids  their  souls 

depart) 
Among   their   kindred    in   their   native 

place. 
I  never  pluck  the  rose  ;  the  violet's  head 
Hath  shaken  with   my  breath  upon  its 

bank 
And  not  reproached  me  :  the  ever-sacred 

cup 
Of  the  pure  lily  hath  between  my  hands 
Felt  safe,  unsoil'd,  nor   lost  one  grain  of 

gold. 
I  saw  the   light   that   made   the   glossy 

leaves 
More  glossy ;   the   fair   arm,   the   fairer 

cheek 
Warmed  by  the  eye  intent  on  its  pursuit ; 
I  saw  the  foot  that,  altho'  half-erect 
From  its  gray  slipper,  could  not  lift  her 

up 
To  what  she  wanted :   I   held  down  a 

brancli 
And  gather'd  her  some  blossoms  ;  since 

their  hour 
Was  come,  and  bees  had  wounded  them, 

and  flies 
Of  harder  wing  were  working  their  way 

thro' 
And  scattering  them  in  fragments  under- 
foot. 
So    crisp    were  some,  they  rattled  un- 

evolved, 
Others,  ere  broken  off,  fell  into  shells, 
For  such   appear  the  petals  when   de- 
tached 
Unbending,    brittle,     lucid,    white   like 

snow,  [sun  : 

And  like  snow  not  seen  thro',  by  eye  or 


Yet  every  one  her  gown  received  from 

me 
Was  fairer  than  the  first.     I  thought  not 

so, 
But  so  she  praised  them  to  reward  my 

care. 
I  said,  "  You  find  the  largest." 

"  This  indeed," 
Cried  she,  "  is  large  and  sweet."    She 

held  one  forth, 
Whether  for  me  to  look  at  or  to  take 
She  knew  not,  nor  did  I ;  but  taking  it 
Would  best  have  solved  (and   this  she 

felt)  her  doubt. 
I  dared  not  touch  it ;   for  it  seemed   a 

part 
Of  her  own  self  ;    fresh,    full,    the   most 

mature 
Of  blossoms,  yet  a  blossom  ;  with  a  touch 
To  fall,  andyet  unfallen.     She  drew  back 
The  boon  she  tender'd,  and  then,  finding 

not 
The  ribbon  at  her  waist  to  fix  it  in, 
Dropped  it,  as  loth  to  drop  it,  on  the  rest. 

1831. 

FOR  AN  EPITAPH  AT  FIESOLE 

Lo  !  where  the  four  mimosas  blend  their 

shade 
In  calm  repose  at  last  is  Landor  laid, 
For  ere  he  slept   he   saw   them   planted 

here 
By  her  his  soul  had  ever  held  most  dear, 
And  he  had  lived  enough  when  he  had 

dried  her  tear.  1831, 

UPON  A  SWEET-BRIAR 

My  briar  that  smelledst  sweet 
When  gentle  spring's  first  heat 

Ran  through  thy  quiet  veins, — 
Thou  that  wouldst  injure  none, 
But  wouldst  be  left  alone, 
Alone  thou  leavest  me,  and  nought  of 
thine  remains. 

What !  hath  no  poet's  lyre 

O'er  thee,  sweet-breathing  briar, 

Hung  fondly,  ill  or  well  ? 
And  yet  methinks  with  thee 
A  poet's  sympathy, 
Whether  in  weal  or  woe,  in  life  or  death, 
might  dwell. 

Hard  usage  both  must  bear, 
Few  hands  your  youth  will  rear, 

Few  bosoms  cherish  you; 
Your  tender  prime  must  bleed 


LANDOR 


433 


Ere  you  are  sweet,  but  freed 
From   life,   you  then  are  prized ;  thus 
prized  are  poets  too. 


And  art  thou  yet  alive  ? 
And  shall  the  happy  hive 

Send  out  her  youth  to  cull 
Thy  sweets  of  leaf  and  flower, 
And  spend  the  sunny  hour 
With   thee,  and   thy    faint   heart   with 
murmuring  music  lull  ? 

Tell  me  what  tender  care, 
Tell  me  what  pious  prayer, 
Bade  thee  arise  and  live. 
The  fondest-favored  bee 
Shall  whisper  nought  to  thee 
Move  loving  than  the  song  my  grateful 
muse  shall  give. 

1834.1 

THE   MAID'S   LAMENT 

I  LOVED  him  not ;  and  yet  now  he  is  gone 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 
I  check'd  him  while  bespoke  ;  yet  could 
he  speak, 
Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons   not    to    love  him  once  I 
sought, 
And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him :  I  now  would 
give 
My  love,  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he 
found 
Twas  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his   face    amid    the  shades  of 
death. 
I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me :   but  mine  re- 
turns, 
And  this  lorn  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft   heart : 
for  years 
Wept  he  as  bitter  tears. 
Merciful    God!   such     was    his    latest 
prayer, 
These  may  she  never  share. 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast   more 
cold, 
Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where     children     spell,     athwart     the 
churchyard  gate, 

1  This  and  the  following  poem  are  from  the 
Citation  of  William  Shakespeare. 

28 


His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  you 
be, 
And  oh  1  pray  too  for  me. 

1834. 

THE     SHADES     OF     AGAMEMNON 
AND  IPHIGENEIA  * 

Iphigeneia.     Father  !   I  now  may  lean 

upon  your  breast, 
And  you  with  un reverted  eyes  will  grasp 
Iphigeneia's  hand. 

We  are  not  shades 
Surely  !  for  yours  throb  yet. 

And  did  my  blood 
Win  Troy  for  Greece  ? 

Ah  !  'twas  ill  done,  to  shrink  ; 
But  the  sword  gleam'd  so  sharp  ;  and  the 

good  priest 
Trembled,   and  Pallas    frown'd    above, 

severe. 
Agamemnon.     Daughter! 
Iphigeneia.     Beloved   father !    is  the 

blade 
Again  to  pierce  my  bosom  ?  'tis  unfit 
For  sacrifice  ;  no  blood  is  in  its  veins, 
No  God  requires  it  here :  here   are  no 

wrongs 
To  vindicate,  no  realms  to  overthrow. 
You  standing  as  at  Aulis  in  the  fane, 
With  face  averted,  holding  (as  before) 
My  hand  ;  but  yours  burns  not,  as  then 

it  burn'd. 
This  alone  shows  me  we  are  with  the 

Blessed, 
Nor  subject  to  the  sufferings  we   have 

borne.- 
I  will  win  back  past  kindness. 

Tell  me  then. 
Tell  how  my  mother  fares  who  loved  me 

so, 
And  griev'd,  as  'twere  for  you,  to  see  me 

part. 
Frown  not,  but  pardon  me  for  tarrying 
Amid  too  idle  words,  nor  asking  how 
She  prais'd  us  both  (which  most?)   for 

what  we  did. 
Agamemnon.    Ye  Gods  who    govern 

here  !  do  human  pangs 
Reach  the  pure  soul  thus  far  below  ?  do 

tears 
Spring  in  these  meadows? 

1  "I  imagine  Agamemnon  to  descend  from  his 
horrible  death,  and  to  meet  instantly  his  daugh- 
ter. By  the  nature  of  things,  by  the  suddenness 
of  the  event,  Iphigeneia  can  have  heard  nothing 
of  her  mother's  double  crime,  adultery  and 
murder."  Aspasia  to  Cleone,  introducing  the 
poem  as  first  given  iu  Pericles  and  Aspasia,  1836 


434 


BRITISH    POETS 


Iphigeneia.       No,  sweet  father,  no  .  . 
I  could  have   answered  that  ;  why  ask 

the  Gods  ? 
Agamemnon.      Iphigeneia!      O      my 

child  !  the  Earth 
Has  gendered  crimes  unheard  of  hereto- 
fore, 
And  Nature  may  have  changed  in  her 

last  depths, 
Together   with   the   Gods  and  all  their 

laws. 
Iphigeneia.     Father!  we  must  not  let 

you  here  condemn  ; 
Not,  were  the  day  less  joyful :   recollect 
We   have  no  wicked  here;   no  king  to 

judge. 
Poseidon,    we  have  heard,  with  bitter 

rage 
Lashes  his  foaming  steeds  against  the 

skies, 
And,  laughing  with  loud  yell  at  winged 

fire, 
Innoxious  to  his  fields  and  palaces 
Affrights  the  eagle   from  the  sceptred 

hand  ; 
While   Pluto,   gentlest  brother  of    the 

three 
And  happiest  in  obedience,  views  sedate 
His  tranquil   realm,   nor  envies   theirs 

above. 
No  change  have  we,  not  even  day  for 

night 
Nor  spring  for  summer. 

All  things  are  serene, 
Serene  too  be  your  spirit  !    None  on  earth 
Ever  was  half  so  kindly  in  his  house, 
And  so  compliant,  even  to  a  child. 
Never  was  snatch'd  your  robe  away  from 

me,  [man 

Though  going  to  the  council.     The  blind 
Knew  his   good  king  was  leading  him 

indoors, 
Before  he  heard  the  voice  that  marshal'd 

Greece. 
Therefore  all  prais'd  you. 

Proudest  men  themselves 
In  others  praise  humility,  and  most 
Admire  it  in  the  sceptre  and  the  sword. 
What  then  can  make  you  speak  thus 

rapidly 
And  briefly  ?  in  your  step  thus  hesitate  ? 
Are  you  afraid  to  meet  among  the  good 
Incestuous  Helen  here  ? 

Agamemnon.  O  !  gods  of  hell  ! 

Iphigeneia.     She  hath    not   past    the 

river. 

We  may  walk 
With   our    hands   link'd    nor    feel    our 

house's  shame. 


Agamemnon.     Never  mayst  thou,  Iphi- 
geneia, feel  it ! 

Aulis  had  no  sharp  sword,  thou  wouldst 
exclaim, 

Greece  no  avenger — I,  her  chief  so  late, 

Through     Erebos,      through     Elysium, 
writhe  beneath  it. 
Iphigeneia.     Come,  I  have  better  dia- 
dems than  those 

Of  Argos  and  Mycenai :  come  away, 

And  I  will  weave  them  for  you  on  the 
bank. 

You  will  not  look  so  pale  when  you  have 
walk'd 

A  little  in  the  grove,  and  have  told  all 

Those  sweet  fond  words  the  widow  sent 
her  child. 
Agamemnon.      O    Earth !    I    suffered 
less  upon  thy  shores  ! 

(Aside.)     The   bath   that  bubbled  with 
my  blood,  the  blows 

That  spilt  it  (O  worse   torture  !)  must 
she  know? 

Ah !  the  first  woman  coming  from  My- 
cenai 

Will  pine  to  pour  this  poison  in  her  ear, 

Taunting  sad  Charon  for  his  slow  ad- 
vance. 

Iphigeneia ! 
Iphigeneia.     Why  thus  turn  away  ? 

Calling  me  with  such  fondness !     I  am 
here, 

Father  !  and  where  you  are,  will  ever  be. 
Agamemnon.  Thou  art  my  child  ;  yes, 
yes,  thou  art  my  child. 

All  was  not  once  what  all  now  is  !   Come 
on, 

Idol  of  love  and  truth  !    my  child  !    my 
child  ! 
(Alone. )     Fell    woman !     ever    false  ! 
false  was  thy  last 

Denunciation ,  as  thy  bridal  vow  ; 

And  yet  even  that  found  faith  with  me  ! 
The  dirk 

Which  sever'd  flesh  from  flesh,  where 
this  hand  rests, 

Severs   not,   as  thou    boastedst    in  thy 
scoffs, 

Iphigeneia's  love  from  Agamemnon  : 

The  wife's  a  spark  may  light,  a  straw 
consume, 

The   daughter's  not   her  heart's   whole 
fount  hath  quench'd, 

'Tis  worthjr   of   the  Gods,  and  lives  for 
ever. 
Iphigeneia.     What   spake    my   father 
to  the  Gods  above  ? 

Unworthy  am  I  then  to  join  in  prayer  ? 

If,  on  the  last,  or  any  day  before, 


LANDOR 


435 


Of  my  brief  course  on  earth,  I  did  amiss, 
Say  it  at  once,  and  let  me  be  unblessed  ; 
But,  O  my  faultless  father  !  why  should 

you? 
And  shun  so  my  embraces  ? 

Am  I  wild 
And  wandering  in  my  fondness  ? 

We  are  shades  ! 
Groan  not  thus  deeply  ;  blight  not  thus 

the  season 
Of  f  ull-orb'd  gladness  !     Shades  we  are 

indeed, 
But  mingled,   let   us  feel  it,  with  the 

blessed. 
I  knew  it,  but  forgot  it  suddenly, 
Altho'  I  felt  it  all  at  your  approach. 
Look  on   me ;    smile   with    me    at    my 

illusion. 
You  are  so  like  what  you  have  ever  been 
(Except  in  sorrow  !)  I  might  well  forget 
I  could  not  win  you  as  I  used  to  do. 
It   was  the  first  embrace  since  my  de- 
scent 
I  ever  aim'd  at :  those  who  love  me  live, 
Save  one,  who  loves  me  most,  and  now 

would  chide  me. 
Agamemnon.    We  want  not,  O  Iphi- 

geneia,  we 
Want  not  embrace,  nor  kiss  that  cools 

the  heart  [more 

With  purity,  nor  words  that  more  and 
Teach  what   we   know,    from   those  we 

know,  and  sink 
Often  most  deeply  where  they  fall  most 

light. 
Time  was  when  for  the  faintest  breath 

of  thine 
Kingdom  and  life  were  little, 

Iphigeneia.  Value  them 

As  little  now. 
Agamemnon.     Were  life  and  kingdom 

all  ! 
Iphigeneia.     Ah  !  by  our  death  many 

are  sad  who  loved  vis. 
The  little  fond  Electra,  and  Orestes 
So  childish   and  so  bold  !     O  that  mad 

boy! 
They  will  be  happy  too. 

Cheer  !  king  of  men  ! 
Cheer  !  there  are  voices,  songs — Cheer  ! 

arms  advance. 
Agamemnon.     Come    to   me,   soul  of 

peace  !     These,  these  alone, 
These  are  not  false  embraces. 
Iphigeneia.  Both  are  happy  ! 

Agamemnon.  Freshness    breathes 

round  me  from  some  breeze  above. 
What  are  ye,  winged  ones  !  with  golden 

urns  ? 


The  Hours 

{Descending.)  To  each  an  urn  we  bring  : 
Earth's  purest  gold 
Alone  can  hold 
The  lymph  of  the  Lethean  spring. 
We,  son  of  At  re  us  !  we  divide 
The  dulcet  from  the  bitter  tide 
That   runs   athwart  the  paths  of 
men. 
No  more  our  pinions  shalt  thou  see. 
Take  comfort !     We  have  done  with 
thee, 
And  must  away  to  earth  again. 
{Ascending.)    Where  thou  art.  thou 

Of  braided  brow, 
Thou  cull'd  too  soon  from  Ai'give  bowers, 
Where  thy  sweet  voice  is  heard  among 
The  shades  that  thrill  with  choral  song, 
None  can  regret  the  parted  Hours. 

{As  the  Hours  depart,  the  shades  of  the  Argive 
warriors  icho  had  fought  at  Troy  approach  and 
chant  in  chorus  the  praises  of  Agamemnon  and 
his  daughter.) 

Chorus  of  Argives 

Maiden  !  be  thou  the  spirit  that  breathes 
Triumph  and  joy  into  our  song  ! 

Wear      and    bestow    these    amaranth- 
wreaths, 
Iphigeneia — they  belong 

To  none  but  thee  and  her  who  reigns 

(Less  chanted)  on  our  bosky  plains. 

Semi-chorus 

Iphigeneia  !  'tis  to  thee 

Glory  we  owe  and  victory. 

Clash,   men  of  Argos,    clash    your 

arms, 
To  martial  worth  and  virgin  charms. 

Other  Semi-chorus 

Ye  men  of  Argos  !  it  was  sweet 
To  roll  the  fruits  of  conquest  at  the  feet 
Whose  whispering  sound  made  bravest 
hearts  beat  fast. 
This  we  have  known  at  home  ; 
But  hither  we  are  come 
To  crown  the  king  who  ruled  us  first 
and  last. 

Chorus 

Father  of  Argos  !  king  of  men  I 
We  chant  the  hymn  of  praise  to 

thee. 
In  serried  ranks  we  stand  again. 

Our  glory  safe,  our  country  free. 


43  6 


BRITISH   POETS 


Clash,  clash   the   arms  we   bravely 

bore 
Against  Scamander's  God-defended 

shore. 

Semi-chorus 

Blessed  art  thou  who  hast  repell'd 
Battle's  wild  fury,  Ocean's    whelming 
foam  ; 
Blessed  o'er  all,  to  have  beheld 
Wife,    children,    house     avenged,    and 
peaceful  home  ! 

Other  Semi-chorus 

We,  too,  thou  seest,  are  now 
Among   the    happy,    though    the 
aged  brow 
From  sorrow  for  us  we  could  not 
protect, 
Nor,  on  the  polished  granite  of  the 

well 
Folding  our  arms,  of  spoils   and 
perils  tell, 
Nor  lift  the  vase  on  the  lov'd  head 
erect. 

Semi-chorus 

What  whirling  wheels  are  those 

behind  ? 
What  plumes  come  flaring  through 
the  wind, 
Nearer  and  nearer?    From  his 
car 
He   who    defied    the    heaven-born 
Powers  of  war 
Pelides  springs  !     Dust,  dust  are  we 
To  him,  O  king,  who   bends  the   knee, 
Proud  only  to  be  first  in  reverent  praise 
of  thee. 

Other  Semi-Chorus 

Clash,  clash  the  arms  !    None  other  race 
Shall  see  such  heroes  face  to  face. 
We  too  have  fought ;  and  they  have  seen 
Nor  sea-sand  gray  nor  meadow  green 
Where    Dardans     stood    against   their 

men. 
Clash  !     Io  Paean  !    clash  again  ! 
Repinings  for  lost  days  repress. 
The  flames  of  Troy  had  cheer'd  us  less. 

Chorus 

Hark  !  from  afar  more  war-steeds  neigh, 
Thousands  o'er  thousands  rush  this  way. 
Ajax  is  yonder  !  ay,  behold 
The  radiant  arms  of  Lycian  gold  1 
Arms  from  admiring  valor  won, 


Tydeus  !  and  worthy  of  thy  son. 
'Tis  Ajax  wears  them  now  ;  for  he 
Rules  over  Adria's  stormy  sea. 

He  threw  them  to  the  friend  who  lost 
(By  the  dim  judgment  of  the  host) 
Those  wet  with  tears  whicli  Thetis  gave 
The  youth  most  beauteous  of  the  brave. 
In  vain  !  the  insatiate  soul  would  go 
For  comfort  to  his  peers  below. 
Clash  !  ere  we  leave  them  all  the  plain, 
Clash  1  Io  Paean!  once  again.1       1836. 

THE  DEATH  OF  ARTEMIDORA2 

*'  Artemidora  !    Gods  invisible, 

While  thou  art  lying  faint  along  the 

couch, 
Have  tied  the  sandal  to  thy  slender  feet 
And  stand  beside  thee,  ready  to  convey 
Thy  weary  steps  where  other  rivers  flow. 
Refreshing  shades  will  w^aft  thy  weari- 
ness 
A  way,  and  voices  like  thy  own  come  near 
And  nearer,  and  solicit  an  embrace.'' 
Artemidora  sigh'd,    and  would   have 

pressed 
The  hand  now  pressing  hers,  but  was  too 

weak. 
Iris  stood  over  her  dark  hair  unseen 
While  thus  El penor  spake.  He  looked  into 
Eyes  that  had  given  light  and  life  ere- 

while 
To  those  above  them,  but  now  dim  with 

tears 
And  wakefulness.  Again  he  spake  of  joy 
Eternal.    At  that  word,  that  sad   word, 

joy, 
Faithful  and  fond  her  bosom  heav'd  once 

more  : 
Her  head  fell  back  ;  and  now  a  loud  deep 

sob 
Swell'd    thro'  the    darken'd    chamber  ; 

'twas  not  hers.  1836. 

CORINNA  TO  TAN  AGRA,  FROM 
ATHENS 

Tanagra  !  think  not  I  forget 
Thy  beautifully  storied  streets  ; 

Be  sure  my  memory  bathes  yet 

In  clear  Thermodon,  and  yet  greets 

The  blithe  and  liberal  shepherd-boy, 

1  See  Landor's  own  comment  on  this  peem,  p. 
440. 

2  1836,  in  Pericles  and  Aspasia.  Slightly  altered 
and  included  in  the  Hellenics,  1846,  etc.,  from 
which  the  present  text  is  taken.  See  Colvin'a 
comment  on  the  poem,  in  his  Life  of  Landort 
pp.  193-4. 


LAN DOR 


437 


Whose  sunny  bosom  swells  with  joy 
When  we  accept  his  matted  rushes 
Upheav'd    with  sylvan  fruit ;  away  he 
bounds,  and  blushes. 

A  gift  I  promise  :  one  I  see 
Which  thou  with  transport  wilt  re- 
ceive, 
The  only  proper  gift  for  thee. 

Of  which  no  mortal  shall  bereave 
In  later  times  thy  mouldering  walls, 
Until  the  last  old  turret  falls  ; 
A  crown,  a  crown  from  Athens  won, 
A  crown  no  God  can  wear,  beside  La- 
tona's  son. 

There  may  be  cities  who  refuse 

To  their  own  child  the  honors  due, 
And  look  ungently  on  the  Muse  ; 

But  ever  shall  those  cities  rue 
The  dry,  unyielding,  niggard  breast, 
Offering  no  nourishment,  no  rest, 
To  that  young  head  which  soon  shall 
rise 
Disdainfully,  in  might  and  glory,  to  the 
skies. 

Sweetly  where  cavern'd  Dirce  flows 
Do  white-arm'd  maidens  chant  my 
lay. 
Flapping  the  while  with  laurel-rose 
The  honey-gathering  tribes  away  : 
And  sweetly,  sweetly  Attic  tongues 
Lisp  your  Corinna's  early  songs  ; 
To  her  witli  feet  more  graceful  come 
The  verses  that  have  dwelt  in  kindred 
breasts  at  home. 

O  let  thy  children  lean  aslant 

Against  the  tender  mother's  knee, 
And  gaze  into  her  face,  and  want 

To  know  what  magic  there  can  be 
In  words  that  urge  some  eyes  to  dance, 
While  others  as  in  holy  trance 
Look  up  to  heaven  :  be  such  my  praise  ! 
Why  linger?     I  must  haste,  or  lose  the 
Delphic  bays.  1836. 

SAPPHO  TO  HESPERUS 

I  have  beln 'Id  thee  in  the  morning  hour 
A  solitary  star,  with  thankless  eyes, 
Ungrateful  as  I  am  !   who  bade  thee  rise 
When  sleep  all  night  had  wandered  from 
my  bower. 

Can  it  be  true  that  thou  art  he 
Who  shines  now  above  the  sea 
Amid  a  thousand,  but  more  bright? 


Ah  yes  !  the  very  same  art  thou 
That  heard  me  then  and  hearestnow  .  .  . 
Thou  seemest,  star  of  love  !  to  throb  with 
light.  1836. 

LITTLE  AGLAE 

TO  HER  FATHER,    ON   HER    STATUE    BEING 
CALLED   LIKE  HER 

Father  !  the  little  girl  we  see 

Is  not,  I  fancy,  so  like  me  ; 

You  never  hold  her  on  your  knee. 

When  she  came  home,  the  other  day, 
You  kiss'd  her  ;  but  I  cannot  say 
She  kiss'd  you  first  and  ran  away. 

1836. 

DIRCE 

Stand  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set, 
With  Dirce  in  one  boat  conveyed, 

Or  Charon,  seeing,  may  forget 

That  he  is  old,  and  she  a  shade. 

1836. 

CLEONE  TO   ASPASIA 

We  mind  not  how  the  sun  in  the  mid- 
sky 
Is  hastening  on  ;   but  when  the  golden 

orb 
Strikes  the  extreme  of  earth,  and  when 

the  gulfs 
Of  air  and  ocean  open  to  receive  him, 
Dampness  and  gloom  invade  vis  ;   then 

we  think 
Ah  !    thus  is  it  with  Youth.    Too  fast  his 

feet 
Run  on  for  sight ;  hour   follows   hour ; 

fair  maid 
Succeeds  fair  maid  ;   bright  eyes  bestar 

his  couch  ; 
The  cheerful   horn   awakens   him ;   the 

feast, 
The  revel,  the  entangling  dance,  allure, 
And  voices   mellower   than   the   Muse's 

own 
Heave  up  his  buoyant  bosom  on  their 

wave. 
A   little   while,   and   then — Ah  Youth  ! 

Youth!   Youth! 
Listen  not  to  my  words — but  stay  with 

me  ! 
When  thou  art  gone,  Life  may  go  too; 

the  sigh 
That  rises  is  for  thee,  and  not  for  Life. 

1836. 


45  » 


BRITISH   POETS 


OX   LUCRETIA   BORGIA'S  HAIR 

Borgia,    thou    once    wert    almost    too 

august 
And    higli   for   adoration ;    now  thou'rt 

dust : 
All  that   remains  of  thee   these  plaits 

unfold, 
Calm  hair  meandering  in  pellucid  gold. 

1837. 

TO  WORDSWORTH 

Those  who  have  laid  the  harp  aside 

And  turn'd  to  idler  things, 
From  very  restlessness  have  tried 

The  loose  and  dusty  strings, 
And,  catching  back  some  favorite  strain, 
Run  with  it  o'er  the  chords  again. 

But  Memory  is  not  a  Muse, 
O  Wordsworth  !  though  'tis  said 

They  all  descend  from  her,  and  use 
To  haunt  her  fountain-head  : 

That  other  men  should  work  for  me 

In  the  rich  mines  of  Poesie, 

Pleases  me  better  than  the  toil 

Of  smoothing  under  hardened  hand. 

With  attic  emery  and  oil. 
The  shining  point  for  Wisdom's  wand, 

Like  those  thou  temperest  'mid  the  rills 

Descending  from  thy  native  hills. 

Without  his  governance,  in  vain, 
Manhood  is  strong,  and  Youth  is  bold. 

If  oftentimes  the  o'er-piled  strain, 

Clogs  in  the  furnace  and  grows  cold 
Beneath  his  pinions  deep  and  frore, 
And  swells  and    melts    and    flows    no 

more, 
That  is  because  the  heat  beneath 
Pants  in  its  cavern  poorly  fed. 
Life    springs    not    from    the   couch   of 
Death, 
Nor  Muse  nor  Grace    can    raise  the 
dead  ; 
TJntnrn'd  then  let  the  mass  remain, 
Intractable  to  sun  or  rain. 

A  marsh,  where  only  flat  leaves  lie, 
And  showing  but  the  broken  sky, 
Too  surely  is  the  sweetest  lay 
That  wins  the  ear  and  wastes  the  day, 
Where  youthful  Fancy  pouts  alone 
And  lets  not  Wisdom  touch  her  zone. 

He  who  would  build  his  fame  up  high, 
The  rule  and  plummet  must  apply. 
Nor  say,  "  I'll  do  what  I  have  plann'd," 


Before  he  try  if  loam  or  sand 
Be  still  remaining  in  the  place 
Delved  for  each  polished  pillar's  base. 
With  skilful  eye  and  fit  device 
Thou  raisest  every  edifice, 
Whether  in  sheltered  vale  it  stand, 
Or  overlook  the  Dardan  strand, 
Amid  the  cypresses  that  mourn 
Laodameia's  love  forlorn. 

We  both  have  run  o'er  half  the  space 

Listed  for  mortal's  earthly  race  ; 

We  both  have  crossed  life's  fervid  line, 

And  other  stars  before  us  shine  : 

May  they  be  bright  and  prosperous 

As  those  that  have  been  stars  for  us  ! 

Our  course  by  Milton's  light  was  sped, 

And  Shakespeare  shining  overhead  : 

Chatting  on  deck  was  Dryden  too, 

The  Bacon  of  the  rhyming  crew  ; 

None  ever  cross'd  our  mystic  sea 

More  richly  stored  with  thought  than  he; 

Tho'  never  tender  nor  sublime, 

He  wrestles  with  and  conquers  Time. 

To  learn  my  lore  on  Chaucer's  knee, 

I  left  much  prouder  company  ; 

Thee  gentle  Spenser  fondly  led, 

But  me  he  mostly  sent  to  bed. 

I  wish  them  every  joy  above 
That  highly  blessed  spirits  prove, 
Save  one  :  and  that  too  shall  be  theirs, 
But  after  many  rolling  years, 
When  'mid  their  light  thy  light  appears. 
1833.     1837. 

TO  JOSEPH  ABLETT 

Lord  of  the  Celtic  dells, 
Where    Clwyd   listens   as   his   minstrel 

tells 
Of  Arthur,  or  Pendragon,  or  perchance 

The  plumes  of  flashy  France, 
Or,  in  dark  region  far   across  the  main, 
Far  as  Grenada  in  the  world  of  Spain, 

Warriors  untold  to  Saxon  ear, 
Until  their  steel-clad  spirits  reappear  ; 
How  happy  were  the  hours  that  held 
Thy  friend  (long  absent  from  his  native 

home) 
Amid  thy  scenes  with  thee !  how  wide 
afield 
From  all  past  cares  and  all  to  come  ! 

What  hath  Ambition's  feverish  grasp, 
what  hath 
Inconstant  Fortune,  panting  Hope  ; 
What  Genius,  that  should  cope 


LANDOR 


439 


With  the  heart-whispers  in  that  path 
Winding  so  idly,  where  the  idler  stream 
Flings    at    the     white-haired     poplars 
gleam  for  gleam  ? 

Ablett  !  of  all  the  days 
My  sixty  summers  ever  knew, 
Pleasant  as  there  have  been  no  few, 

Memory  not  one  surveys 
Like  those  we  spent  together.     Wisely 

spent 
Are  they  alone  that  leave   the  soul  con- 
tent. 

Together  we  have  visited  the  men 
Whom    Pictish   pirates  vainly  would 
have  drowned  ; 
Ah,  shall  we  ever  clasp  the  hand  again 
That  gave  the  British  harp  its  truest 
sound  ? 
Live,    Derwent's   guest  !    and    thou   by 

Grasmere's  springs  ! 
Serene  creators  of  immortal  things.1 

And  live  too  thou  for  happier  days 
Whom  Dryden's  force  and  Spenser's  fays 

Have  heart  and  soul  possess'd  :  2 
Growl  in  Grim  London  lie  who  will, 
Revisit  thou  Maiano's  hill, 

And  swell   with    pride  his  sunburnt 
breast. 

Old  Redi  in  his  easy-chair 

With  varied  chant  awaits  thee  there, 

And  here  are  voices  in  the  grove 
Aside  my  house,  that  make  me  think 
Bacchus  is  coming  down  to  drink 

To  Ariadne's  love. 

But  whither  am  I  borne  away 
From  thee,  to  whom  began  my  lay? 

Courage  !  I  am  not  yet  quite  lost  ; 
I  stepped  aside  to  greet  my  friends  ; 
Believe  me,  soon  the  greeting  ends, 

I  know  but  three  or  four  at  most. 

Deem  not  that  Time  hath  borne  too  hard 
Upon  the  fortunes  of  thy  bard, 

Leaving  me  only  three  or  four  : 
Tis  my  old  number  ;  dost  thou  start 
At  such  a  tale  ?  in  what  man's  heart 
Is  there  fireside  for  more  ? 

I  never  courted  friends  or  Fame  ; 
She  pouted  at  me  long,  at  last  she  came, 
And  threw  her   arms  around   my  neck 
and  said, 

1  Southey  and  Wordsworth.       •*  Leigh  Hunt. 


"  Take  what  hath  been  for  years  delay 'd, 
And  fear  not  that  the  leaves  will  fall 
One  hour  the  earlier  from  thy  coronal." 

Ablett !  thou  knowest  with  what  even 
hand 
I  waved  away  the  offer'd  seat 
Among  the  clambering,  clattering,  stilt 
ed  great, 
The  rulers  of  our  land  ; 
Nor  crowds  nor  kings  can  lift  me  up, 
Nor  sweeten  Pleasure's  purer  cup. 

Thou  knowest  how,  and  why,  are  dear 

to  me 
My  citron  groves  of  Fiesole, 
My    chirping    Affrico,    my   beechwood 

nook, 
My  Naiads,  with  feet  only  in  the  brook, 
Which   runs  away   and   giggles  in  their 

faces, 
Yet  there  they  sit,  nor  sigh  for  other 

places. 

'Tis  not  Pelasgian  wall. 
By  him  made  sacred  whom  alone 
'Twere  not  profane  to  call 
The  bard  divine,  nor  (thrown 
Far  under  me)  Valdarno,  nor  the  crest 
Of  Vallombrosa  in  the  crimson  east. 

Here  can  I  sit  or  roam  at  will : 

Few  trouble  me,  few  wish  me  ill, 
Few  come  across  me,  few  too  near  ; 

Here  all  my  wishes  make  their  stand ; 

Here  ask  I  no  one's  voice  or  hand  ; 
Scornful  of  favor,  ignorant  of  fear. 

Yon  vine  upon  the  maple  bough 
Flouts  at  the  hearty  wheat  below  ; 
Away  her  venal  wines  the   wise  man 
sends, 
While  those  of  lower  stem  he  brings 
From  inmost  treasure  vault,  and  sings 
Their  worth  and  age  among  his  chosen 
friends. 

Behold  our  Earth,  most  nigh  the  sun 
Her  zone  least  opens  to  the   genial  heat, 
But  farther  off  her   veins   more  freely 
run  : 
'Tis  thus   with   those   who   whirl  about 
the  great ;  [mote 

The  nearest  shrink  and  shiver,  we  re- 
May  open-breasted  blow  the  pastoral  oat. 
1834.     1837.1 

1  This  poem  had  been  printed  in  an  earlier 
form,  containing  lines  to  Coleridge,  in  Leigh 
Hunt's  London  Journal,  December  S.  1834.  Sen 
Colvin's  Life  of  Landor,  note  to  p.  142. 


440 


BRITISH    POETS 


TO  MARY  LAMB 

Comfort    thee,    O  thou    mourner,  yet 

awhile  ! 

Again  shall  Elia's  smile 

Refresh  thy  heart,  where  heart  can  ache 

no  more. 

What  is  it  we  deplore? 

He  leaves  behind  him,  freed  from  griefs 
and  years, 

Far  worthier  things  than  tears. 
The  love  of  friends  without  a  single  foe  : 

Unequalled  lot  below  ! 

His  gentle   soul,   his  genius,  these  are 
thine  ; 
For  these  dost  thou  repine  ? 
He   may  have  left  the  lowly  walks  of 
men  ; 
Left  them  he  has  ;  what  then  ? 

Are  not  his  footsteps  followed  by  the 
eyes 
Of  all  the  good  and  wise  ? 
Tho'  the   warm  day  is  over,  yet  they 
seek 
Upon  the  lofty  peak 

Of  his  pure  mind  the  roseate   light  that 
glows 
O'er  death's  perennial  snows. 
Behold    him !  from   the   region    of   the 
blessed 

He  speaks  :  he  bids  thee  rest. 
1834.     1837. 

ON  HIS  OWN  IPHIGENEIA  AND 
AGAMEMNON 

From  eve  to  morn,  from   morn   to  part- 
ing night 

Father  and  daughter  stood  within  my 
sight.  [they  said, 

I  felt   the   looks   they   gave,   the  words 

And  reconducted  each  serener  shade. 

Ever  shall  these  to  me  be  well-spent 
days, 

Sweet  fell  the  tears  upon  them,  sweet 
the  praise.  [throne, 

Far    from    the   footstool   of  the   tragic 

I  am  tragedian  in  that  scene  alone. 

1837. 

FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

I  leave  thee,  beauteous  Italy  !  no  more 
From  the  high  terraces,  at  eventide, 
To  look  supine  into  thy  depths  of  sky, 
Thy  golden  moon  between  the  cliff  and 
me, 


Or  thy  dark  spires  of  fretted  cypresses 
Bordering  the  channel  of  the  milky-way. 
Fiesole  and  Valdarno  must  be  dreams 
Hereafter,  and  my  own  lost  Affrico 
Murmur  to  me  but  in  the  poet's  song. 
I  did  believe  (what  have  I  not  believed?) 
Weary  with  age,   but   unoppressed   by 

pain, 
To  close  in  thy  soft  clime  my  quiet  day 
And  rest    my    bones    in   the    Mimosa's 

shade. 
Hope  !  Hope  !  few  ever  cherished  thee 

so  little ; 
Few  are  the   heads  thou   hast   so  rarely 

raised ;  [well. 

But  thou  didst  promise  this,  and  all  was 
For  we  are  fond  of  thinking  where  to  lie 
When  every  pulse  hath  ceased,  when  the 

lone  heart 
Can  lift  no  aspiration — reasoning 
As  if  the  sight  were  unimpaired  by  death, 
Were  unobstructed  by  the  coffin-lid, 
And  the  sun  cheered  corruption  !    Over 

all 
The  smiles    of  nature    shed    a    potent 

charm, 
And   light  us  to   our  chamber  at  the 

grave.  1835.     1846. 

WHY,  WHY   REPINE 

Why,  why  repine,  my  pensive  friend, 

At  pleasures  slipped  away  ? 
Some  the  stern  Fates  will  never  lend, 

And  all  refuse  to  stay. 

I  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky, 

The  dew  upon  the  grass. 
I  see  them,  and  I  ask  not  why 

They  glimmer  or  they  pass. 

With  folded  arms  I  linger  not 
To  call  them  back  ;  'twere  vain  ; 

In  this,  or  in  some  other  spot, 
I  know  they'll  shine  again. 

1846. 

MOTHER,   I  CANNOT  MIND    MY 
WHEEL 

Mother,  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel  ; 

My  fingers  ache,  my  lips  are  dry  : 
Oli  1  if  you  felt  the  pain  I  feel ! 

But  oh,  who  ever  felt  as  I  ? 
No  longer  could  I  doubt  him  true — 

All  other  men  may  use  deceit ; 
He  always  said  my  eyes  were  blue, 

And  often  swore  my  lips  were  sweet, 

1846. 


LANDOR 


441 


TO   A   BRIDE 

February  17, 1846  » 

A  STILL,  serene,  soft  day  ;  enough  of  sun 
To  wreathe  the  cottage  smoke  like  pine- 
tree  snow, 
Whiter    than  those   white   flowers  the 

bride- maids  wore ; 
Upon  the  silent  boughs  the  lissom  air 
Rested ;  and,  only  when  it   went,  they 

moved, 
Nor  more  than  under  linnet  springing  off . 
Such  was  the  wedding  morn  :  the   joy- 
ous Year 
Leapt  over  March  and  April  up  to  May. 
Regent  of  rising  and  of  ebbing  hearts, 
Thyself  borne  on  in  cool  serenity, 
All   heaven   around   and   bending   over 

thee, 
All  earth   below  and  watchful  of  thy 

course ! 
Well  hast  thou  chosen,  after  long  demur 
To  aspirations  from  more  realms  than 

one. 
Peace  be  with  those  thou  lea  vest !  peace 

with  thee  ! 
Is  that  enough  to  wish  thee?  not  enough, 
But  very  much  :  for  Love  himself  feels 

pain, 
While  brighter  plumage  shoots,  to  shed 

last  year's  ; 
And  one   at  home  (how  dear  that  one  !) 

recalls 
Thy  name,   and  thou  recallest  one  at 

home. 
Yet  turn  not  back  thine  eyes  ;  the  hour 

of  tears 
Is  over ;  nor  believe  thou  that  Romance 
Closes  against   pure  Faith   her  rich  do- 
main. 
Shall    only    blossoms    flourish    there  ? 

Arise, 
Far    sighted      bride  !     look    forward  J 

clearer  views 
And  higher  hopes  lie  under  calmer  skies. 
Fortune  in  vain  call'd  out  to  thee  ;  in 

vain 
Rays  from    high  regions  darted  ;   Wit 

pour'd  out 
His  sparkling  treasures  ;  Wisdom  laid 

his  crown 
Of  richer  jewels  at  thy  reckless  feet. 
Well  hast   thou   chosen.     I   repeat   the 

words, 

1  For  the  marriage  of  the  daughter  of  Rose 
Aylmer's  half-sister.  Called  by  Landor  "  my 
tenderest  lay."  See  The  Three  Roses,  p.  457,  and 
note  there. 


Adding  as  true  ones,  not  untold  before, 
That  incense  must  have  fire  for  its  as- 
cent, 
Else  'tis  inert  and  can  not  reach  the  idol. 
Youth  is  the  sole  equivalent  of  youth. 
Enjoy  it  while  it  lasts  ;  and  last  it  will  ; 
Love  can  prolong  it  in  despite  of  Years. 

1846. 

LYRICS 

"Do  you  remember  me?  or    are  you 

proud  ?  " 
Lightly  advancing  thro'  her  star-trimm'd 

crowd, 
Ianthe  said,  and  looked  into  my  eyes. 
"  A  yes,  a  yes,  to  both  :  for  Memory 
Where  you  but  once  have  been  must  ever 

be, 
And  at  your  voice    Pride    from    his 

thi'one  must  rise." 


No,  my  own  love  of  other  years  ! 

No,  it  must  never  be. 
Much  rests  with  you  that  yet  endears, 

Alas  !  but  what  with  me? 
Could  those  bright  years  o'er  me  revolve 

So  gay,  o'er  you  so  fair, 
The  pearl  of  life  we  would  dissolve 

And  each  the  cup  might  share. 
You  show  that  truth  can  ne'er  decay, 

Whatever  fate  befalls  ; 
I,  that  the  myrtle  and  the  bay 

Shoot  fresh  on  ruin'd  walls. 


One  year  ago  my  path  was  green, 
My  footstep  light,  my  brow  serene  ; 
Alas  !  and  could  it  have  been  so 
One  year  ago  ? 

There  is  a  love  that  is  to  last 
When  the  hot  days  of  youth  are  past : 
Such  love  did  a  sweet  maid  bestow 
One  year  ago. 

I  took  a  leaflet  from  her  braid 
And  gave  it  to  another  maid. 
Love  !  broken  should  have  been  thy  bow 
One  year  ago. 


Yes  ;  I  write  verses  now  and  then, 
But  blunt  and  flaccid  is  my  pen, 
No  longer  talked  of  by  young  men 
As  rather  clever : 


44* 


BRITISH   POETS 


In  the  last  quarter  are  my  eyes, 
You  see  it  by  their  form  and  size  ; 
Is  it  not  time  then  to  be  wise  ? 
Or  now  or  never. 

Fairest  that  ever  sprang  from  Eve  ! 
While  Time  allows  the  short  reprieve, 
Just  look  at  me  !  would  you  believe 

Twas  once  a  lover  ? 
I  cannot  clear  the  five-bar  gate, 
But,  trying  first  its  timbers'  state, 
Climb  stiffly  up,  take  breath,  and  wait 

To  trundle  over. 

Thro'  gallopade  I  cannot  swing 

The    entangling    blooms    of    Beauty's 

spring : 
I  cannot  say  the  tender  thing, 

Be't  true  or  false, 
And  am  beginning  to  opine 
Those  girls  are  only  half-divine 
Whose  waists  yon  wicked  boys  entwine 

In  giddy  waltz. 

I  fear  that  arm  above  that  shoulder, 
I  wish  them  wiser,  graver,  older, 
Sedater,  and  no  harm  if  colder 

And  panting  less. 
Ah  !  people  were  not  half  so  wild 
In  former  days,  when,  starchly  mild, 
Upon  her  high-heel'd  Essex  smiled 

The  brave  Queen  Bess. 


With  rosy  hand  a  little  girl  pressed  down 
A  boss  of  fresh-cull'd  cowslips  in  a  rill  : 
Often  as  they  sprang  up  again,  a  frown 
Show'd   she   disliked   resistance   to   her 

will  : 
But  when  they  droop'd  their  heads  and 

shone  much  less, 
She  shook  them  to  and  fro,  and  threw 

them  by, 
And    tripped    away.      "  Ye   loathe  the 

heaviness 
Ye    love    to    cause,    my    little    girls ! " 

thought  I, 
"  And  what  had  shone  for  you,  by  you 

must  die." 


You  smiled,  you  spoke,  and  I  believed, 
By  every  word  and  smile  deceived. 
Another  man  would  hope  no  more ; 
Nor  hope  I  what  I  hoped  before  : 
But  let  not  this  last  wish  be  vain  ; 
Deceive,  deceive  me  once  again  J 


Remain,  ah  not  in  youth  alone, 

Tho'  youth,  where  you  are,   long  will 
stay, 
But  when  my  summer  days  are  gone, 

And  my  autumnal  haste  away. 
"  Can  I  be  always  by  your  side  $  " 

No  ;  but  the  hours  you  can,  you  must 
Nor  rise  at  Death's  approaching  stride, 

Nor  go  when  dust  is  gone  to  dust. 


Soon,  O  Ianthe  !  life  is  o'er, 

And  sooner  beauty's  heavenly  smile 
Grant  only  (and  I  ask  no  more), 

Let  love  remain  that  little  while. 


TO  A  CYCLAMEN 

I  come  to  visit  thee  again, 

My  little  flowerless  cyclamen  ; 

To  touch  the  hand,  almost  to  press, 

That  cheered  thee  in  thy  loneliness. 

What  could  thy  careful  guardian  find 

Of  thee  in  form,  of  me  in  mind, 

What  is  there  in  us  rich  or  rare, 

To  make  us  claim  a  moment's  care? 

Unworthy  to  be  so  caressed, 

We  are  but  withering  leaves  at  best. 


Give  me  the  eyes  that  look  on  mine. 
And,  when  they  see  them  dimly  shine, 

Are  moister  than  they  were. 
Give  me  the  eyes  that  fain  would  find 
Some  relics  of  a  youthful  mind 

Amid  the  wrecks  of  care. 
Give  me  the  eyes  that  catch  at  last 
A  few  faint  glimpses  of  the  past, 

And,  like  the  arkite  dove, 
Bring  back  a  long-lost  olive-bough, 
And  can  discover  even  now 

A  heart  that  once  could  love. 


Twenty  years  hence  my  eyes  may  grow 
If  not  quite  dim,  yet  rather  so, 
Still  yours  from  others  they  shall  know 
Twenty  years  hence, 

Twenty  years  hence  tho'  it  may  hap 

That  I* be  call'd  to  take  a  nap 

In  a  cool  cell  where  thunder-clap 

Was  never  heard, 


LANDOR 


443 


There  breathe  but  o'er  my  arch  of  grass 

A  not  too  sadly  sigh'd  Alas, 

And  I  shall  catch,  ere  you  can  pass, 

That  winged  word. 


Proud  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you 
will  speak 
Four    not    exempt   from  pride  some 
future  day. 
Resting  on  one  white  hand  a  warm  wet 
cheek 
Over  my  open  volume  you  will  say, 
"This  man  loved  me/"  then  rise  and 
trip  away. 


Alas,  how  soon  the  hours  are  over 
Counted  us  out  to  play  the  lover  ! 
And  how  much  narrower  is  the  stage 
Allotted  us  to  play  the  sage  ! 
But  when  we  play  the  fool,  how  wide, 
The  theatre  expands  !  beside, 
How  long  the  audience  sits  before  us  ! 
How  many  prompters  !  what  a  chorus  ! 

1846. 

QUATRAINS 

On  the  smooth  brow  and  clustering  hair 
Myrtle  and  rose  !   your  wreath  com- 
bine, 

The  duller  olive  I  would  wear, 
Its  constancy,  its  peace,  be  mine. 


My  hopes  retire  ;  my  wishes  as  before 
Struggle  to  find  their  resting-place  in 

vain  ; 
The  ebbing  sea  thus  beats  against  the 

shore ; 
The  shore  repels  it ;  it  returns  again. 


Various  the  roads  of  life  ;  in  one 

All  terminate,  one  lonely  way. 

We  go  ;  and  "  Is  he  gone  ?  " 

Is  all  our  best  friends  say. 


weary 


Is  it  not  better  at  an  eai'ly  hour 
In   its   calm    cell   to   rest   the 
head, 

While     birds    are    singing    and    while 
blooms  the  bower, 
Than  sit  the  fire  out  and  go  starv'd  to 
bed  ?  1846. 


I  KNOW  NOT  WHETHER  I 
PROUD 


AM 


I  know  not  whether  I  am  proud, 
But  this  I  know,  I  hate  the  crowd  : 
Therefore  pray  let  me  disengage 
My  verses  from  the  motley  page, 
Where  others  far  more  sure  to  please 
Pour  out  their  choral  song  with  ease. 

And  yet  perhaps,  if  some  should  tire 
With  too  much  froth  or  too  much  fire. 
There  is  an  ear  that  may  incline 
Even  to  words  so  dull  as  mine. 

1846. 

THE  DAY  RETURNS,  MY  NATAL 
DAY 

The  day  returns,  my  natal  day, 

Borne   on   the    storm   and   pale   with 
snow, 

And  seems  to  ask  me  why  I  stay, 
Stricken  by  Time  and  bowed  by  Woe. 

Many  were  once  the  friends  who  came 
To  wish  me  joy  ;  and  there  are  some 

Who  wish  it  now  ;  but  not  the  same  : 
They  are   whence    friend  can  never 
come. 

Nor  are  they  you  my  love  watched  o'er 
Cradled  in  innocence  and  sleep  ; 

You  smile  into  my  eyes  no  more, 
Nor  see  the  bitter  tears  they  weep. 

1846. 

HOW  MANY   VOICES  GAILY  SING 

How  many  voices  gaily  sing, 

"  O  happy  morn,  O  happy  spring 

Of  life  !  "    Meanwhile  there  comes  o'er 

me 
A  softer  voice  from  Memory, 
And  says,   "  If  loves    and   hopes  have 

flown 
With  years,  think   too  what  griefs  are 

gone ! "  1846. 

TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

THERE   is   delight   in  singing,  tho'  none 

hear 
Beside  the  singer  ;  and  there  is  delight 
In  praising,  tho'  the  praiser  sit  alone 
And   see   the   prais'd   far    off   him,    far 

above. 
Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,    but  tha 

world's, 


444 


BRITISH    POETS 


Therefore  on  him  no  speech !  and  hrief 

for  thee, 
Browning !     Since    Chaucer   was  alive 

and  hale, 
No  man  hath    walked   along  our  roads 

with  step 
So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So   varied    in   discourse.      But   warmer 

climes 
Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing  : 

the  breeze 
Of   Alpine   heights    thou   playest  with, 

borne  on 
Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 
The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for 

song.  1846. 

ON  THE  HELLENICS1 

Come  back,  ye  wandering  Muses,  come 

back  home, 
Ye  seem  to  have  forgotten  where  it  lies: 
Come,  let  us  walk  upon  the  silent  sands 
Of  Simois,  where  deep  footmarks  show 

long  strides ; 
Thence    we    may    mount,   perhaps,   to 

higher  ground, 
Where  Aphrodite  from  Athene  won 
The  golden  apple,  and  from  Here  too, 
And  happy  Ares  shouted  far  below. 
Or  would  ye  rather  choose  the  grassy 

vale 
Where  flows  Anapos  thro'  anemones, 
Hyacinths,  and  narcissuses,  that  bend 
To    show    their     rival     beauty    in    the 

stream  ? 
Bring  with  you  each  her  lyre,  and  each 

in  turn 
Temper  a  graver  with  a  lighter  song. 

1847. 

THRASYMEDES  AND  EUNOE 

Who    will  away  to  Athens  with  me? 

who 
Loves  choral  songs  and  maidens  crown'd 

with  flowers, 
Unenvious  ?    mount  the  pinnace  ;  hoist 

the  sail. 
I  promise  ye,  as  many  as  are  here, 

1  Prefixed  to  the  second  edition  of  Landor's 
Hellenics,  1847.  It  is  here  given  slightly  out  of 
the  exact  chronological  order,  that  it  may  stand 
as  an  introduction  to  the  chief  poems  from  the 
Hellenics,  those  of  1846  as  well  as  those  of  1847. 

Other  poems  of  Landor's,  such  as  The  Death  of 
Artemidora,  Cleone  to  Aspasia,  The  Shades  of 
Agamemnon  and  Iphigeneia,  etc.,  though  orig- 
inally published  in  other  collections,  and  there- 
fore not  given  here  with  the  Hellenics,  were  ul- 
timately included  by  Landor  among  them. 


Ye  shall  not,  while  ye  tarry  with  me, 

taste 
From  unrinsed  barrel  the  diluted  wine 
Of  a  low  vineyard  or  a  plant  ill-pruned, 
But  such  as  anciently  the  ^Egean  isles 
Pour'd  in  libation  at  their  solemn  feasts  : 
And   the   same   goblets  shall   ye  grasp, 

embossed 
With  no   vile   figures  of  loose  languid 

boors, 
But  such  as  gods  have  lived  with  and 

have  led. 
The  sea  smiles  bright  before  us.     What 

white  sail 
Plays  yonder  ?    What  pursues  it  ?    Like 

two  hawks 
Away  they  fly.     Let  us  away  in  time 
To  overtake  them.     Are  they  menaces 
We  hear  ?    And  shall  the  strong  repulse 

the  weak, 
Enraged  at  her  defender  ?    Hippias  ! 
Art  thou  the  man  ?     'Twas  Hippias.     He 

had  found 
His  sister  borne  from  the  Cecropian  port 
By  Thrasymedes.     And  reluctantly  ? 
Ask,  ask  the  maiden  ;  I  have  no  reply. 
"Brother!    O  brother   Hippias!     O,   if 

love, 
If  pity,  ever  touch'd  thy  breast,  forbear  ! 
Strike  not  the  brave,  the  gentle,  the  be' 

loved, 
My  Thrasymedes,  with  his  cloak  alone 
Protecting  his  own  head  and  mine  from 

harm." 
"  Didst  thou    not    once    before,"  cried 

Hippias, 
Regardless  of  his    sister,   hoarse    with 

wrath 
At  Thrasymedes,  "  didst  not  thou,  dog- 
eyed, 
Dare,  as  she  walk'd  up  to  the  Parthenon, 
On  the  most  holy  of  all  holy  days, 
In  sight  of  all  the  city,  dare  to  kiss 
Her  maiden  cheek  ?  " 

"  Ay,  before  all  the  gods. 
Ay,  before  Pallas,  before  Artemis, 
Ay,  before  Aphrodite,  before  Here, 
I   dared  ;  and  dare  again.      Arise,   my 

spouse ! 
Arise  !  and  let  my  lips  quaff  purity 
From  thy  fair  open  brow." 

The  sword  was  up, 
And  yet  he  kiss'd  her  twice.     Some  God 

withheld 
The   arm   of   Hippias ;  his   proud   blood 

seeth'd  slower 
And  smote   his  breast  less  angrily  ;  he 

laid  [spake  thus : 

His   hand   on   the   white  shoulder,  and 


LANDOR 


445 


"Ye  must  return  with  me.     A  second 

time 
Offended,  will  our  sire  Peisistratos 
Pardon    the     affront  ?      Thou    shouldst 

have  ask'd  thyself 
This  question  ere  the  sail  first  flapp'd  the 

mast." 
"  Already  thou  hast  taken  life  from  me  ; 
Put  up  thy  sword,"  said  the  sad  youth, 

his  eyes 
Sparkling  ;  but  whether  love  or  rage  or 

grief 
They  sparkled  with,  the  Gods  alone  could 

see. 
Piraeeus  they  re-entered,  and  their  ship 
Drove  up  the  little  waves   against  the 

quay, 
Whence  was  thrown  out  a  rope  from  one 

above. 
And  Hippias  caught  it.  From  the  virgin's 

waist 
Her  lover  dropped  his  arm,  and  blushed 

to  think 
He  had  retain'd  it  there  in  sight  of  rude 
Irreverent  men  :   he  led  her  forth,  nor 

spake. 
Hippias  walked    silent    too,   until  they 

reached 
The  mansion  of  Peisistratos  her  sire. 
Serenely  in  Ins  sternness  did  the  prince 
Look  on  them  both  awhile  :  they  saw  not 

him, 
For  both  had  cast  their  eyes  upon  the 

ground. 
"  Are  these  the  pirates  thou  hast  taken, 

son  ?  " 
Said  he.      '"Worse,  father  !  worse  than 

pirates  they, 
Who  thus  abuse  thy  patience,  thus  abuse 
Thy  pardon,  thus  abuse  the  holy  rites 
Twice  over." 

"  Well  hast  thou  performed  thy  duty," 
Firmly  and  gravely  said  Peisistratos. 
"  Nothing  then,  rash  young  man  !  could 

turn  thy  heart 
From  Eunoe,  my  daughter?" 

"  Nothing,  sir, 
Shall  ever  turn  it.     I  can  die  but  once 
And  love  but  once.    O  Eunoe  !  farewell !  " 
"  Nay,  she  shall  see  what  thou  canst  bear 

for  her." 
"  O   father  !    shut  me   in    my  chamber, 

shut  me 
In  my  poor  mother'stomb,  dead  or  alive. 
But  never  let  me  see  what  he  can  bear  ; 
I  know  how  much  that  is,  when  borne 

for  me." 
•'  Not  yet :  come  on.     And  lag  not  thou 

behind, 


Pirate  of  virgin  and  of  princely  hearts  1 
Before  the  people  and  before  the  Goddess 
Thou  hadst  evinced  the  madness  of  thy 

passion, 
And  now  wouldst  bear  from  home  and 

plenteousness 
To  poverty  and  exile  this  my  child." 
Then  shuddered  Thrasymedes,   and  ex- 

claim'd, 
"  I  see  my  crime  ;  I  saw  it  not  before. 
The  daughter  of  Peisistratos  was  born 
Neither  for  exile  nor  for  poverty, 
Ah  !  nor  for  me  !  "  He  would  have  wept, 

but  one 
Might  see   him,  and   weep  worse.     The 

prince  unmoved 
Strode  on,  and  said,  "To-morrow  shall 

the  people, 
All  who  beheld  thy  trespasses,  behold 
The  justice  of  Peisistratos,  the  love 
He  bears  his  daughter,  and  the  reverence 
In  which   he  holds  the  highest  law  of 

God." 
He  spake ;    and  on  the  morrow  they 

were  one.  1846. 

IPHIGENEIA  AND  AGAMEMNON 

Iphigeneia,  when  she  heard  her  doom 
At  Aulis,  and  when  all  beside  the  King 
Had  gone  away,  took  his  right  hand,  and 

said, 
"  O  father  !  I  am  young  and  very  happy. 
I  do  not  think  the  pious  Calchas  heard 
Distinctly    what    the    Goddess    spake. 

Old-age 
Obscures  the  senses.      If  my  nurse,  who 

knew 
My  voice  so  well,  sometimes  misunder- 
stood 
While  I  was  resting  on  her  knee  both 

arms 
And   hitting   it  to  make  her  mind  my 

words,   ■ 
And  looking  in  her  face,  and  she  in  mine, 
Might  he  not  also  hear  one  word  amiss, 
Spoken  from  so  far  off,  even  from  Olym- 
pus ?  " 
The  father  placed  his  cheek  upon  her 

head, 
And  tears  dropped  down  it,  but  the  king 

of  men 
Replied   not.     Then   the   maiden   spake 
once  more.  [t  hou  not 

"  O  father  !  sayst  thou  nothing?  Hear'st 
Me,  whom  thou  ever  hast,  until  this  hour, 
Listened  to  fondly,  and  awakened  me 
To  hear  my  voice  amid  the   voice  of 
birds, 


446 


BRITISH   POETS 


When  it  was  inarticulate  as  theirs, 
And  ilie  down  deadened  it  within  the 

nest?  " 
He  moved  her  gently  from  him,  silent 

still, 
And  this,  and  this  alone,  brought  tears 

from  her. 
Although  she  saw  fate  nearer  :  then  with 

sighs, 
•I  thought  to  have  laid  down  my  hair 

before 
Benignant     Artemis,     and     not     have 

dimmed 
Her  polished  altar  with  my  virgin  blood  ; 
I  thought  to  have  selected    the  white 

flowers 
To  please  the    Nymphs,   and    to    have 

asked  of  each 
By  name,  and  with  no  sorrowful  regret, 
Whether,  since  both  my  parents  willed 

the  change, 
I  might  at  Hymen's  feet  bend  my  clipped 

brow  : 
And  (after  those  who  mind  us  girls  the 

most.) 
Adore  our  own  Athena,  that  she  would 
Regard  me  mildly  with  her  azure  eyes, 
But  father  !  to  see  you  no  more,  and  see 
Your    love,     O    father  !    go    ere   I  am 

gone  .  ." 
Gently  he  moved  her  off,  and  drew  her 

back, 
Bending  his  lofty  head  far  over  hers, 
And  the  dark  depths  of  nature  heaved 

and  burst. 
He  turn'd    away;    not  far,   but  silent 

still. 
She  now  first  shuddered  ;  for  in  him,  so 

nigh, 
So  long  a  silence  seemed  the  approach  of 

death, 
And  like  it.     Once  again  she  raised  her 

voice. 
"  O   father !  if  the  ships  are  now  de- 
tained, 
And  all  your  vows  move  not  the  Gods 

above, 
"When  the  knife  strikes  me  there  will  be 

one  prayer 
The  less  to  them :  and  purer  can  there 

be 
Any,  or  more  fervent  than  the  daugh- 
ter's prayer 
For  her   dear   father's  safety  and   suc- 
cess'" [resolve. 
A  groan  that  shook  him  shook  not  his 
An  aged  man  now  entered,  and  without 
One  word,  stepped  slowly  on,  and  took 
the  wrist 


Of  the  pale  maiden.     She  looked  up  and 

saw 
The  fillet  of  the  priest  and  calm  cold 

eyes. 
Then    turned    she    where    her    parent 

stood,  and  cried 
"O  father!  grieve  no   more:  the  ships 

can  sail."  1846. 

THE  HAMADRYAD i 

Rhaicos  was  born  amid  the  hills  where- 
from 

Gnidos  the  light  of  Caria  is  discern'd, 

And  small  are  the  white-crested   that 
play  near, 

And  smaller    onward    are    the    purple 
waves. 

Thence    festal  choirs   were  visible,   all 
crown'd 

With  rose  and  myrtle  if  they  were  in- 
born ; 

If  from  Pandion   sprang  they,   on  the 
coast 

Where  stern  Athene  raised  her  citadel, 

Then  olive  was  intwined  with  violets 

Cluster'd  in  bosses,  regular  and  large. 

For  various  men  wore  various  coronals  ; 

But  one  was  their  devotion  ;   'tw^as  to 
her 

Whose  laws  all  follow,  her  whose  smile 
withdraws 

The  sword  from  Ares,  thunderbolt  from 
Zeus, 

And  whom  in  his  chill  caves  the  mu- 
table 

Of    mind,   Poseidon,   the    sea-king,   re- 
veres, 

And  whom   his  brother,  stubborn  Dis, 
hath  pray'd 

To  turn  in  pity  the  averted  cheek 

Of  her  he  bore  away,  with  promises, 

Nay,  with  loud  oath  before  dread  Styx 
itself, 

To  give  her  daily   more    and    sweeter 
flowers 

Than  he  made  drop  from  her  on  Enna  s 
dell. 
Rhaicos  was  looking  from  his  father  s 
door 

At  the  long  trains  that  hastened  to  the 
town 

From  all  the  valleys,  like  bright  rivu- 
lets 

Gurgling  with  gladness,  wave  outrun- 
ning wave, 

i  Compare  Lowell's  poem,  Bhoecus,  which  gives 
a  somewhat  different  version  of  the  same  story. 


LANDOR 


447 


And  thought  it  hard  he  might  not  also 

go 
And  offer  up  one  prayer,  and  press  one 

hand, 
He  knew  not  whose.     The  father  call'd 

him  in, 
And  said,  "  Son  Rhaicos  !  those  are  idle 

games ; 
Long  enough  I  have  lived  to  And  them 

so." 
And  ere  he  ended  sighed  ;  as  old  men  do 
Always,  to  think  how  idle  such  games 

are. 
"I  have  not  yet,"  thought   Rhaicos  in 

his  heart, 
And  wanted  proof. 

"  Suppose  thou  go  and  help 
Echeion  at  the  hill,  to  bark  yon  oak 
And  lop    its    branches   off,   before   we 

delve 
About  the  trunk  and  ply  the  root  with 

axe  : 
This  we  may  do  in  winter." 

Rhaicos  went ; 
For  thence  he  could  see  farther,  and  see 

more 
Of  those  who  hurried  to  the  city-gate. 
Echeion  he  found  there  with  naked  arm 
Swart-hair'd,    strong-sinew'd,    and    his 

eyes  intent 
Upon    the    place   where    first    the  axe 

should  fall  : 
He  held   it   upright.     "  There  are  bees 

about. 
Or  wasps,  or  hornets,"  said  the  cautious 

eld, 
"  Look  sharp,  O  son  of  Thallinos  !  "  The 

youth 
Inclined  his  ear,  afar,  and  warily. 
And  cavern'd  in  his  hand.     He  heard  a 

buzz 
At  first,  and  then  the  sound  grew  soft 

and  clear, 
And  then  divided  into  what  seenrd  tune, 
And  there  were  words  upon  it,  plaintive 

words. 
He  turn'd,  and  said,  "  Echeion  !   do  not 

strike 
That  tree:  it  must  be  hollow  ;  for  sonic 

god 
Speaks     from     within.      Come     thyself 

near."    Again 
Both     turn'd    toward  it:     and   behold! 

there  sat 
Upon  the  moss    below,    with   her  two 

palms 
Pressing    it,  on   each    side,  a   maid    in 

form.  [pale 

Downcast  were  her  long  eyelashes,  and 


Her  cheek,  but  never  mountain-ash  dis- 

play'd 
Berries  of  color  like  her  lip  so  pure, 
Nor  were  the  anemones  about  her  hair 
Soft,  smooth  and  wavering  like  the  face 

beneath. 
"  What  dost  thou  here  ?  "  Echeion,  half- 
afraid, 
Half-angry  cried.  She  lifted  up  her  eyes, 
But  nothing  spake  she.     Rhaicos  drew 

one  step 
Backward,  for  fear  came  likewise  over 

him, 
But  not  such   fear:  he  panted,  gasp'd, 

drew  in 
His  breath,  and   would  have  turn'd  it 

into  words, 
But  could  not  into  one. 

"  O  send  away 
That  sad  old  man  !  "  said  she.     The  old 

man  went 
Without  a  warning  from  his  master's 

son, 
Glad  to  escape,  for  sorely  he  now  fear'd, 
And  the  axe  shone  behind  him  in  their 

eyes. 
Hamad.     And  wouldst  thou  too  shed 

the  most  innocent 
Of  blood  ?    No  vow  demands  it ;  no  god 

wills 
The  oak  to  bleed. 
Rhaicos.     Who    art   thou  ?    whence  ? 

why  here? 
And  whither  wouldst  thou  go  ?    Among 

the  robed 
In  white  or  saffron,  or  the  hue  that  most 
Resembles  dawn  or  the  clear  sky,  is  none 
Array'd  as  thou  art.     What  so  beautiful 
As  that  gray  robe  which  clings  about 

thee  close, 
Like  moss  to  stones  adhering,  leaves  to 

trees, 
Yet  lets  thy  bosom  rise  and  fall  in  turn, 
As,  touch'd  by  zephyrs,  fall  and  rise  the 

boughs 
Of  graceful  platan  by  the  river-side  ? 
Hamad.  Lovest  thou  well  thy  father's 

house  ? 
Rhaicos.  Indeed 

I  love  it,  well  I  love  it,  yet  would  leave 
For  thine,  where'er  it  be,  my  father's 

house, 
With  all  the  marks  upon  the  door,  that 

show 
My  growth  at  every  birthday  since  the 

third, 
And   all   the  charms,  o'erpowering  evil 

eyes, 
My  mother  nail'd  forme  against  my  bed. 


K8 


BRITISH   POETS 


And   the   Cydonian    bow    (which    thou 

shalt  see) 
Won   in  my  race  last  spring  from  Euty- 

chos. 
Hamad.     Bethink  thee  what  it  is  to 

leave  a  home 
Thou  never  yet  hast  left,  one  night,  one 

day. 
Rhaicos.     No,  'tis  not  hard  to  leave 

it ;  'tis  not  hard 
To  leave,  O  maiden,  that  paternal  home, 
If  there  be  one  on  earth  whom  we  may 

love 
First,  last,  for  ever  ;  one  who  says  that 

she 
Will  love  for  ever  too.     To  say  which 

word, 
Only  to  say  it,  surely  is  enougli  .  . 
It    shows    such    kindness  .  .  if   'twere 

possible 
We  at  the  moment  think  she  would  in- 
deed. 
Hamad.      Who  taught  thee  all  this 

folly  at  thy  age  ? 
Rhaicos.     I  have  seen  lovers  and  have 

learned  to  love. 
Hamad.      But    wilt    thou    spare    the 

tree  ? 
Rhaicos.     My  father  wants 
The  bark  ;  the  tree  may  hold  its  place 

awhile. 
Hamad.     Awhile  !    thy   father   num- 
bers then  my  days  ? 
Rhaicos.     Are  there  no  others  where 

the  moss  beneath 
Is  quite  as  tufty?     Who   would  send 

thee  forth 
Or  ask  thee  why  thou  tarriest  ?    Is  thy 

flock 
Anywhere  near? 

Hamad.     I  have  no  flock  :  I  kill 
Nothing  that  breathes,  that  stirs,  that 

feels  the  air, 
The   sun,   the   dew.      Why   should   the 

beautiful 
(And   thou   art    beautiful)   disturb   the 

source 
Whence  springs  all  beauty  ?     Hast  thou 

never  heard 
Of  Hamadryads  ? 

Rhaicos.  Heard  of  them  I  have  : 

Tell  me  some  tale  about  them.     May  I 

sit 
Beside  thy  feet?     Art  thou  not  tired? 

The  herbs 
Are  very  soft ;  I  will  not  come  too  nigh  ; 
Do   but   sit   there,  nor  tremble  so,  nor 

doubt.  [plore 

Stay,  stay  an   instant:  let  me  first  ex- 


If  any  acorn  of  last  year  be  left 
Within  it ;  thy  thin  robe  too  ill  protects 
Thy  dainty  limbs  against  the  harm  one 

small 
Acorn  may  do.     Here's  none.     Another 

day 
Trust  me ;  till  then  let  me  sit  opposite. 
Hamad.     I  seat  me ;  be  thou  seated, 

and  content. 
Rhaicos.     O   sight  for  gods  !  ye  men 

below  !  adore 
The  Aphrodite.     Is  she  there  below  ? 
Or  sits  she  here  before  me  ?  as  she  sate 
Before  the   shepherd  on   those   heights 

that  shade 
The  Hellespont,  and  brought  his  kindred 

woe. 
Hamad.        Reverence      the      higher 

Powers  ;  nor  deem  amiss 
Of  her  who  pleads  to  thee,  and  would 

repay— 
Ask   not   how   much — but   very   much. 

Rise  not ; 
No,  Rhaicos,  no!     Without  the  nuptial 

vow 
Love  is  unholy.     Swear  to  me  that  none 
Of  mortal  maids  shall  ever  taste  thy  kiss, 
Then  take  thou  mine  ;  then  take  it,  not 

before. 
Rhaicos.      Hearken,   all  gods  above ! 

O  Aphrodite  ! 

0  Here  !     Let  my  vow  be  ratified  ! 

But   wilt   thou   come   into  my   father's 
house  ? 
Hamad.    Nay  :  and  of  mine  I  cannot 

give  thee  part. 
Rhaicos.     Where  is  it? 
Hamad.  In  this  oak. 

Rhaicos.  Ay  ;  now  begins 

The  tale  of  Hamadryad  ;  tell  it  through. 
Hamad.     Pray  of  thy  father  never  to 
to  cut  down 
My  tree  ;  and  promise  him,  as  well  thou 

mayst, 
That  every  year  he  shall  receive  from  me 
More  honey  than  will  buy  him  nine  fat 

sheep, 
More  wax  than  he  will  burn  to  all  the 

gods. 
Why  fallest  thou  upon  thy  face  ?     Some 

thorn 
May  scratch  it,  rash  young  man  1     Rise 
up  ;  for  shame  ! 
Rhaicos.    For  shame  I  can  not  rise.     O 
pity  me ! 

1  dare  not  sue  for  love .  .  but  do  not  hate  1 
Let  me  once  more  behold  thee,  .not  once 

more,  [loved ! 

But  many  days  :    let  me  love  on.,  un- 


LANDOR 


449 


I  aimed  too  high  :  on  my  head  the  bolt 
Falls   back,   and    pierces    to    the    very 

brain. 
Hamad.     Go.,  rather  go,  than  make 

me  say  I  love. 
Rhaicos.     If  happiness  is  immortality, 
(And  whence   enjoy  it    else    the  gods 

above  ?) 
I  am  immortal  too  :  my  vow  is  heard  : 
Hark  !  on  the  left   . .   Nay,  turn  not  from 

me  now, 
I  claim  my  kiss. 
Hamad.      Do    men    take    first,    then 

claim  ? 
Do  thus  the  seasons  run  their  course  with 

them  ? 

Her  lips  were  seal'd,  her  head  sank  on 

his  breast, 
"lis  said  that  laughs  were  heard  within 

the  wood  : 
But  who  should  hear  them  ?. .  and  whose 

laughs  ?  and  why  ? 
Savory  was   the  smell,  and  long  past 

noon, 
Thallinos  !  in  thy  house  :  for  marjoram, 
Basil  and   mint,  and  thyme  and  rose- 
mary, 
Were  sprinkled  on  the  kid's  well  roasted 

length. 
Awaiting   Rhaicos.     Home  he  came  at 

last, 
Not  hungry,  but  pretending  hunger  keen, 
With  head  and  eyes  just  o'er  the  maple 

plate. 
"  Thou  seest  but  badly,  coming  from  the 

sun, 
Boy  Rhaicos !  "  said  the  father.      "  That 

oak's  bark 
Must  have  been  tough,  with  little  sap 

between  ; 
It  ought  to  run  ;  but  it  and  I  are  old." 
Rhaicos,   although   each  morsel  of  the 

bread 
Increased  by  chewing,  and  the  meat  grew 

cold 
And  tasteless  to  his  palate,  took  a  draught 
Of  gold-bright  wine,  which,  thirsty  as  he 

was, 
He  thought  not  of  until  his  father  fill'd 
The  cup,  averring  water  was  amiss, 
But  wine  had  been  at  all  times  pour'd  on 

kid, 
It  was  religion. 

He  thus  fortified 
Said,    not   quite   boldly,  and    not    quite 

abashed, 
"  Father,  that  oak  is  Zeus's  own  ;  that 

oak 
29 


Year  after  year  will  bring  thee  wealth 

from  wax 
And  honey.     There  is  one  who  fears  the 

gods 
And  the  gods  love — that  one  " 

(He  blush'd,  nor  said 
What  one) 

"  Has  promised  this,  and  may  do  more. 
Thou  hast  not  many  moons  to  wait  until 
The  bees  have  done  their  best ;  if  then 

there  come 
Nor  wax  nor    honey,   let    the   tree   be 

hewn." 
"Zeus     hath    bestow'd    on    thee    a 

prudent  mind," 
Said  the  glad  sire  :  "  but  look  thou  often 

there, 
And  gather  all  the  honey  thou  canst  find 
In  every  crevice,  over  and  above 
What  has  been  promised  ;  would  they 

reckon  that  ?  " 
Rhaicos  went  daily  ;  but  the  nymph  as 

oft, 
Invisible.    To  play  at  love,  she  knew, 
Stopping  its  breathings  when  it  breathes 

most  soft, 
Is  sweeter  than  to  play  on  any  pipe. 
She  play'd  on  his  :  she  fed  upon  his  sighs  ; 
They    pleased    her   when    they    gently 

waved  her  hair, 
Cooling  the  pulses  of  her  purple  veins, 
And  when   her   absence   brought   them 

out,  they  pleased. 
Even  among  the  fondest  of  them  all, 
What  mortal  or  immortal  maid  is  more 
Content    with    giving    happiness    than 

pain  ? 
One  day  he  was  returning  from  the  wood 
Despondently.    She  pitied  him,  and  said 
"  Come  back  !  "  and  twined  her  fingers  in 

the  hem 
Above   his  shoulder.     Then  she  led  his 

steps 
To  a  cool  rill  that  ran  o'er  level  sand 
Through  lentisk  and  through  oleander, 

there 
.Bathed  she  his  feet,  lifting  them  on  her 

lap 
When  bathed,  and  drying  them  in  both 

her  hands. 
He  dared  complain  ;  for  those  who  most 

are  loved 
Most   dare  it ;    but  not  harsh  was   his 

complaint. 
"  O  thou  inconstant !  "  said  he,  "  if  stern 

law 
Bind  thee,  or  will,  stronger  than  sternest 

law  [hope 

O,  let  me   know  henceforward  when  to 


♦5° 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  fruit  of  love  that  grows  for  me  but 
here." 

He  spake  ;  and  pluok'd  it  from  its  pliant 

stem. 
"Impatient  Rhaicos!     Why  thus  inter- 
cept 
The  answer  I  would  give?  There  is  a  bee 
Whom  I  have  fed,  a  bee  who  knows  my 

thoughts 
And  executes  my  wishes  :     I  will  send 
That  messenger.     If  ever  thou  art  false, 
Drawn  by  another,  own  it  not,  but  drive 
My  bee  away  ;  then  shall  I  know  my  fate, 
And — for  thou  must  be  wretched — weep 

at  thine. 
But  often  as  my  heart  persuades  to  lay 
Its  cares  on  thine  and  throb  itself  to  rest, 
Expect   her  with  thee,   whether  it   be 

morn 
Or  eve,   at  any   time   when  woods  are 

safe." 
Day  after  day  the  Hours  beheld  them 

blessed, 
And  season  after  season  :  years  had  past, 
Blessed  were  they  still.     He  who  asserts 

that  Love 
Ever  is  sated  of  sweet  things,  the  same 
Sweet  things   he  fretted  for  in  earlier 

days, 
Never,  by  Zeus  !  loved  he  a  Hamadryad. 
The   nights   had   now   grown   longer, 

and  perhaps 
The   Hamadryads   find   them   lone   and 

dull 
Among  their  woods  ;  one  did,  alas  !  She 

called 
Her  faithful  bee  :   't  was  when  all  bees 

should  sleep, 
And  all   did   sleep  but   hers.     She  was 

sent  forth 
To  bring  that  light  which  never  wintry 

blast 
Blows   out,   nor  rain   nor    snow   extin- 
guishes, 
The  light  that  shines  from  loving  eyes 

upon 
Eyes  that  love  back,  till  they  can  see  no- 

more. 

Rhaicos  was  sitting  at  his  father's 
hearth  : 

Between  them  stood  the  table,  not  o'er- 
spread 

With  fruits  which  autumn  now  pro- 
fusely bore, 

Nor  anise  cakes,  nor  odorous  wine  ;  but 
there 

The  draft-board  was  expanded  ;  at 
which  game 


Triumphant  sat  old  Thallinos  ;  the  son 
Was    puzzled,  vexed,  discomfited,  dis- 
traught. 
A  buzz   was  at  his  ear  :    up  went   his 

hand, 
And  it  was  heard  no  longer.     The  poor 

bee 
Return'd,  (but  not  until  the  morn  shone 

bright) 
And   found   the   Hamadryad    with   her 

head 
Upon  her  aching  wrist,  and  showed  one 

wing 
Half-broken     off,    the    other's    meshes 

marr'd, 
And  there  were  bruises  which  no  eye 

could  see 
Saving  a  Hamadryad's. 

At  this  sight 
Down  fell  the  languid  brow,  both  hands 

fell  down, 
A  shriek  was  carried  to  the  ancient  hall 
Of  Thallinos  :  he  heard  it  not  :  his  son 
Heard   it,  and   ran  forthwith   into  the 

wood. 
No  bark  was  on  the  tree,  no  leaf  was 

green, 
The   trunk   was   riven   through.     From 

that  day  forth 
Nor  word  nor  whisper  sooth'd  his  ear, 

nor  sound 
Even  of  insect  wing  ;  but  loud  laments 
The  woodmen  and   the  shepherds  one 

long  year 
Heard  day  and  night ;  for  Rhaicos  would 

not  quit 
The  solitary  place,  but  moan'd  and  died. 

Hence  milk  and  honey  wonder  not,  O 

guest, 
To  find  set  duly  on  the  hollow  stone. 

1846. 

ACON  AND  RHODOPE  ;  OR,  INCON- 
STANCY 

(.4  Sequel) 

The  Year's  twelve  daughters    had    in 

turn  gone  by, 
Of  measured  pace  though  varying  mien 

all  twelve, 
Some    froward,     some     sedater,    some 

adorn'd 
For  festival,  some  reckless  of  attire. 
The   snow  had   left   the  mountain-top  ; 

fresh  flowers 
Had  withered  in  the  meadow  ;  fig  and 

prune 


LANDOR 


45i 


Hung  wrinkling  ;  the  last  apple  glovv'd 

amid 
Its  freckled    leaves  ;    and  weary   oxen 

blink'd 
Between  the  trodden  corn  and  twisted 

vine, 
Under  whose  bunches  stood  the  empty 

crate, 
To  creak  ere  long  beneath  them  carried 

home. 
This  was  the  season  when  twelve  months 

before, 
O  gentle  Hamadryad,  true  to  love  ! 
Thy  mansion,   thy  dim  mansion  in  the 

wood 
Was  blasted  and  laid  desolate  ;  but  none 
Dai-ed  violate  its  precincts,  none  dared 

pluck 
The  moss  beneath   it,  which  alone  re- 

main'd 
Of  what  was  thine. 

Old  Thallinos  sat  mute 
In  solitary  sadness.     The  strange  tale 
(Not  until  Rhaicos  died,  but  then  the 

whole) 
Echeion  had  related,  whom  no  force 
Could   ever   make   look  back  upon  the 

oaks. 
The  father  said,   "  Echeion  !  thou  must 

weigh, 
Carefully,  and  with  steady  hand,  enough 
(Although  no  longer  comes  the  store  as 

once  !) 
Of  wax  to  burn  all  day  and  night  upon 
That  hollow  stone  where  milk  and  honey 

lie  : 
So  may   the  gods,  so  may  the  dead,  be 

pleas'd !  " 
Thallinos  bore  it  thither  in  the  morn, 
And  lighted  it  and  left  it. 

First  of  those 
Who  visited  upon  this  solemn  day 
The  Hamadryad's  oak,  were  Rhodope 
And  Aeon  ;  of  one  age,   one  hope,  one 

trust. 
Graceful    was  she  as  was  the  nymph 

whose  fate 
She  sorrowed  for  :  he  slender,  pale,  and 

first 
Lapp'd  by  the  flame  of  love  :  his  father's 

lands  [afar. 

Were  fertile,  herds  lowed  over  them 
Now  stood  the  two  aside  the  hollow  stone 
And  look'd  with  steadfast  eyes  toward 

the  oak 
Shivered  and  black  and  bare. 

"  May  never  we 
Love  as  they  loved  !  "  said   Aeon.     She 

at  this 


Smiled,  for  he  said  not  what  he  meant  to 

say, 
And  thought  not  of  its   bliss,  but  of   its 

end. 
He  caught  the  flying  smile,  and  blush'd, 

and  vow'd 
Nor  time  nor  otlier  power,   whereto  the 

might 
Of   love  hath  yielded  and    may  yield 

again, 
Should  alter  his. 

The  father  of  the  youth 
Wanted  not  beauty  for  him,  wanted  not 
Song,    that   could    lift   earth's    weight 

from  off  his  heart. 
Discretion,  that  could  guide  him  thro' 

the  world. 
Innocence,  that  could  clear  his   way  to 

heaven  ; 
Silver  and  gold  and  land,  not  green  be- 
fore 
The  ancestral  gate,   but  purple  under 

skies 
Bending  far  off.  he  wanted  for  his  heir. 
Fathers  have  given  life,   but  virgin 

heart 
They  never  gave  ;  and   dare  they  then 

control 
Or  check  it  harshly  ?   dare  they  break  a 

bond 
Girt  round   it   by  the   holiest   Power  on 

high  ? 
Aeon  was  grieved,   he  said,   grieved 

bitterly, 
But  Aeon    had   complied  .  .  'twas  duti- 
ful : 
Crush  thy  own  heart,  Man  !    Man  !    but 

fear  to  wound 
The  gentler,  that  relies  on  thee  alone, 
By  thee  created,  weak  or  strong  by  thee; 
Touch  it  not  but  for  worship  ;  watch  be- 
fore 
Its  sanctuary  ;  nor  leave  it  till  are  closed 
The  temple-doors  and  the   last  lamp  is 

spent. 
Rhodope,  in  her  soul'a  waste  solitude, 
Sate  mournful    by   the   dull-resounding 

sea, 
Often  not  hearing  it,  and  many  tears 
Had  the  cold  breezes  hardened  on  her 

cheek. 
Meanwhile  he  sauntered  in  the  wood  of 

oaks, 
Nor    shun'd  to  look  upon  the  hollow 

stone 
That   held   the   milk   and  honey,  nor  to 

lay 
His  plighted  hand  where  recently  twas 

laid 


45  2 


BRITISH    POETS 


Opposite  hers,  when  finger  playfully 
Advanced  and  pushed  back  finger,  on 

each  side. 
He  did  not  think  of  this,  as  she  would 

do 
It  she  were  there  alone. 

The  day  was  hot ; 
The    moss  invited  him ;    it    cool'd   his 

cheek, 
It  cool'd  his  hands  ;  he  thrust  them  into 

it 
And  sank  to  slumber.     Never  was  there 

dream 
Divine  as  his.     He  saw  the  Hamadryad. 
She  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  on 
Along  a  valley,  where  profusely  grew 
The   smaller    lilies   with  their   pendent 

bells, 
And,  hiding  under  mint,  chill  drosera, 
The  violet  shy  of  butting  cyclamen, 
The  feathery  fern,  and,  browser  of  moist 

banks. 
Her  offspring  round  her,  the  soft  straw- 
berry ; 
The  quivering  spray  of  ruddy  tamarisk, 
The  oleander's  light-haired  progeny 
Breathing    bright    freshness     in     each 

other's  face, 
And   graceful  rose,  bending  her  brow, 

with  cup 
Of  fragrance  and  of  beauty,  boon  for 

Gods. 
The  fragrance  fill'd  his  breast  with  such 

delight 
His    senses    wei"e    bewildered,   and    he 

thought 
He   saw   again  the  face  he    most  had 

loved. 
He  stopped  :  the  Hamadryad  at  his  side 
Now  stood  between  :  then  drew  him  far- 
ther off : 
He  went,  compliant  as  before  :  but  soon 
Verdure  had  ceased  :    altho'  the  ground 

was  smooth, 
Nothing  was  there  delightful.     At  this 

change 
He  would  have   spoken,  but  his  guide 

repressed 
All  questioning,  and  said, 

' '  Weak  youth  !  what  brought 
Thy  footstep   to   this  wood,  my   native 

haunt, 
My    life-long    residence?     this    bank, 

where  first 
I  sate  with  him  .  .  .  the  faithful  (now  I 

know, 
Too  late!)  the  faithful  Rhaicos.     Haste 

thee  home  :  [more 

Be  happy,  if  thou  canst ;  but  come  no 


Where  those  whom   death  alone  could 
sever,  died." 
He  started  up :  the  moss  whereon  he 
slept 

Was  dried  and  withered  :  deadlier  pale- 
ness spread 

Over  his  cheek ;   he  sickened  :  and  the 
sire 

Had  land  enough  ;  it  held  his  only  son. 

1847. 

MENELAUS  AND  HELEN  AT  TROY 

After  the  fall  of  Troy,  Helen  is  pursued 
by  Menelaus  up  the  steps  of  the  pal- 
ace ;  an  old  attendant  deprecates 
and  intercepts  his  vengeance. 

Menelaus.     Out  of  my  way !    Off  !   or 
my  sword  may  smite  thee 

Heedless  of  venerable  age.     And  thou 

Fugitive  !  stop.    Stand,  traitress,  on  that 
stair — 

Thou    mountest     not    another,    by   the 
gods ! 

Now  take  the  death  thou  meritest,  the 
death 

Zeus  who  presides  o'er  hospitality, 

And   every   other   god  whom  thou  hast 
left, 

And  every  other  who  abandons  thee 

In  this  accursed  city,  sends  at  last. 

Turn,  vilest  of  vile   slaves!   turn,  para- 
mour 

Of  what  all  other  women  hate,  of  cow- 
ards, 

Turn,  lest  this  hand  wrench  back   thy 
head,  and  toss 

It  and  its  odors  to  the  dust  and  flames. 
Helen.     Welcome,     the     death     thou 
promisest !    Not  fear 

But  shame,  obedience,  duty,  make  me 
turn. 
Menelaus.     Duty  !   false  harlot ! 
Helen.  Name  too  true  !  severe 

Precursor  to  the  blow  that  is  to  fall. 

It  should  alone  suffice  for  killing  me. 
Menelaus.    Ay,  weep  :  be  not  the  only 
one  in  Troy 

Who  wails  not  on   this  day — its  last — 
the  day 

Thou  and  thy  crimes  darken  with  dead 
on  dead. 
Helen.     Spare !  spare  !    O  let  the  last 
that  falls  be  me, 

There  are  but  young  and  old. 

Menelaus.  There  are  but  guilty 

Where  thou  art,  and  the  sword  strikes 
none  amiss. 


LAN DOR 


4S3 


Hearest    thou  not  the  creeping   blood 

buzz  near 
Like  flies  ?  or  wouldst  thou  rather  hear 

it  hiss 
Louder,  against  the  flaming  roofs  thrown 

down 
Wherewith  the  streets  are  pathless?  Ay. 

but  vengeance 
Springs  over  all :  and  Nemesis  and  Ate 
Drove  back  the  flying  ashes  with  both 

hands. 
I  never  saw  thee  weep  till  now :   and 

now 
There  is  no  pity  in  thy  tears.     The  tiger 
Leaves   not   her   young   athirst   for  the 

first  milk, 
As  thou  didst.     Thine  could  scarce  have 

clasped  thy  knee 
If  she  had  felt  thee  leave  her. 

Helen.  O  my  child  ! 

My  only  one  !  thou  livest :  'tis  enough  ; 
Hate  me,  abhor  me,  curse  me — these  are 

duties — 
Call  me  but  Mother  in  the  shades  of 

death ! 
She  now  is  twelve  years  old,  when  the 

bud  swells 
And  the  first  colors  of  uncertain  life 
Begin  to  tinge  it. 
Menelaus  (aside.)  Can  she  think 

of  home  ? 
Hers  once,  mine   yet,   and  sweet  Her- 

mione's ! 
Is  there  one  spark  that  cheer'd  my  hearth, 

one  left, 
For  thee,  my  last  of  love ! 

Scorn,  righteous  scorn 
Blows   it   from   me — but   thou   mayst — 

never,  never — 
Thou  shalt  not  see  her  even  there.     The 

slave 
On  earth  shall  scorn  thee,  and  the  damn'd 

below. 
Helen.    Delay  not  either  fate.     If  death 

is  mercy, 
Send   me   among  the  captives  ;  so  that 

Zeus 
May  see  his  offspring  led  in  chains  away. 
And  thy  hard  brother,  pointing  with  his 

sword  [shore, 

At  the  last  wretch  that  crouches  on  the 
Cry,    "  She   alone   shall   never   sail    for 

Greece ! " 
Menelaus.  Hast  thou  more  words  ? 

Her  voice  is  musical 
As  the  young  maids  who  sing  to  Artemis  : 
How  glossy  is  that  yellow  braid  my  grasp 
Seiz'd  and  let  loose  !     All !  can  then  years 

have  past 


Since — but  the  children  of  the  gods,  like 

them, 
Suffer  not  age. 

Helen !  speak  honestly. 
And  thus  escape  my  vengeance — was  it 

force 
That  bore  thee  off  ? 
Helen.  It  was  some  evil  god. 

Menelaus.     Helping  that  hated  man  ? 
Helen.  How  justly  hated  ! 

Menelaus.     By  thee  too? 
Helen.     Hath   he   not  made   thee  un- 
happy ? 

0  do  not  strike. 
Menelaus.     Wretch ! 

Helen.  Strike,  but  do  not  speak. 

Menelaus.    Lest    thou    remember    me 

against  thy  will. 
Helen.  Lest  I    look   up    and   see   you 

wroth  and  sad, 
Against  my  will ;  O  !  how  against  my  will 
They    know  above,   they  who  perhaps 

can  pity. 
Menelaus.  They  shall  not  save  thee. 
Helen.  Then  indeed  they  pity. 

Menelaus.  Prepare  for  death. 
Helen.  Not  from  that  hand  :  '  t  would 

pain  you. 
Menelaus.  Touch  not  my  hand. — Easily 

dost  thou  drop  it  ! 
Helen.  Easy  are  all  things,  do  but  thou 

command. 
Menelaus.  Look  up  then. 
Helen.  To  the  hardest  proof  of  all 

1  am  now  bidden  ;  bid  me  not  look  up. 
Menelaus.  She  looks  as  when  I  led  her 

on  behind 

The  torch  and  fife,  and  when  the  blush 
o'erspread 

Her  girlish  face  at  tripping  in  the  myrtle 

On  the   first  step  before  the  wreathed 
gate. 

Approach  me.     Fall  not  on  thy  knees. 
Helen.  The  hand 

That  is  to  slay  me,  best  may  slay  me  thus. 

I  dare  no  longer  see  the  light  of  heaven, 

Not  thine — alas  !  the  light  of  heaven  to 
me. 
Menelaus.  Follow  me. 

She  holds  out  both  arms — and  now 

Drops   them   again. — She   comes. — Why 
stoppest  thou  ? 
Helen.  O  Menelaus  !  could  thy  heart 
know  mine, 

As   once   it  did — for  then  they  did   con- 
verse, 

Generous   the   one,   the   other    not    un- 
worthy—  [than  guilt. 

Thou   wouldst   find  sorrow  deeper   even 


454 


BRITISH   POETS 


Mania  us.  And  I  must  lead  her  by  the 
hand  again? 
Nought  shall  persuade  me.    Never.     She 

diaws  back — 
The  true  alone  and  loving  sob  like  her. 
Come  Helen!  [He  takes  her  hand. 

Helen.  O  let  never  Greek  see  this  ! 

Hide   me   from    Argos,    from  Amyclai 

hid  me, 
Hide  me  from  all. 

Menelaus.      Thy  anguish  is  too  strong 
For  me  to  strive  with. 
Hcli  a.  Leave  it  all  to  me. 

Menelaus.  Peace  !  Peace  !  The  wind,  I 
hope,  is  fair   for  Sparta.      1847. 

^ESCHYLOS  AND  SOPHOCLES 

Sophocles.     Thou  goest  then,  and  leav- 

est  none  behind 
Worthy  to  rival  thee  I 

sEschylos.  Nay,  say  not  so. 

Whose  is  the  hand  that  now  is  pressing- 
mine  ? 
A  hand  I  may  not  ever  press  again  ! 
What   glorious   forms    hath  it   brought 

boldly  forth 
From    Pluto's    realm !      The   blind   old 

QSdipos 
Was  led  on  one  side  by  Antigone, 
Sophocles  propped  the  other. 

Sophocles.  Sophocles 

Sooth'd  not  Prometheus  chain'd  upon 

his  rock, 
Keeping    the    vultures    and    the   Gods 

away  ; 
Sophocles  is  not  greater  than  the  chief 
Who  conquered  Ilion,  nor  could  he  re- 
venge 
His  murder,  or  stamp  everlasting  brand 
Upon  the  brow  of  that  adulterous  wife. 
JEschylos.     Live,  and  do  more. 

Thine  is  the  Lemnian  isle, 
And  thou  has  placed  the  arrows  in  the 

hand 
Of  Philoctetes,  hast  assuaged  his  wounds 
And  given  his  aid  without  which  Greece 

had  fail'd. 
Sophocles.     I  did  indeed   drive  off  the 

pest  of  flies  ; 
We  also  have  our  pest   of  them  which 

buzz 
About  our  honey,  darken  it,  and  sting  ; 
We  laugh  at  them,  for  under  hands  like 

ours, 
Without    the     wing    that    Philoctetes 

shook, 
One   single  feather   crushes   the   whole 

swarm. 


I  must  be  grave, 

Hath  Sicily  such  charms 
Above  our   Athens?  Many  charms  hath 

she, 
But  she   hath   kings.     Accursed  be  the 
race  ! 
JEschylos.      But   where   kings   honor 
better  men  than  they 
Let  kings  be  honored  too. 

The  laurel  crown 
Surmounts  the  golden  ;    wear  it  :  and 
farewell.  1847. 

SHAKESPEARE  AND  MILTON 

The    tongue  of    England,   that   which 
myriads 

Have  spoken  and  will  speak,  were  para- 
lyzed 

Hereafter,  but  two  mighty  men  stand 
forth 

Above  the  flight  of  ages,  two  alone  ; 

One  ciying  out, 

All  nations  spoke  thro''  me. 

The  other : 

True  ;  and  thro'  this  trumpet  burst 

God's  word ;  the  fall  of  Angels,  and  the 
doom 

First  of  immortal,  then  of  mortal,  Man. 

Glory  I  be  glory !  not  to  7iie,  to  God. 

1853. 

TO  YOUTH 

Where    art    thou    gone,     light-ankled 
Youth  ? 

With  wing  at  either  shoulder, 
And  smile  that  never  left  thy  mouth 

Until  the  Hours  grew  colder  : 

Then  somewhat  seem'd  to  whisper  near 

That  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
I  doubted  it :  I  felt  no  fear, 

No  weight  upon  the  heart : 

If  aught  befell  it,  Love  was  by 

And  roll'd  it  off  again  ; 
So,  if  there  ever  was  a  sigh, 

'Twas  not  a  sigh  of  pain. 

I  may  not  call  thee  back  ;  but  thou 

Returnest  when  the  hand 
Of  gentle  Sleep  waves  o'er  my  brow 

His  poppy-crested  wand ; 

Then  smiling  eyes  bend  over  mine, 
Then  lips  once  pressed  invite  ; 

But  sleep  hath  given  a  silent  sign, 
And  both,  alas  !  take  flight. 

1853, 


LANDOR 


455 


TO  AGE 

Welcome,    old    friend !      These    many 
years 

Have  we  lived  door  by  door  : 
The  Fates  have  laid  aside  their  shears 

Perhaps  for  some  few  mox-e. 

i  was  indocile  at  an  age 
When  better  boys  were  taught, 

But  thou  at  length  hast  made  me  sage, 
If  I  am  sage  in  aught. 

Little  I  know  from  other  men, 

Too  little  they  from  me, 
But  thou  hast  pointed  well  the  pen 

That  writes  these  lines  to  thee. 

Thanks  for  expelling  Fear  and  Hope, 

One  vile,  the  other  vain  ; 
One's  scourge,  the  other's  telescope, 

I  shall  not  see  again  : 

Rather  what  lies  before  my  feet 

My  notice  shall  engage — 
He  who  hath  braved  Youth's  dizzy  heat 

Dreads  not  the  frost  of  Age. 

1853. 

THE  CHRYSOLITES  AND  RUBIES 
BACCHUS  BRINGS 

The    chrysolites    and    rubies     Bacchus 
brings 
To  crown  the  feast  where  swells  the 
broad-vein'd  brow, 
Where  maidens  blush  at  what  the  min- 
strel sings, 
They  who    have    coveted    may  covet 
now. 

Bring  me,  in  cool  alcove,  the  grape  un- 
crushed, 
The   peach  of  pulpy  cheek  and  down 
mature, 
Where  every  voice  (but  bird's  or  child's) 
is  hushed, 
And  every  thought,   like  the  brook 
nigh,  runs  pure.  1853. 

SO  THEN,  I  FEEL  NOT  DEEPLY  ! 

So  then,  I  feel  not  deeply  !  if  I  did, 

I  should  have  seized  the  pen  and  pierced 

therewith 
The  passive  world  ! 

And  thus  thou  reasonest  ? 
Well  hast  thou  known  the  lover's,  not  so 

well 


The    poet's     heart :    while    that    heart 

bleeds,  the  hand 
Presses  it  close.     Grief  must  run  on  and 

pass 
Into  near  Memory's  more  quiet  shade 
Before  it  can  compose  itself  in  song. 
He  who  is  agonized  and  turns  to  show 
His  agony  to  those  who  sit  around, 
Seizes  the  pen  in  vain  :   thought,  fancy, 

power, 
Rush    back    into    his    bosom  ;    all    the 

strength 
Of  genius  can  not  draw  them  into  light 
From     under     mastering     Grief ;     but 

Memory, 
The  Muse's  mother,  nurses,  rears  them 

up, 
Informs,  and  keeps  them  with  her  all  her 

days.  1853. 

YEARS,  MANY  PARTI-COLORED 
YEARS 

Years,  many  parti-colored  years, 

Some   have   crept  on,  and  some  have 
flown 
Since  first  before  me  fell  those  tears 

I  never  could  see  fall  alone. 
Years,  not  so  many,  are  to  come, 
Years  not  so  varied,  when  from  you 
One  more  will  fall  :  when .  carried  home, 
I  see  it  not,  nor  hear  adieu.        1853. 

I  WONDER  NOT  THAT  YOUTH 
REMAINS 

I  wonder  not  that  Youth  remains 
With  you,  wherever  else  she  flies  : 

Where  could  she  find  such  fair  domain?, 
Where  bask  beneath  such  sunny  eyes? 

1853. 

ON  MUSIC 

Many  love  music  but  for  music's  sake, 
Many  because  her  touches  can  awake 
Thoughts  that  repose  within  the  breast 

half-dead. 
And  rise  to  follow  where  she  loves  to 

lead. 
What  various  feelings  come  from  days 

gone  by ! 
What  tears  from  far-off  sources  dim  the 

eye! 
Few,    when    light    fingers    with    sweet 

voices  play 
And  melodies    swell,   pause,  and   melt 

away, 


45  6 


BRITISH    POETS 


Blind  how  at  every  touch,  at  every  tone, 
A  spark  of  life  hath  glisten'd  and  hath 
gone.  1853. 

ROSE  AYLMER'S  HAIR,  GIVEN  BY 
HER  SISTER 

Beautiful  spoils !  borne  off  from  van- 
quished death  ! 
Upon  my  heart's  high  altar  shall  ye 
lie. 
Moved  but  by  only  one  adorer's  breath, 
Retaining  youth,  re  warding  constancy. 

1853. 

DEATH  STANDS  ABOVE  ME 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 
I  know  not  what  into  my  ear  : 

Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 
Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear.    1853. 

ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTH- 
DAY 

I  strove  with  none  ;  for  none  was  worth 
my  strife, 
Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature, 
Art; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of 
life, 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

1853. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SOUTHEY 

It   was  -a   dream    (ah !    what   is   not   a 

dream  ?) 
In   which  I  wander'd  thro'  a  boundless 

space 
Peopled  by  those  that  peopled  earth  ere- 

while. 
But  who  conducted  me  ?    That  gentle 

Power, 
Gentle  as  Death,  Death's  brother.     On 

his  brow 
Some  have  seen  poppies ;  and  perhaps 

among 
The  many  flowers  about  his  wavy  curls 
Poppies  there  might  be  ;  roses  I  am  sure 
I  saw.  and  dimmer  amaranths  between. 
Lightly    I  thought    I  leaped   across  a 

grave 
Smelling  of  cool  fresh  turf,  and  sweet  it 

smelt. 
I  would,  but  must  not  linger  ;  I  must  on, 
To  tell  my  dream  before  forgetfulness 
Sweeps  it  away,  or  breaks  or  changes  it. 


I  was  among  the  shades  (if  shades  they 

were) 
And  look'd  around  me  for  some  friendly 

hand 
To  guide  me  on  my  way,  and  tell  me  all 
That  compass'd  me  around.     I  wish'd  to 

find 
One  no  less  firm  or  ready  than  the  guide 
Of  Alighieri,  trustier  far  than  he, 
Higher  in  intellect,  more  conversant 
With  earth  and  heaven  and  whatso  lies 

between. 
He  stood  before  me — Southey. 

"Thou  art  he," 
Said  I,  "  whom  I  was  wishing." 

"  That  I  know," 
Replied  the  genial  voice  and  radiant  eye. 
i;  We  may   be   question'd,  question  we 

may  not  ; 
For  that  might  cause  to  bubble  forth 

again 
Some   bitter   spring   which  crossed  the 

pleasantest 
And  shadiest  of  our  paths." 

"  I  do  not  ask," 
Said  I,  "  about  your  happiness  ;  I  see 
The  same  serenity  as  when  we  walked 
Along  the  dowms  of  Clifton.     Fifty  years 
Have  roll'd  behind  us  since  that  summer- 
tide, 
Nor  thirty  fewer  since  along  the  lake 
Of  Lario,  to  Bellaggio  villa-crown'd. 
Thro'  the  crisp  waves  I  urged  my  side 

ling  bark, 
Amid  sweet  salutations  off  the  shore 
From  lordly  Milan's  proudly  courteous 

dames." 
"  Landor  1  I  well  remember  it,"  said  he. 
"  I  had  just  lost  my  first-born  only  boy, 
And  then  the  heart  is  tender  ;  lightest 

things 
Sink  into  it,  and  dwell  there  evermore." 
The  words  were  not  yet  spoken  when 

the  air 
Blew  balmier  ;  and  around  the  pai'ent's 

neck 
An  Angel  threw  his  arms  :  it  was  that 

son. 
"  Father!  I  felt  you  wished  me,"  said 

the  boy, 
"  Behold  me  here  f  " 

Gentle  the  sire's  embrace, 
Gentle  his  tone.     ' '  See  here  your  father's 

friend  !  " 
He  gazed   into  my  face,  then  meekly 

said  [ward 

"  He  whom  my  father  loves  hath  his  re- 
On    earth ;   a    richer    one    awaits    him 

here."  1853. 


LANDOR 


457 


ON  SOUTHEY'S  DEATH 

Friends  !  hear  the  words  my  wander- 
ing thoughts  would  say, 

And  cast  them  into  shape  some  other 
day. 

Southey,  my  friend  of  forty  years,  is 
gone, 

And,  shattered  by  the  fall,  I  stand  alone. 

1858. 

HEART'S-EASE 

There  is  a  flower  I  wish  to  wear, 

But  not  until  first  worn  by  you  .  . 
Heart's-ease  .  .    of    all  earth's    flowers 
most  rare ; 
Bring  it ;  and  bring  enough  for  two. 

1858. 

THE  THREE  ROSES  * 

When  the  buds  began  to  burst, 

Long  ago,  with  Rose  the  First, 

I  was  walking  ;  joyous  then 

Far  above  all  other  men, 

Till  before  us  up  there  stood 

Britonferry's  oaken  wood, 

Whispering,  "  Happy  as  thou  art, 

Happiness  and  thou  must  part." 

Many  summers  have  gone  by 

Since  a  Second  Rose  and  I 

(Rose  from  that  same  stem)  have  told 

This  and  other  tales  of  old. 

She  upon  her  wedding-day 

Carried  home  my  tenderest  lay  : 

From  her  lap  I  now  have  heard 

Gleeful,  chirping,  Rose  the  Third, 

Not  for  her  this  hand  of  mine 

Rhyme  with  nuptial  wreath  shall  twine  ; 

Cold  and  torpid  it  must  lie, 

Mute  the  tongue  and  closed  the  eye. 

1858. 

LATELY  OUR  SONGSTERS  LOI- 
TERED  IN   GREEN  LANES 

Lately  our  songsters  loiter'd  in  green 

lanes, 
Content    to    catch    the  ballads  of    the 

plains ; 
I    fancied   I  had    strength    enough    to 

climb 
A  loftier  station  at  no  distant  time, 
And  might  securely  from  intrusion  doze 
Upon   the   flowers   thro'    which    Ilissus 

flows. 

1  See  pages  428  and  441.  "  Rose  the  Third  "  was 
the  daughter  of  "  the  Second  Rose,"  and  thus  the 
grand-niece  of  Rose  Aylmer. 


In  those   pale  olive  grounds  all  voices 

cease, 
And  from  afar  dust   fills   the   paths  of 

Greece. 
My  slumber    broken    and    my   doublet 

torn, 
I  find  the  laurel  also  bears  a  thorn. 

1863. 

THESEUS   AND  HIPPOLYTA  i 

Hippolyta.     Eternal    hatred    I    have 
sworn  against 
The  persecutor  of  my  sisterhood  ; 
In  vain,  proud  son  of  iEgeus,  hast  thou 

snapped 
Their  arrows  and  derided  them  ;  in  vain 
Leadest  thou  me  a  captive ;  I  can  die, 
And  die  I  will. 

Theseus.     Nay  ;  many  are  the  years 
Of  youth  and  beauty  for  Hippolyta. 
Hippolyta.     I  scorn  my  youth,  I  hate 
my  beauty.     Go ! 
Monster !  of  all  the  monsters  in  these 

wilds 
Most  frightful   and  most  odious  to  my 
sight. 
Theseus.   I  boast  not  that  I  saved  thee 
from  the  bow 
Of  Scythian. 

Hippolyta.     And  for  what  ?    To  die 
disgraced. 
Strong  as  thou  art,  yet  thou  art  not  so 

strong 
As  Death  is,  when  we  call  him  for  sup- 
port. 
Theseus.    Him  too  will  I  ward  off ;  he 
strikes  me  first, 
Hippolyta,  long  after,  when  these  eyes 
Are   closed,   and   when   the   knee   that 

supplicates 
Can  bend  no  more. 
Hippolyta.        Is  the  man  mad? 
Theseus.  He  is. 

Hippolyta.     So,   thou    canst  tell  one 
truth,  however  false 
In  other  things. 

Theseus.     What    other?     Thou    dost 
pause, 
And  thine  eyes  wander  over  the  smooth 

turf 
As  if  some  gem  ( but  gem  thou  wearest 

not) 
Had   fallen   from  the  remnant  of  thy 
hair. 

1  Written  by  Landor  immediately  before  its 
publication,  at  the  age  of  eighty-eight.  Perhaps 
the  only  other  example  in  literature  of  such 
vigor  and  creative  power,  at  such  an  age,  is  that 
of  Sophocles. 


455 


BRITISH   POETS 


Hippolyta  !  speak  plainly,  answer  nip, 
AVhat  have  I  done  to  raise  thy  fear  or 
hate? 
Hippolyta.     Fear  I  despise,  perfidy  I 
abhor. 
Unworthy  man  !  did  Heracles  delude 
The  maids  who  trusted  him  ? 

Theseus.  Did  ever  I? 

Whether  he  did  or  not,  they  never  told 

me  : 
I  would  have  chided  him. 

Hippolyta.      Thou  chide  him  !  thou  ! 
The  Spartan   mothers    well    remember 
thee. 
Tlieseus.     Scorn  adds  no  beauty  to  the 
beautiful. 
Heracles  was  beloved  by  Omphale, 
He  never  parted  from  her,  but  obey'd 
Her  slightest  wish,  as  Tlieseus  will  Hip- 
polyta's. 
Hippolyta.     Then  leave  me,  leave  me 
instantly ;  I  know 
The  way  to  my  own  country. 

Theseus.  This  command, 

And  only  this,  my  heart  must  disobey. 
My  country  shall   be   thine,  and   there 

thy  state 
Regal. 
Hippolyta.     Am  I  a  child?    Give  me 
my  own, 
And  keep  for  weaker  heads  thy  dia- 
dems. 
Thermodon  I  shall  never  see  again, 
Brightest   of  rivers,   into    whose    clear 

depth 
My    mother     plunged     me    from    her 

warmer  breast, 
And  taught  me  early  to  divide  the  waves 
With   arms  each  day  more  strong,  and 

soon  to  chase 
And  overtake  the  father  swan,  nor  heed 
His  hoarser  voice  or  his  uplifted  -wing. 
Where  are  my  sisters  ?  are  there  any  left  ? 
Tlieseus.  I  hope  it. 

Hippolyta.   And  I  fear  it :  theirs  may 
be 
A  fate  like  mine  ;  which,  O  ye  Gods,  for- 
bid ! 
Tlieseus.     I  pity  thee,  and  would  as- 
suage thy  grief. 
Hippolyta.     Pity  me  not :  thy  anger  I 

could  bear. 
Tlieseus.    There  is  no  place  for  anger 
where  thou  art. 
Commiseration  even  men  may  feel 
For  those  who  want  it :  even  the  fiercer 

beasts 
Lick    the  sore-wounded   of    a    kindred 
race, 


Hearing  their  cry,  albeit  they  may  not 
help. 
Hippolyta.    This  is  no  falsehood  :  and 
can  he  be  false 
Who  speaks  it  ? 

'  I  remember  not  the  time 
When  I  have  wept,  it  was  so  long  ago. 
Thou  forcest  tears  from  me,  because  .  . 

because  .  . 
I  cannot  hate  thee  as  I  ought  to  do. 

1863. 

AN  AGED  MAN  WHO  LOVED  TO 
DOZE  AWAY 

An  aged  man  who  loved  to  doze  away 
An  hour  by  daylight,  for  his  eyes  were 

dim, 
And  he  had  seen  too  many  suns  go  down 
And  rise  again,  dreamed  that  he  saw  two 

forms 
Of  radiant  beauty  ;  he  would  clasp  them 

both, 
But  both  flew  stealthily  away.  He  cried 
In  his  wild  dream, 

"  I  never  thought,  O  youth, 
That  thou,  altho'  so  cherished,  would'st 

return, 
But  I  did  think  that  he  who  came  with 

thee, 
Love,   who  could  swear  more  sweetly 

than  birds  sing, 
Would  never  leave  me  comfortless  and 

lone." 
A  sigh  broke  through  his  slumber,  not 

the  last.  1863. 

WELL  I  REMEMBER  HOW  YOU 
SMILED 

Well  I  remember  how  you  smiled 

To  see  me  write  your  name  upon 
The  soft  sea-sand.     "0/  what  a  child ! 

You  think  you're  writing  upon  stone !  " 
I  have  since  written  what  no  tide 

Shall  ever  wash  away,  what  men 
Unborn  shall  read  o'er  ocean  wide 

And  find  Ianthe's  name  again. 

1863. 

TO  MY  NINTH  DECADE 

To  my  ninth  decade  I  have  totter'd  on. 
And  no  soft  arm  bends  now  my  steps 
to  steady  ; 
She,  who  once  led  me  where  she  would, 
is  gone, 
So  when  he  calls  me,  Death  shall  find 
me  ready.  1863. 


TENNYSON 

LIST  OF  REFERENCES 

Editions 

*  Complete  Works,  6  volumes  annotated  by  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson,  edited  by  Hal« 
lam  Lord  Tennyson,  The  Macmillan  Co.,  1908  (Eversley  Edition).  —  Complete  Works, 
with  Life,  10  volumes,  The  Macmillan  Co.,  1899.  —  Works,  7  volumes,  The  Houghton 
Mifflin  Co.,  1904  (New  Riverside  Edition).  —  Poetical  and  Dramatic  Works,  3  vol- 
umes, The  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1906  (New  Popular  Edition).  —  Works,  10  volumes, 
edited  by  Eugene  Parsons,  T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.,  1907  (Farringford  Edition). — Complete 
Works,  1  volume,  1893  (Globe  Edition). — *  Poetical  and  Dramatic  Works,  1  vol- 
ume, edited  by  W.  J.  Rolfe,  1898  (Cambridge  Edition).  —  Works,  1  volume,  1907  (Ox- 
ford Edition).  —  Lyrical  Poems,  selected  by  F.  T.  Palgrave  (Golden  Treasury  Series). 
—  Poems,  chosen  and  edited  by  Henry  van  Dyke,  Ginn  &  Co.,  1903. 

Biography 

*  Tennyson  (Hallam),  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  a  Memoir,  2  volumes,  1897;  new  edi- 
tion, 1  volume,  1905  (the  standard  biography).  —  Horton  (R.  F.),  Life  of  Tennyson, 
1900.  —  Lang  (A.),  Alfred  Tennyson,  1901  (Modern  English  writers).  —  Lyall  (A.  C), 
Tennyson,  1902  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series).  —  Chesterton  (G.  K.),  Tennyson, 
1904  (Bookman  Biographies).  —  Waugh  (Arthur),  Life  of  Tennyson,  1893.  *Benson 
(A.  C),  Alfred  Tennyson,  1904  (Little  Biographies). 

Reminiscences  and  Early  Criticism 

*  Hallam  (A.  H.),  Literary  Remains:  On  some  Characteristics  of  Modern  Poetry  and 
on  the  Lyrical  Poems  of  Alfred  Tennyson  (from  the  Englishman's  Magazine,  Aug., 
1831).  —  Wilson  (John),  Essays:  Tennyson's  Poems  (essay  of  1832).  —  [Lockhart 
(J.  G.)],  Tennyson's  Poems;  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1833.  —  Mill  (J.  S.),  Early 
Essays:  Tennyson's  Poems;  from  the  London  Review,  July,  1835.  —  Sterling  (John), 
Essays  and  Tales:  Tennyson's  Poems  (1842).  —  Spedding  (James),  Reviews:  Tennyson's 
Poems  (1843).  —  Horne  (R.  H.),  A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age,  1844.  —  Kingsley  (C), 
Miscellanies  (1850).  —  Milsand  (J.),  La  poesie  anglaise  depuis  Lord  Byron;  in  the 
Revue  des  deux  Mondes,  July  15,  1851.  —  *Brimley  (G.),  Essays:  Tennyson's  Poems; 
from  Cambridge  Essays,  1855.  —  Massey  (Gerald),  Tennyson  and  his  Poetry,  1855.  — 
*Roscoe  (W.  C),  Poems  and  Essays,  Vol.  II,  1860.  —  *Taine  (H.),  Histoire  de  la 
Literature  anglaise,  1863,  translated,  1871.  —  *Bagehot  (W.),  Literary  Studies, 
Vol.  II,  1879;  Wordsworth,  Tennyson  and  Browning  (essay  of  1864).  —  Fields  (J.  T.), 
Yesterdays  with  Authors,  1872.  —  Fields  (Mrs.  Annie),  Authors  and  Friends,  1896.  — • 
*Ritchie  (Anne  Thackeray),  Records  of  Tennyson,  Ruskin,  Browning,  1892.  — *Napier 
(G.  S.),  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Tennyson,  1892.  —  van  Dyke  (Henry),  The  Voice  of 
Tennyson,  in  the  Century,  Jan.,  1893.  —  *Knowles  (J.),  Personal  Reminiscences  of 
Tennyson;  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  Jan.,  1893.  —  Symonds  (J.  A.),  Recollections 
of  Tennyson;  in  the  Century,  May,  1893.  —  Rawnsley  (H.  D.),  Memories  of  the 
Tennysons,  1900.  —  Friswell  (Laura  H.),  In  the  Sixties  and  Seventies,  1906.  — 
Ellison  (Edith  N.),  A  Child's  Recollections  of  Tennyson,  1906.^-  Conway  (M.  D.), 
Autobiography,  1907. 

Later  Criticism 
Brooke  (S.  A.),  Tennyson,  his  Art  and  Relation  to  Modern  Life,  1894.  —  Chester- 
ton (G.  K.),  Twelve  Types,  1902.  —  *Dowden  (Edward),  Studies  in  Literature:  Mr. 
Tennyson  and  Mr.  Browning,  1878.  —  Everett  (C.  C),  Essays:  Tennyson  and  Brown- 
ing as  Spiritual  Forces,  1891.  —  *Gates  (L.  E.),  Studies  and  Appreciations,  1900. — 
Gosse  (E.),  Questions  at  Issue:  Tennyson  —  and  after,  1893.  —  Harrison  (Frederic), 
Tennyson,  Ruskin,  Mill,  and  other  literary  Estimates,  1899.  —  *Hutton  (R.  H.), 
Literary  Essays,  1871,  1888.  —  Henley  (W.  E.),  Views  and  Reviews.  1890.  —  Mackie 
(A.),  Nature  Knowledge  in  Modern  Poetry,  1906.  —  Mustard  (W.  P.),  Classical  Echoes 
in  Tennyson,  1904.  —  Myers  (F.  W.  H.),  Science  and  a  Future  Life,  1893  (essay  of 
1889).  —  Payne  (W.  M.),  The  Greater  English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907. 

459 


46o  TENNYSON 

—  Robertson  (J.  M.),  Essays  towards  a  Critical  Method,  1889.  —  *Royce  (J.), 
Studies  of  Good  and  Evil:  Tennyson  and  Pessimism,  1898.  —  Saintsbury  (G.),  Cor- 
rected Impressions,  1895. —  Shairp  (J.  C),  Aspects  of  Poetry,  1881.  —  *Stedman 
(E.  C.)i  Victorian  Poets,  1875,  1887.  —  Stephen  (Leslie),  Studies  of  a  Biographer, 
Vol.  II,  1899.  —  *S\vinburne  (A.  C),  Miscellanies:  Tennyson  and  Musset,  1886. — 
Traill  i>H.  D.),  Aspects  of  Tennyson;  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  Dec,  1892.  —  *van 
Dyke  (Henry),  Poetry  of  Tennyson,  1889.  —  Walters  (J.  G),  Tennyson:  Poet,  Philos- 
opher,  Idealist,  1893.  —  Ward  (W.  G.),  Tennyson's  Debt  to  his  Environment,  1898. 

—  Watts-Dunton  (T.),  Tennyson  as  a  Nature  Poet;  Tennyson  and  the  Scientific 
Movement;  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  May,  1893,  Oct.,  1893.  —  Whitman  (W.), 
Democratic  Vistas. 

Adams  (F.),  Essays  in  Modernity,  1899.  —  Austin  (A.),  The  Bridling  of  Pegasus,  1910. 

—  Dixon  (W.  M.),  A  Primer  of  Tennyson,  1896.  —  Faguet  (Emile),  Centenary  of 
Tennyson;  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1909.  —  Gordon  (William  C),  Social  Ideals 
of  Tennyson,  1906.  —  Gladstone  (W.  E.),  Gleanings  of  Past  Years  (1859),  1879.  — 
Howells  (W.  D.),  My  Literary  Passions.  —  Hutton  (R.  H.),  Brief  Literary  Criticisms, 
1900.  — *Ker  (W.  P.),  Tennyson,  1910.  — Luce  (M.),  A  Handbook  to  the  Works  of 
Tennyson,  1895.  —  Masterman,  Tennyson  as  a  Religious  Teacher,  1900.  —  Payne 
(W.  M.),  Little  Leaders,  1895.  —  Pearson  (C.  W.),  Literary  and  Biographical  Essays, 
1908.  —  Peck  (H.  T.),  Studies  in  Several  Literatures:  The  Lyrics  of  Tennyson,  1909.  — 
Slicer  (T.  R.),  From  Poet  to  Premier,  1909.  —  Sneath  (E.  H),  The  Mind  of  Tennyson, 
1900.  —  Stanley  (H.  M.),  Essays  on  Literary  Art,  1897.  ■ —  Taylor  (Bayard),  Critical 
Essays,  1880.  —  Warren  (T.  H),  Essays  of  Poets  and  Poetry,  1909. 

In  Memoriam. — Editions: — Tknnyson:  In  Memoriam,  annotated  by  the  Author, 
1906.  —  Beeching  (II.  C),  In  Memoriam,  with  an  analysis  and  notes,  1900.  — Mansford 
(C),  In  Memoriam,  1903. — Rolfe  (W.  J),  In  Memoriam,  edited,  with  notes,  etc., 
1895. — Squires  (Vernon  P.),  In  Memoriam,  edited,  with  introduction  and  notes,  1906. 

—  Commentary:  —  Bradley  (A.  C),  Commentary  on  In  Memoriam.. —  Chapman  (Eliza- 
beth R.),  A  Companion  to  In  Memoriam,  1888  (recommended  by  Tennyson).  —  David- 
son (Thomas),  Prolegomena  to  In  Memoriam,  1889.  —  Gatty  (A.),  Key  to  Tennyson's 
In  Memoriam,  1881.  —  Genung  (J.  F.),  Tennyson's  In  Memoriam,  its  Purpose  and  its 
Structure,  1884.  —  Jacobs  (J.),  Tennyson  and  In  Memoriam,  1892. 

Idylls  of  the  King. — Diialeine  (L.),  A  Study  of  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King, 
1905.  —Genung  (J.  F.),  The  Idylls  and  the  Ages,  1907.  —  Gurteen  (S.  H.),  The  Arthu- 
rian Epic,  1895.  —  Hamann  (Albert),  An  Essay  on  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King,  Berlin, 
1887.  — *  Jones  (Richard),  The  Growth  of  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  1895.—*  Littledale 
(H.),  Essays  on  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King,  1893. — MacCallum  (M.  W.),  Tenny- 
son's Idylls  and  Arthurian  Story  from  the  Sixteenth  Century,  1894.  —  *Maynadier  (H.), 
The  Arthur  of  the  English  Poets,  1907.  —  Nicoll  (W.  R.)  and  Wise  (T.  J.),  Literary 
Anecdotes  of  the  Nineteenth  Century:  The  Building  of  the  Idylls,  1896. — Pallen 
(Conde"  Benoist),  The  Meaning  of  the  Idylls,  1904.  —  Wuellenweber  (W.),  Ueber 
Tennyson's  Konigsidylle:  The  Coming  of  Arthur  und  ihre  Quellen,  1889. 

Tributes  in  Verse 

*Watson  (W.),  *Lacrymse  Musarum;  To  Lord  Tennyson;  The  Foresters.  —  *Hux- 
ley  (T.  H.),  in  Stedman's  Victorian  Anthology.  —  Gilder  (R.  W.),  The  Silence  of 
Tennyson.  —  Bourdillon  (F.  W.),  Sursum  Corda.  —  *Aldrich  (T.  B.),  Tennyson.  — 
Aldrich  (T.  B.),  "When  from  the  tense  chords  .  .  .  ,"  January,  1892.  —  *Long- 
fellow,  Wapentake.  —  Mackaye  (Percy),  Poems,  1909. 

Bibliography,  etc. 

Shepherd  (R.  H.),  Bibliography  of  Tennyson,  1896.  —  Grolier  Club,  Chrono- 
logical List  of  Tennyson's  Works,  1897.  —  Collins,  The  Early  Poems  of  Tennyson, 
with  Bibliography  and  Various  Readings,  1900.  —  Dixon  (W.  M.),  A  Primer  of  Tenny- 
son, with  Bibliography,  1896.  —  Luce  (Morton),  Handbook  to  the  Works  of  Tennyson, 
1895.  —  Providence  Public  Library,  Tennyson  Reference  List  (Monthly  Bulletin, 
Oct.,  1897).  — Livingston  (L.  S.),  Bibliography  of  the  First  Editions,  1901.  —  *Wise 
(T.  J.),  Bibliography  of  Tennyson,  1908. 


TENNYSON 


CLARIBEL 

A    MELODY 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall ; 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony. 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 

At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 

Athwart  the  thicket  lone  ; 
At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 

About  the  moss'd  headstone  : 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh, 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear- voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth, 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth.        1830. 

THE  POET 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above  ; 
Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn 
of  scorn, 

The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thrV  good 
and  ill, 

He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 

An  open  scroll, 

Before  him   lay ;  with  echoing  feet  he 
threaded 
The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 
The  viewless   arrows  of    his    thoughts 
were  headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame, 


Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver 
tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 

Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which 
bore 
Them  earthward  till  they  lit  ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field 
flower, 
The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving  took  root,  and  springing  forth 
anew 
Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance, 
grew 
A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  f  urnish'd  all  abroad  to  fling 
The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 

To    throng    with    stately    blooms    the 
breathing  spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with 
beams, 
Tho'  one  did  fling  .the  fire  ; 
Heaven  flow'd  upon   the  soul  in  many 
dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the 
world 
Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sun- 
rise 
Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burn- 
ing eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 


4.61 


BRITISH   POETS 


There  was    no   blood   upon   her  maiden 
robes 

Sunn'd  l>y  those  orient  skies  ; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 

Of  her  keen  eyes 

An i I  111  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in 
flame 
Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All    evil    dreams    of    power — a    sacred 
name. 
And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they 
ran, 
And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,   riving  the  spirit  of 
man, 
Making  earth  wonder, 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.    No 
sword 
Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whiiTd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  aud  with  his 
word 
She  shook  the  world.  1830. 

THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT  * 

PART  I 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky  ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers. 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses  ;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot  ; 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 

1  See  the  Life  of  Tennvson,  by  his  Son,  I,  116- 
117. 


Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott  ? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  "  'T  is  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 

PART  II 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be. 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot ; 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad. 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot  ; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two  : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  : 
"  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows."  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves. 


TENNYSON 


463 


The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gem  my  bridle  glitter'd  free. 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot ; 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung. 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewelFd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 

The  helmet  ami  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot  ; 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  Ins  helmet  flovv'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  lie  rode  flown  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash 'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"  Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide  ; 
The  minor  crack'd  from  side  to  side  ; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complain- 
ing, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  I  lamelot  : 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boal 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

Tlie  Lath]  of  Shalott. 


And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  loolc  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot ; 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
<  hanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer, 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot  : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space  ; 
1 1    said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face  ; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott."     1832,  1842. 

SONG:  THE   MILLER'S  DAUGHTER 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 

That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  in  her  ear  ; 

For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I  'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 


+04 


BRITISH  POETS 


And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

Abouf  her  dainty  dainty  waist. 

And  her  heart,  would  beat  against  me, 
I  n  sorrow  and  in  rest   ; 

And  i  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace. 

And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 
Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs  ; 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 
I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 

1832. 

CENONE 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida.  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  Of  Ionian  hills. 
The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the 

glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine 

to  pine. 
And  loiters,   slowly  drawn.     On  either 

hand 
The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway 

down 
Hang   rich   in   flowers,    and   far    below 

them  roars 
The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  cloven 

ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 
Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning  ;   but 

in  front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel, 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 

her  neck 
Floated   her   hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in 

rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with 

vine, 
Sang  to  the  stillness  till  the  mountain- 
shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 

upper  cliff. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many  fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the   noonday  quiet   holds  the 

hill  ; 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass  ; 
The    lizard,    with    his    shadow   on    the 

stone,  [dead. 

Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  winds  are 


The   purple   flower   droops,    the   golden 

lie,' 

Is  lily-cradled  :  I  alone  awake. 

My   eves  are   lull  of  tears,  my  heart  of 

love, 
My  heart  is  breaking  and  my  eves  are 

d  ira, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"O  mother  Ida,  many- fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida.  barken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth,  bear  me,  O  hills,  O 

caves 
That  house  the  cold-crown'd  snake!     O 

mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River  God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up 

all 
My   sorrow  with   my   song,   as   \onder 

walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud   that  gather'd    shape ;    for    it 

may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper 

woe. 

"O  mother  Ida,  mariy-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills  ; 
Aloft    the    mountain-lawn    was    dewy- 
dark. 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain-pine. 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd, 

white-hooved, 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  barken   ere  I  die. 
Far  olf  the  torrent  eall'd   me  from  the 

cleft ; 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.  With  down- 

dropt  eyes 
I  sat  alone;  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Flouting  the  dawn  he  moved  ;  a  leopard 

skin 
Droop'd  from  bis  shoulder,  but  his  sunny 

hair 
Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a  God's; 
And  his  cheek  brighten'd  as  the  foam- 
bow  brightens 
When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all 

my  heart 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere 

he  came. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
He   smiled,  and   opening   out  his  milk 
white  palm 


TENNYSON 


465 


Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold, 
That   smelt    ambrosially,    and    while   I 

lo  >k'd 
Aud   listen'd,    the   full-flowing  river  of 

speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart  t 

•  My  own  CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd  CEnone,  my  own  .soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind 

ingraven 
•'For  the   most  fair,"    would    seem    to 

award  it  thine. 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married 

brows.' 

'■  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  T  die. 

He  pressed  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to 
mine, 

And  added,  "This  was  cast  upon  the 
board, 

When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the 
Gods 

Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus  ;  where- 
upon 

Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom 
'twere  due  ; 

Bit  ligbt-fo  >t  h'is  brought  it  yester-eve, 

Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common 
voice 

Elected  umpire.  Here  comes  to-day, 

Pallas  and  Aphroilite,  claiming  each 

This  meed  of  fairest.  Thou,  within  the 
cave 

Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest 
pine. 

Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  un- 
heal. 1 

Hear  all.  and  see  thy  Paris,  judge  of 
Gods." 

'•Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep    midnoon ;   one  silvery 

cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between   the  piny  sides 
>f  this  long  glen.     Then   to  the   bower 
they  cam  ■. 
Naked      they     came    to  that     smooth- 
swarded  bower,  [fire, 
Ami  at  their  feel  the  crocus  brake  like 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
I  lotos  and  lilies  ;  a  nd  a  wind  arose, 
And  overhead   the  wandering  ivy  and 
vine,                                              [toon 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a    wild    fes- 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  thegnarle  I  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro' 
and  t  liro'. 
30 


"  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit, 
And  o"er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and 

lean'd 
Upon     him,   slowly    dropping   fragrant 

dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the   voice   of  her   to 

whom 
Coming  thro'  heaven,  like  a   light   that 

grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the 

Gods 
Rise    up   for    reverence.     She   to   Paris 

made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith    to  embellish    state,   '  from 

many  a  vale 
And  river-sunder'd  champaign  clothed 

with  corn, 
Or  labor'd  mine  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,' she  said,  c  and  homage,  tax  and 

toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town    and    haven 

•    large, 
Mast-throng'd   beneath   her  shadowing 

citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

"  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 

Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of 
power, 

'  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 

Power  lit  ted  to  the  season  ;    wisdom-hred 

And  throne!  of  wisdom — from  all  neigh- 
bor crowns 

Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 

Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff .  Such  boon 
from  me, 

From  me.  In saven's  queen,  Paris,  to  thee 
king-born, 

A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king- 
horn. 

Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  mer^ 
in  pov.  er 

Only,  are  likest  Gods,  who  have  attain'd 

R  >5t  in  a,  happy  place  and  quiet  seals 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"  Dear  mother  Tda,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and    Paris   held   the  costly 

fruit 
Out  at  arm's-length,  so  much  the  thought 

of  power 
Flatter'd    his  spirit ;  but    Pallas    where 

she  stood        * 
Somewhat    apart,    her  clear   and  bared 

limbs 


466 


BRITISH    POETS 


O'erthwarted     with   the  brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold. 
The  while,  above,    her  full  and  earnest 

e\  e 

Over   her  snow-cold   breast  and  angry 

cheek 
Kepi  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  re- 
ply  : 

'Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self- 
control. 

These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign 
power. 

Yt-t  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 

Would  come  uncall'd  for)  but  to  live  by 
law. 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear  ; 

And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow 
right 

Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  conse- 
quence.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said :  'I   woo  thee  not  with 

gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am, 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are   frail   to   judge    of 

fair, 
Unbias'd  by  self-profit,  O,  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to 

thee, 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within   thy   pulses,    like   a 

God's. 
To   push   thee   forward   thro'   a  life   of 

shocks, 
Dangers,    and    deeds,    until   endurance 

grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown 

will, 
< 'i nded  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.' 

"  Here  she  ceas'd, 
And    Paris  ponder'd,   and   I  cried,    '  O 

Paris, 
<  rive  it  to  Pallas  ! '  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,   woe  is 

me  ! 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain 'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 
Fresh    as    the     foam,     new-bathed     in 

Paphian  wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 


From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom    her 

dee])  haii- 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder  ;  from  the  violets  her  light 

foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded 

form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated   the   glowing  sunlights,  as  she 

moved. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
Sho  with  a  sub-tie  smile  in  her  mild  eyes. 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
ilalf-whisper'd   in  his   ear,    'I   promise 

thee 
The   fairest    and    most  loving    wife    in 

Greece.' 
She  spoke  and  laugh'd  ;  I  shut  my  sight 

for  fear  ; 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his 

arm, 
And  I  beheld. great  Here's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower  ; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

"  Yet,  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest — why   fairest    wife?    am   I   not 

fair  ? 
My  love   hath  told  me  so  a  thousand 

times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 
When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  paid. 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful 

tail 
Crouch'd  fawning  in  the   weed.     Most 

loving  is  she  ? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my 

arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips 

pressed 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling 

dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois  ! 

"  O  mother,  bear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away. my   tallest 

pines, 
My    tall    dark   pines,    that    plumed    the 

craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  be- 
tween 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet — from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the 
dark  morn 


TENNYSON 


467 


The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while 

I  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro' them  ;  never  see  them  over- 
laid 
With   narrow    moonlit    slips    of    silver 

cloud, 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trem- 
bling stars. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish   that   somewhere   in    the   ruin'd 

folds. 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the 

glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with 

her 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall. 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  t  lie  board, 
And    bred   this   change  ;   that   I   might 

speak  my  mind. 
And  tell   her  to  her  face   how   much   I 

hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods   and 

men. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand 

times, 
In   this   green  valley,  under  this  green 

hill, 
Even  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this 

stone  ? 
Seal'd  it  with   kisses?   water'd   it   with 

tears  ? 
O  happy  (ears,  and  how  unliketo  these  ! 
O  happy  heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my 

face  ? 

0  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my 

weight  ?  [cloud, 

O death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth. 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,    that   love   to 

live  ; 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life, 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  with- 
in, 

Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids  ;  let  me  die. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yel   befoi'e  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  t  lioughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more 

and  more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds    al    night   come    from   the 

inmost  hills, 


Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born.     Her   child  ! — a   shudder 

comes 
Across  me  :  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest.  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes  ! 

"  O,  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me.  O  earth.  I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to 

me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road   of 

death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise  and 

go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come 

forth 
Talk  with  the   wild   Cassandra,    for  she 

says 
A  fire  dances  before  her.  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What    this    may    be  I    know    not,  but   I 

know 
That  wheresoe'er  lam  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  airseemonlv  burning  fire." 
1832,  1842. 

THE  SISTERS 

AVE  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  ; 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face. 

The    wind  is   blowing    in    turret   and 
tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

O,  the  earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

She  died  ;  she  went  to  burning  flame  ; 
She  mix'd  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and 

late, 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait  ! 

O,  the  earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

T  made  a  feast  ;  I  bade  him  come  ; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
A  nd  after  supper,  on  a  bed, 
I  'p  hi  my  lap  lie  laid  his  head. 

O,  the  earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest. 

His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turrel  and  tree, 
1  hated  him  with  the  hale  of  hell, 
Bu<  1  loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O,  the  earl  was  lair  to  see  ! 


4oS 


BRITISH     POETS 


I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night ; 

I  made  my  daggei  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  bis  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  1  stabb'd  him  thro'  and  thro'. 

0,  the  earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  curl'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head. 
Be  look'd  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  t  urret  and  tree. 
I  wrapped  his  body  in  the  sheet. 

And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 
0,  the  earl  was  fair  to  see  I  1832. 

THE  PALACE  OF  ART  * 

I  built  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 
Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
id,   "0  Soul,  make  merry  and   ca- 
rouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well.  " 

A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  burn- 
ish'd  brass, 
I  chose.     The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  sealed  the  light 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.  Of  ledge  or  shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  wi ruling  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "  while  the  world  runs  round  and 
round."     I  said. 
"Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as.  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stead- 
fast shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily: 

•'  Trust  me,  in  bliss  1  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for 
me. 
So  royal-rich  and  wide." 


Four  courts  I  made.  East, West  and  South 
and  North, 
In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrorh 
The  golden    gorge   of   dragons  spouted 
forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there 
ran  a  row 
Of    cloisters,    branch'd    like    mighty 

woods, 

1  Sr-p  the  Life  of  Tennyson    T    118-121 


Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  siionted  fountain-floods: 

And  round  the  roofs  a,  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands. 
Far   as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where 
the  sky 
Dipped  down  to  sea   and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one 
swell 
Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
In'  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,"  And  who  shall  gaze 
upon 
My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the 
sun, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ?" 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never 
fail'd, 
And,    while    day    sank    or    mounted 
higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd 
and  traced, 
Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadow'd   grots  of  arches   inter- 
laced, 
And  tipped  with  frost-like  spires. 

Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 
Thro'  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul  did 
pass, 
Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace 
stood , 
All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  "of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green 
and  blue, 
Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where   with    puff'd   cheek    the    belted 
hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 


TENNYSON 


469 


One  seem  d  all  dark  and  red — a  tract  of 
sand, 

And  some  one  pacing-  there  alone, 
Who   paced   for   ever    in  a  glimmering 
land. 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd   an   iron  coast   and  angry 
waves. 
You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and 
fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing 
caves. 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow- 
By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain. 
The  ragged   rims   of   thunder   brooding 
low. 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil. 
In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.     Be- 
hind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one  a  foreground  black  with  stones 
and  slags  ; 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights  ;  and  higher 
All  barr'd    with    long   white   cloud  the 
scornful  crags ; 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And   one.  an  English   home — gray  twi- 
light pour'd 
On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees. 
Softer   than   sleep — all   things   in   order 
stored, 
A  haunt  of.  ancient  Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,   but  every   landscape 
fair, 
As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind. 
Or  gay.  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  was 
there 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix, 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm* 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx 
Sat  smiling,  ha  be  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  dear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea, 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound    with    white    roses,   slept    Saint 
Cecily; 
An  angel  look'd  at  her. 


Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The    dying    Islamite,    with    hands  ana 

eyes 
That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wounded  son 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay'd   the  Ausonian 
king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Caina  slowly  sail'd 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  "sweet    Europa's    mantle    blew   un- 
clasp'd, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne; 
From   one    hand  droop'd  a  crocus;  one 
hand  grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flush'd  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  living  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone  :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells 
that  swung. 
Moved     of     themselves,    with     silver 
sounds ; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  m<  n 
I  hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there    was    Milton    like    a    seraph 
strong. 
Beside   him    Shakespeare    bland   and 
mild  : 
And  there  the  world- worn  Dante graspVi 
his  s<  >ng, 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest  ; 

A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin  ; 
A    hundred     winters   snow'd    upon    Ins 
In-east. 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin 


47° 


BRITISH    POETS 


Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 

With  cycles  of  tlie  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every 
land 
So  wrought  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 
Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads  and 
stings  ; 
Here  play'd,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings  ; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or 
bind 
All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man 
declined, 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod  ;  and  those  great 
bells 
Began  to  chime.     She  took  her  throne  ; 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And    thro'   the    topmost   oriels'   colored 
flame 
Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below  ; 
Plato    the    wise,  and  large-brow'd  Ver- 
ulam. 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names  that  in  their  motion 
were 
Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change, 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd 
fail- 
In  diverse  raiment  strange  ; 

Thro'  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  em- 
erald, blue, 
Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes, 
And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from  Mem- 
non,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 
More   than    my   soul  to  hear  her   echo'd 
song 
Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone  ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful 
mirth. 
Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 


Lord   over    Nature,  lord  of   the   visible 
earth. 
Lord  of  the  senses  five  ; 

Communing  with  herself :  "  All  these  are 
mine, 
And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars. 
'Tis    one     to    me."     She — when   young 
night  divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

Mak  i  ng  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils — 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems, 
And  pure  quintessences   of  precious  oils 
In  hollow'd  moons  of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven  ;  and  clapped  her  hands 
and  cried, 
"  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich  and  wide 
Be  tiatter'd  to  the  height. 

"  0  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various 
eyes  ! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well ! 

0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell ! 

"  O  Godlike  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 
What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves 

of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

"In  filthy  sloughs  they   roll  a   prurient 

skin, 
They   graze   and    wallow,    breed    and 

sleep ; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 

And  drives  them  to  the  deep." 

Then   of  the  moral  instinct    would  she 
prate 
And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 
As   hers   by   right   of   full-accomplish'd 
Fate; 
And  at  the  last  she  said  : 

"  I  take  possession  of   man's   mind  and 
deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 

1  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 

But  contemplating  all." 

Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not   the   less   held   she   her   solemn 
mirth, 
And  intellectual  throne. 


TENNYSON 


47 1 


And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd  ;  so  three 
years 
She  prosper'd  ;  on  the  fourth  she  fell, 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his 
ears, 
Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she   would    think,    where'  er  she 
ttyn'd  her  sight 
The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 
Wrote, '"  Mene,  mene."and  divided  quite 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 
Fell   on  her,   from  which   mood    was 
born 
Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that 
mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

"  What !     is   not     this     my    place    of 
strength,"  she  said, 
"  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof    the  strong  foundation-stones 
were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory  ?  " 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes;  and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears 
of  blood. 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And  hollow   shades  enclosing  hearts  of 
flame, 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noun  she 
came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 
Or   power   of  movement,    seem'd   my 
soul, 
Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal ; 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in   with  bars  of 
sand, 
Left  on  the  shore,  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from 
the  land 
Their  moon  led  waters  white  ; 

A.  star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 
Join'd  not,    but   stood,  and  standing 
saw 


The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Roll'd  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent   pride  had 
curl'd. 
"  No  voice,"  6he   shriek'd  in  that  lone 
hall, 
"No  voice   breaks   thro'  the  stillness  of 
this  world ; 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all !  " 

She,  mouldering  with   the   dull   earth's 
mouldering  sod, 
In  wrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name  ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  any  where  ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears, 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 
And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime. 

Shut  up  as   in  a   crumbling   tomb,  girt 
round 
With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  off  she  seem'd  to   hear  the  dully 
sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall ; 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking 
slow, 
In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moonrise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea ; 

And  knows   not  if   it   be   thunder,  or  a 
sound 
Of  rocks  thrown   down,  or  one  deep 
cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts;  then  thinketh,  "  I 
have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 

She  howl'd  aloud,  "  I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I  die?" 

So    when    four     years     where     wholly 
finished, 
Siie  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 
"Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she 

said, 

"  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 


4?2 


BRITISH    POETS 


"Yet  pull  not  down    my   palace  towers, 
that  are 
So  lightly,  beautifully  built; 
Perchance    1    may   return   with  others 
there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 

1832. 

THE  LOTOS  EATERS 

l  rage!"  he  said,  and  pointed  to- 
ward the  laud, 

■  This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shore- 
ward soon." 

In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 

In  winch  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 

All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 
swoon, 

Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary 
dream. 

Full-faced  above  the  valley  stool  the 
moon  : 

And,  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender 
stream 

Along  the  cliff  to  fall  aud  pause  and  fall 
did  seem. 

Aland   of  streams!   some,  like  a  down- 
ward smoke. 
Slow-dropping   veils   of   thinnest  lawn, 

did  go  ; 
And   some   thro'   wavering    lights    and 

shadows  broke, 
Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 
They  saw  the  gleaming   river   seaward 

flow 
JTrom   the   inner   land  ;    far    off,    three 

mountain-tops, 
Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 
Stood   sunset-flush' d  ;    and,  dew'd  with 

showery  drops, 
Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine,   above  the 

woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 

In  the    red  West  ;  thro'  mountain  clefts 

the  dale 
Was  >een  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Border'd  \vithpalm,and  manya  winding 

vale 
And   meadow,    set  with    slender   galin- 

gale  : 
A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd 

the  same  ! 
And   round   about   the  keel  with  faces 

pale. 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 
The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters 

came. 


Branches    they  bore   of    that  enchanted 

Stem, 
Laden  with   flower  and   fruit,  whereof 

they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them 
And   taste,  to   him   the   gushing  of  the 

wave 
Far  far  away  did    seem  to  mourn  and 

rave 
On  alien  shores  ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the 

grave  ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 

did  make. 

They  sat  them  :  wn  upon  the  yellow 
sand, 

Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the 
shore ; 

And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father- 
land, 

Of  child,  and  wife  and  slave  ;  but  ever- 
more 

Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the 
oar, 

Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren 
foam. 

Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return  no 
more  ;  " 

And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "  Our  island 
home 

Is  far  beyond  the  wave;  we  will  no  longer 
roam." 

CHORIC  SONG 


There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer 

falls 
Than  petals   from   blown   roses  on  tha 

grass, 
Or  night-dews   on   still  waters  between 

walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass  ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes  ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from 

the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in     the     stream     the     long-leaved 

flowers  weep, 
And  from   the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy 

hangs  in  sleep. 

II 

Why  are   we  weigh'd  upon  with  heavi- 
ness, 


TENNYSON 


473 


And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  dis- 
tress, 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from 
weariness  ? 

AH  things  have  rest  :  why  should  we 
toil  alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan. 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown; 

N«>r  ever  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy 
balm  ; 

Nor  harken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

'•  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  " — 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 
crown  of  things  ? 

IU 

Lo  !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the 

bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no 

care, 
Sun-steep' d.  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed  ;  and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 
Lo  !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 
The    full-juiced     apple,    waxing    over- 
mellow, 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 
All  its  allotted  length  of  days 
The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 
Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no 

toil, 
Fast-rooted  in  (she  fruitful  soil. 

IV 

•Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Death  is  the  end  of  life  ;  ah,  why 

Should  life  all  labor  be? 

Let  lis  alone.  Time  driveth  onward 
fast. 

And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.  What  is  it  that  will 
last  ? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  be- 
come 

Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful 
past. 

Let  us  alone.  What  pleasure  can  we 
have 

To  war  with  evil  ?    Is  there  any  peace 

In  ever  el i i nl nng  up  the  climbing  wave? 

Ail  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward 
the  grave 


In  silence — ripen,  fall,  and  cease  : 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death, 
or  dreamful  ease. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  down- 
ward stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 
To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber 

light, 
Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on 

the  height  ; 
To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech  ; 
Eating  the  Lotos  day  b}'  day. 
To  watch    the   crisping   ripples   on   the 

beach, 
And   tender   curving   lines    of    creamy 

spray  : 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melan- 

choty  ; 
To   muse    and    brood  and  live  again  in 

memory. 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 
Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an 

urn  of  brass  ! 

VI 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And   their   warm    tears;    but   all   hath 

suffer'd  change  : 
For   surely  now  our  household  hearths 

are  cold, 
Our     sons     inherit    us,    our    looks    are 

strange, 
And   we   should   come    like    ghosts    to 

trouble  joy. 
Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel 

sin^s 
Before   them   of   the  ten  vears'  war  in 

Troy, 
And    our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten 

things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  (he  little  isle? 
i  ,e1  what  is  broken  s<>  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  ; 
"T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
1  iong  labor  unto  aged  breath. 
Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many 

wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the 
pilot-stars. 


474 


BRITISH    POETS 


VII 

But,  propped  on  beds  of  amaranth   and 

iihily. 
How    sweet — while   warm   airs  lull  us, 

blowing  lowly— 
With  half-dropped  eyelid  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy. 
To  watch  the  long  bright   river  drawing 

slowly 
His  waters  from  the  purple  hill — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined 

vine — 
To  watch  the  emerald-colored  water  fall- 
ing 
Thro'  many   a  woven   acanthus-wreath 

divine  ! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling 

brine, 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out 

beneath  the  pine. 

VIII 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak, 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding- 
creek  ; 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mel- 
lower tone  ; 

Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the 
yellow  Lotos-dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of 
motion  we, 

Roll'd  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard, 
when  the  surge  was  seething  free. 

Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted 
his  foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 

Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with 
an  equal  mind, 

In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie 
reclined 

On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless 
of  mankind. 

For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the 
bolts  are  hurl'd 

Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the 
clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with 
the  gleaming  world  ; 

Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over 
wasted  lauds, 

Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earth- 
quake, roaring  deeps  and  fiery 
sands, 

Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and 
sinking  ships,  and  praying  hands. 

But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  cen- 
tred in  a  doleful  song 


Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  an 

cient  tale  of  wrong. 
Like  a   tale   of  little  meaning   tho'  the 

words  are  strong  ; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used   race   of  men 

that  cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with 

enduring  toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and 

wine  and  oil ; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer — some, 

't  is  whisper d — down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysiau 

valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of 

asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber    is  more   sweet 

than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind 

and  wave  and  oar  ; 
O,  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not 

wander  more.  1832,1812. 

A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN 

I  read,  before  my  eyelids  dropped  their 
shade, 
"  Tlie  Legend  of  Good  Women"  long 
ago 
Sung  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who 
made 
His  music  heard  below  ; 

Dan   Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose 
sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that 
fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his 
art 
Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong 
gales 
Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho' 
my  heart, 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.     In 
every  land 
I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 
Beauty  and   anguish    walking  hand   in 
hand 
The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those   far-renowned    brides   of  ancient 
song 
Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning 
stars. 


TENNYSON 


475 


And   I   heard   sounds   of  insult,  shame, 
and  wrong, 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars  ; 

And  clattering  flints  batter'd  with  clang- 
ing hoofs  ; 
And  I  saw  crowds  in  column'd  sanctu- 
aries, 
And  forms  that  pass'd  at   windows   and 
on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces  ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold,  heroes  tall 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 
Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall, 
Lances  in  ambush  set ; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst   thro'  with 
heated  blasts 
That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues 
of  fire  ; 
White  surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails  and 
masts. 
And  ever  climbing  higher  ; 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen 
plates, 
Scaffolds,   still  sheets  of  water,  divers 
woes, 
Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults   with  iron 
grates, 
And  husli'd  seraglios. 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when 
to  land 
Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the   self- 
same way. 
Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level 
sand, 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in  pain, 
Resolved  on  noble  things,  and   strove 
to  speak, 
As  when  a  great   thought  strikes  along 
the    brain 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek-. 

Andonce  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 

A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 
That  bore  a  lady  from  aleaguer'd  town  ; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how, 

All  those  sharp  fancies,  by  down-lapsing 
thought 
Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and 
did  weep 
Roll'd  on  each  other,  rounded,  smooth'd, 
and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 


At  last  methought  that  I  had  wander'd 
far 
In  an  old  wood  ;  fresh- wash 'd  in  coolest 
dew 
The  maiden   splendors   of  the   morning 
star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree   boles  did  stoop  and 
lean 
Upon   the   dusky    brushwood    under- 
neath 
Their   broad   curved    branches,   fledged 
with  clearest  green, 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  Morn  had  died,  her  journey 
done, 
And   with   dead     lips    smiled  at  the 
twilight  plain. 
Half-fallen  across  the  threshold   of  the 
sun , 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in   the  dumb  dead 
air, 
Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill  ; 
Gross  darkness   of  the   inner   sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that   wide   forest.     Growths  of  jas- 
mine turn'd 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to 
tree, 
And  at  the  root  thro'  lush  green  grasses 
burn'd 
The  red  anemone. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I 
knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid 
dawn 
On   those   long,   rank,  dark  wood-walks 
drench'd  in  dew. 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 
Pour'd  back  into  my   empty  soul  and 
frame 
The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  undertone 
Thrill'd  thro*  mine  ears  in  that  unbliss- 
ful  (dime,  [own 

Passfreely  thro' ;  the  wood  is  all  thine 
Until  the  end  of  t  ime." 

At  length  T  saw  a  lady  within  call, 
Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  standing 
there ; 


476 


BRITISH   POETS 


A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
Ami  most  divinely  fair. 

Her   loveliness    with    shame    and    with 
surprise 
Froze  my  swift    speech  ;  she  turning 
on  my  face 
The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place  : 

••  I  had  great  beauty  ;  ask  thou  not  my 

name:  [tiny. 

No  one  can    be   more  wise  than  des- 

Many  drew  swords  and  died.     Where'er 

I  came 

I  brought  calamity." 

"No    marvel,  sovereign    lady:    in   fair 
field 
Myself    for    such   a    face   had   boldly 
died." 
I  answer'd  free  ;   and  turning  I  appeal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with   sick  and   scornful  looks 
averse. 
To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature 
draws  ; 
"My   youth,"   she    said,    "was    blasted 
with  a  curse  : 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

"I  was  cut  off   from  hope  in  that  sad 
place 
Which  men  call'd  Aulis-in  those  iron 
years : 
My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face  ; 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"Still   strove   to  sneak:    my  voice  was 
thick  with  sighs 
As  in  a  dream.      Dimly  1  could  descry 
The    stern    black-bearded    kings    with 
wolfish  eyes, 
Waiting  to  see  me  die. 

"  The  high  masts  flicker'd  as  they  lay 
afloat ; 
The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd,  and 
the  shore  ; 
The  bright  deatii  quiver'd  at  the  victim's 
t  hroat — ■ 
Touch'd — and  I  knew  no  more." 

Whereto   the   other   with  a  downward 
brow  : 
"I    would    the     white     cold     heavy- 
plunging  foam, 
Whirled    by    the    wind,    had   roll'd    me 
deep  below. 
Then  when  I  left  my  home." 


Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the  si- 
lence drear, 
As  thunder-drops   fall   on   a  sleeping 
sea : 
Sudden    I    heard    a    voice    that    cried 
"  Come  here, 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise, 
One   sitting   on   a   crimson   scarf  un- 
roll'd  ; 
A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold 
black  eyes, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,  flashing  forth  a.  haughty  smile,  be- 
gan : 
"  I  govern'd  men  by  change,  and  so  I 
sway'd 
All  moods.     'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen 
a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

"  The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow. 
I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood  : 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

"Nay — yet  it  chafes  me   that  I  could 
not  bend 
One  will ;    nor  tame  and   tutor   with 
mine  eye 
That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar.     Prythee, 
friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony  ? 

"  The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode 
sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck  ;  we  sat  as  God  by 
God: 
The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his 
time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

"We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep,  and 
lit 
Lamps  which  out-burn'd  Canopus.   O, 
my  life 
In  Egypt !  O,  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

"  And  the  wild   kiss,  when  fresh   from 
war's  alarms, 
My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leaped  into  my  arms, 
Contented  there  to  die  ! 

"  And  there  he  died  :   and  when  I  heard 
ray  name 
Sigh'd    forth    with    life,   I  would   not 
brook  my  fear 


TENNYSON 


477 


Of  the  other;  with   a  worm  I  balk'd  his 
fame. 
What  else  was  left?  look  here  !  "— 

With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and 
half 
The  polish 'd  argent  of   her   breast   to 
sight 
Laid  bare.     Thereto  she  pointed  with  a 
laugh. 
Showing  the  aspic's  bite. — 

"  I  died  a  Queen.     The   Roman  soldier 
found 
Me   lying   dead,  my   crown  about   my 
brows, 
A    name  for    ever  ! — lying    robed    and 
crown'd 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 

Her   warbling   voice,    a   lyre   of   widest 
range 
Struck    bjr  all  passion,  did  fall   down 
and  glance 
From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all 
change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When   she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for 
delight  ; 
Because  witli  sudden  motion  from  the 
ground 
She   raised   her  piercing  orbs,  and   fill'd 
with  light 
The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest 
darts  ; 
As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning 
lings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the   mighty 
hearts 
Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.  Then  I  heard 
A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro'  the 
lawn, 
.And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn  : 

"  The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 
From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late  and 

soon. 
Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro'  the 
dell, 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

■'The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  1  srael 
Floods  all   the  deep-blue  gloom  with 
beams  divine  : 


All   night  the  splinter'd  crags  that   wall 
the  dell 
With  spires  of  silver  shine." 

As  one  that  museth   where  broad   sun- 
shine laves 
The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  thro'  the 
door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Within,   and   anthem   sung,  is   charm'd 

and  tied 
To  where  he  stands, — so  stood  I,  when 

that  flow 
Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 

To  save  her  father's  vow  ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 

A  maiden  pure  ;  as  when  she  went  along 
From  Mizpah's   tower'd   gate   with   wel- 
come light. 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leaped  forth  :  "  Heaven  heads 
the  count  of  crimes 
With  that  wild   oath."     She   render'd 
answer  high  : 
"Not  so,  nor  once  alone;   a  thousand 
times 
I  would  be  born  and  die. 

"  Single  I  grew,  like  some   green   plant, 
whose  root 
Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes   be- 
neath, 
Feeding  the  flower  ;  but  ere  my  flower  to 
fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 

'•  My  God,  my   land,    my   father — these 
did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life  that  Nature 
gave, 
Lower'd  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of 
love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

"  And     I     went     mourning,    '  No     fair 

Hebrew  boy 
Shall   smile  away  my  maiden  blame 

among 
The   Hebrew   mothers' — emptied    of  all 

joy, 

Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

"  Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 
Leaving    the    promise    of    my    bridal 

bowel  [glow 

The    valleys  of  grape  loaded  vines  that 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 


A  78 


BRITISH    POETS 


"The  light  white  cloud  swain  over  us. 

Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring   from   his 

den  ; 
We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one 

bj  one. 

Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen, 

'  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 
flame. 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief  be- 
came 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

When  the  next  moon  was  roll'd  into 

the  sky. 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd  my 
desire. 
How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

"  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to 
dwell, 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's  will  ; 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

"  Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 
Hew'd  Amnion,  hip  and  thigh,  from 
Aroer 
On  Anion  unto  Minneth."    Here  her  face 
Glow'd,  as  I  look'd  at  her. 

.She  lock'd  her  lips ;  she  left  me  where 
I  stood  : 
"  Glory  to   God,"  she  sang,  and  past 
afar, 
Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the 
wood. 
Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively, 
As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans  his 
head, 
When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  sud- 
denly. 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  "  a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 
Murrnur'd  Inside  me:  "  Turn  and  look 
on  me  ; 
I  am  that    Rosamond,  whom  men   call 
fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse 
and  poor ! 
O  me,  that  T  should  ever  see  the  light  {• 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 
Do  hunt  me,  day  ami  night." 


She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and 
trust ; 
To    whom    the    Egyptian  :    "  O,  you 
tamely  died  ! 
You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist, 
and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro'  her  side." 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's 
creeping  beams, 
Stolen  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the  mys- 
tery 
Of  folded  sleep.      The  captain  of  my 
dreams 
Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn   broaden'd   on  the  borders  of  the 
dark 
Ere  I  saw  her  who  clasp'd  in  her  last 
trance 
Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of 
Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France  ; 

Or  her  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish 
Death, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about  her 
king. 
Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy 
breath, 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 
Gold-mines    of    thought    to    lift    the 
hidden  ore 
That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from 
sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.     With  what 
dull  pain 
Compass'd,  how  eagerly   I   sought   to 
strike 
Into    that    wondrous    track   of   dreams 
again  ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As   when   a   soul   laments,  which   hath 
been  blest. 
Desiring  what  is   mingled    with   past 
years, 
In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  expressed 
By  signs  or  groans  or  tears  ; 

Because    all    words,    tho'    cull'd    with 
choicest  art. 
Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet, 
Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 
Faints,  faded  by  its  heat.         1832. 


TENNYSON 


479 


SAINT  AGNES'  EVE 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  ; 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes; 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  clown  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord. 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  th9  heavens.  O  Lord  !   and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen. 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors  ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 
And  strows  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up  !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  Sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  Sabbath  deep  and  wide— 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea— 

•The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 

h  1837. 

YOU  ASK  ME.  AVHY,  THO'  ILL   AT 
EASE 

You  ask  me,  why.  tho'  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 
And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

His  the  land  that  freemen  till, 
That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose. 

The   land,  where   girt  with  friends  or 
foes 
A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 
A  land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
Where  Free, loin  slowly  broadens  down 

From  precedent  to  precedent : 


Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head. 
But,  by  degrees  to  fullness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinions,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime. 

And  individual  freedom  mute, 

Tho'  power  should  make  from  land  t-: 
land 

The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great— 

Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 
Should  fill  and  choke  with  golden  sand- 
Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 

Wild  wind  !     I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 

And  I  will  see  before  I  die 
The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 
1833.     1842. 

OF  OLD  SAT  FREEDOM  ON  THE 
HEIGHTS 

OF  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet; 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights; 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 

[f-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 
But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stepped  she  down  thro'  town  and 
field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 

The  fulness  of  her  face- 
Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down. 
Who,  Godlike,  grasps  the  triple  forks 

And,  king-like,  wears  the  crown. 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth,. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears; 

That    her    fair    form    may    stand    and 
shine. 
Make    blight  our  days    and   light  oui 
dreams, 
Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  ! 

/.     1842. 


*3o 


BRITISH  POETS 


LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND 

Love  fchou  thy    land,    with    love    far- 
brought 
From  out  the  storied  past,  and  used 
Wahiu  the  present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought  ; 

]?rue  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed  poles, 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends. 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  brothers,  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time, 
Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The    herd,    wild    hearts     and   feeble 
win  gs 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  nol  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,   who   wait  for 
day, 

Tho'  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 

Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds  ; 

But  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 

Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch    what    main-currents  draw    the 
years  : 

Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain. 

But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  ; 
Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers. 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 

Of  pension,  neither  count  on  pi-aise — 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days. 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch  ; 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw, 
Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term, 
Not    swift    nor   slow  to   change,    but 
firm  ; 

And  in  its  season  bring  the  law, 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 
With    Life    that,     working  strongly, 

binds — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm. 
And  moist  and  dry.  devising  long, 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong, 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 


We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees. 
All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove    itself  with   that    whici' 

flies, 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy.^ 

A  saying  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals. 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Even  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  school  ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States— 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 
But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark ; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd, 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind  ; 

A  wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 
And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head  ; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

O,  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes, 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close, 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood  ; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro' shame  and  guilt; 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 

Would    pace    the    troubled    land,     lika 
Peace  ; 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 

Would    serve  his   kind    in    deed  and 

word. 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword, 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away— 


TENNYSON 


Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that 
broke 

From  eitiier  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes  ; 

And  if  sonic  dreadful  need  should  rise 
Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke. 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  toDelav. 

1833.     1842. 

MORTE   D' ARTHUR 

3o  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea, 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonnesse  about  their.lord, 
King  Arthur  ;   then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and   the   moon  was 

full. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The     goodliest     fellowship   of     famous 

knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such 

a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardensand  the  halls 
Of  Camelot.  as  in  (lie  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made. — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that   I  should   come 

again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be 

be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That   without   help    l    cannot    last    till 

morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excali- 

hur. 
Which  was  my  pride  ;  for  thou  remem- 

berest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an 

arm 

up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed    in   white  samite,    mystic,  won- 
derful, 

31 


Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  row'd 

across 
And   took  it,  and  have   worn  it,  like  a 

king  ; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime.  this  also  shall  be  known. 
But  now  delay  not  ;  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 
Watch   what   thou    seest,    and    lightly 

bring  me  word." 
To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus, 
Aidless,   alone,   and  smitten    thro'  the 

helm. 
A   little   thing  may   harm  a  wounded 

man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  1  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee 

word."' 
So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 

stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He, 

stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 
There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Exca- 
libur, 
And   o'er  him,  drawing   it,  the  winter 

moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

ran  forth 
And   sparkled  keen  with  frost   against 

the  hilt  ; 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads    of    topaz-lights,    and    jacinth 

work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.    He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he 

stood, 
This  way  and   that   dividing   the   swift 

mind, 
In  act  to  throw  ;  but  at  the  last  it  seem' 1 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and   dry  about   the 

marge. 
So  strode  be  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

king. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

veiv  :  [I  gave  '.' 

"  Hast  then  pefform'd  my  mission  which 


4s. 


BRITISH    POKTS 


What  is  it  thou  hast  seen,  or  what  hast 

heard?" 
Ami  answer  made  the  hold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds. 
And    the    wild    water    Lapping    on    the 

crag." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale  :. 
"Thou  hast  bet  ray 'd  thy  nature  and  thy 

name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight  ; 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet    now,    I   charge   thee,   quickly    go 

again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  hade  thee,  watch,   and   lightly   bring 

me  word." 
Then   went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 

time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere, 
Counting   the   dewy    pebbles,    fix'd    in 

thought : 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

smote 

His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  : 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 

Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 

Should  thus   be   lost   forever   from   the 

earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 

many  men. 
What    good  should   follow  this,   if  this 

were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  dis- 
obey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king   de- 
mand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  king  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he 

does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Shi  >uld  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
Ami  rumors  of  a  doubt?  hut   were  this 

kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms, 
Saying,   •  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excali- 

bur,  [lake ; 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 


Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old   man   speak  in  the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence; 
But  now  much  honor   and    much   fame 

writ'  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  con- 
ceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

king. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,   breathing 

heavily  : 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen,  or  what  hast 

heard  ?  " 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And   the   long    ripple    washing   in   the 

reeds." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 

in  wrath  : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
TJirknightly,  traitor-hearted  !  Woe  is  me  1 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art, 
For    thou,    the    latest-left    of    all     my 

knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 

hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,    for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And   the   third  time   may  prosper,  get 

thee  hence  ; 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir   Bedivere,  and 

ran, 
And,  leaping  down   the   ridges   lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.     The 

great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon , 
And   flashing    round    and    round,    and 

whirl'd  in  an  arch. 
Shot  like  a    streamer   of  the   northern 

morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea 


TENNYSON 


48.3 


So  flash VI  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  ; 
But  ere  he  dipped  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Cloth'd  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 
And  caught  liim  by  the  hilt,  and  brand- 

ish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 

mere. 
And  lightly  -went  the  other  to  the  king. 
Then    spoke    King    Arthur,    drawing 

thicker  breath  : 
"Now  seel   by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 

done. 
Speak  out  ;  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 

or  seen?" 
And   answer  made   the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere : 
"Sir   King,  I   closed   mine   eyelids,  lest 

the  gems 
Should    blind    my   purpose,  for  I   never 

saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here   or  elsewhere,  till   I 

die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then    with    both    hands    I  flung   him, 

wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in    white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three   times,   and   drew   him   under  in 

the  mere." 
And     answer    made     King    Arthur, 

breathing  hard : 
"  My  end   draws   nigh  ;  't  is  time  that  I 

were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 

weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  :  yet  T  fear 
My  wound   hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 

die." 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 

rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  Ins  arm, 
And  looking    wistfully  with    wide   blue 

eyes 

As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  Ins  tears, 

And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words, 
Then    took  with   care,  and    kneeling  on 

one  knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 

hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 

tombs.  [bard. 

But,  as  be  walk'd,  King  Arthur  panted 


Like  one  that  feels  a   nightmare   on  his 

bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd 

the  king, 
Muttering  and   murmuring   at   his  ear, 

"  Quick,  quick  ! 
1  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  bis  breath,  and  looking, 

he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and   a 

cry 
Before.     His  own   thought   drove    him 

like  a  goad. 
Dry  clasb'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet   on  juts   of  slippery  crag  that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten   with   the   dint  of  armed 

heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake. 
And  the  long  -lories  of  the  winter  moon. 
Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 

barge. 
Dark  as   a  funeral    scarf  from  stem  to 

stern. 
Beneath   them  ;    and    descending    they 

were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream 

— by  these 
Three  queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 
Then   murmur'd    Arthur,  "  Place  me 

in  the  barge," 
And   to   the   barge    they    came.     There 

those  three  queens 
Put  forth  their  bands,  and  took  the  king, 

and  wept. 
But  she  that  rose   the   tallest   of   them 

all 
And    fairest,  laid  bis  bead  upon  her  lap, 
And    loosed    the    slialter'd    casque,    and 

chafed   his  bands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud, 


4s4 


BRITISH  POETS 


And   dropping   bitter  tears  against  his 

brow 
Striped  with  'lark  blood;  for  all  his  face 

was  white 
\nd  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east  ; 
And  all  bis  greaves  and  cuisses   dash'd 

with  drops 
Of  onset;  and   the   light   and   lustrous 

curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch'd 

with  dust  ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly   growth    that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  king  ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot   thro*   the   lists  at    Camelot,    and 

charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  Ah!  my  Lord  Arthur,   whither  shall  I 

go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are 

dead. 
When  every   morning   brought  a  noble 

chance, 
And  everv  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  ROUND  TABLE  is  dis- 
solved 
Which    was   an   image   of   the    mighty 

world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years, 
Among   new  men,   strange  faces,  other 

minds." 
And  slowly  answer'd  Arthur  from  the 

barge  : 
"  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new. 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways. 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 
Comfort   thyself:    what   comfort   is   in 

me  ? 
I  have  lived   my  life,    and  that  which  I 

have  done  [thou. 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but 


If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray     for    my    soul.     More    things    are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore. 

let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me   night  and 

day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 

goats 
That   nourish   a  blind   life   within    the 

brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call 

them  friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round   earth  is  every 

way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 

God. 
But  now  farewell.  lam  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 
For   all   my   mind    is    clouded    with   a 

doubt — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly,  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd.      happy,      fair       with 

orchard  lawns 
And    bowery     hollows     crown'd    with 

summer  sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of   my  grievous 

wound."' 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 

sail 
Moved  from  the   brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted,  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 

the  flood 
With    swarthy    webs.      Long   stood   Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 

of  dawn. 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 
1834.     1842.     1869.1 

DORA  2 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.    William  was  his  son. 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd  at 

them 
And   often  thought,    "I'll   make   them 

man  and  wife." 

lln  1869  the  Morte  eT  Arthur  was  incorporated 
in  tlip  Passing  of  Arthur,  the  last  of  t lie  Idylls  oj 
the  King. 

2  See  the  Life  of  Tennyson,  I,  J95-6,  and  265. 


i  ENNYSON 


485 


Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearn'd  toward  William;    but  the 

youth,  because 
He   hail   always    been    with   her  in  the 

house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When    Allan    call'd   his   son,  and   said: 

"  My  son, 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  Idle  ; 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora  ;  the  is  well 
To  look  to  ;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter  :  lie  ami  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and 

he  died 
Im  foreign  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora.     Take  her  for  your 

wife  ; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this   marriage   night 

and  day. 
For    many    years."     But    William     an- 
swered short : 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora  ;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora  !  "     Then  the  old 

man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands, 

and  said  : 
"  You  will  not,  boy  !  you  dare  to  answer 

thus  ! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to 

it; 
Consider,    William,    take    a.    month    to 

think. 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish, 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  yon  shall 

pack. 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again." 
But  William answer'd  madly .  bit  his  lips. 
Ami  broke  away'.   The  m  >re  he  look'd  at 

her 
The   less   he    liked   her;    and  his   ways 

were  harsh  ; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then  be- 

f  c  ire 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's 

house. 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the 

fields; 
And  half   in   love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd 

and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 
Then,    when    the    bells  were   ringing, 

Allan  call'd 
His  niece  ami  said  :  "  My  girl,  I  love  yon 

Well  ;  [son. 

But  if  you  speak  with  him   that   was   my 


Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his 

wife. 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is 

law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She 

thought, 
"It   cannot    be;    my  uncle's  mind  will 

change ! " 
And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born 

a  boy 
To   William ;    then   distresses   came   on 

him, 
And  day  by  day  he  passed  his  father's 

gate. 
Heart-broken,    and     his    father    helped 

him  not. 
But   Dora  stored  what   little  she   could 

save, 
And   sent   it    them  by  stealth,  nor    did 

they  know 
Who  sent  it  ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On    William,    and    in    harvest   time    he 

died. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary   sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and 

thought 
Hard   things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and 

said  : 
"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now. 
And    I    have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro' 

me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of   him   that's 

gone, 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he 

chose, 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you. 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these 

five  years 
So  full  a  harvest.     Let  me  take  the  boy 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  th<;  wheat;  that  when  his  heart 

is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy. 
And    bless    him    lor    the    sake    of     him 

that's  gone." 
And    Dora    took    the  child,  and  went 

her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies 

grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the,  field 
Ami  spied   her  not,   for  none  of  all  his 

men 
Dare   tell    him    Dora   waited  with   the 

child  ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to 

him,  [reap'd. 

But  her  heart  f'ail'd  her  ;  and  the  reapers 


486 


BRITISH    POETS 


\n  1  the  sun  fell,  and  all   the  land   was 

dark. 
But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose 

and  took 
The  child  once   more,  and  sat  upon  the 

mound  ; 
And    made   a    little    wreath    of   all    the 

flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it   round  his 

hat 
To  make  I  lira  plea  sin-- in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then    when   the   farmer   pass'd  into  the 

field 
He  spied  her,  and   he   left   his   men  at 

work, 
And  came  and  said :  ''Where   were  you 

vest  it.  lay? 
Whose   child   is   that?     What  are   you 

doing  liere  ? 
So  Dora  east  her  eves  upon  the  ground, 
And  answer'd  softly.  "  This  is  William's 

child!  " 
■•  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ?  "     Dora  said  again  : 
'•  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the 

child, 
And    bless    him    for   the    sake    of   him 

that  's  gone  !  " 
And  Allan  said  :  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up    betwixt    you     and   the    woman 

t  here. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  ! 
You   knew    my  word  was  law,  and  yet 

you  dared 
To  slight  it.     Well— for  I  will  take  the 

boy  ; 

But  go  you   hence,   and   never   see  me 

more."' 
So  saying,  he  took  the  boy  that  cried 

aloud 
And   struggled   hard.       The  wreath   of 

flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.      She  bow'd   upon    her 

hands, 
And  the  boy's  civ  came  to  her  from  the 

field 
More  and  more  distant.    She  bow'd  down 

her  head, 
Remembering   the  day   when   first   she 

came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She 

bow'd  down 
And    wept    in    secret;  and  the    reapers 

reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 

■  lark. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and 

St  I  II 

Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 


Was  not  with   Dora.     She  broke  out  in 

praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widow- 
hood. 
And    Dora   said  :  "My   uncle  took  the 

boy; 
But,  Mary,   let  me  live  and  work  with 

you  : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answer'd  Mary  :  "  This  shall  neve?: 

be. 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on 

thyself  ; 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the 

boy. 
For  lie  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to 

slight 
His  mother.     Therefore  thou  and  I  will 

go, 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him 

home  ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back. 
But  if  lie  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will   live   within   one 

house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he 

grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd  the 

farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch  ;  they  peep'd, 

and  saw 
The  boy  set  up   betwixt   his  grandsire's 

knees, 
Who  thrust   him  in   the   hollows  of  his 

arm, 
And  clapped  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the 

cheeks, 
Like  one   that   loved   him  ;  aud  the  lad 

st  retch'd  out 
And  babbled   for   the   golden  seal,  that 

hung 
From  Allan's  watch  and  sparkled  by  the 

fire. 
Then  the}"   came  in  ;  but   when  the  boy 

beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her  : 
And    Allan  set   him     down,   and   Man- 
said  : 
(iO   father  !— if  you  let   me   call  you 

so — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself. 
Or   William,  or  this   child;  but   now   i 

come 
For  Dora  ;  take  her  back,  she  loves  you 

well. 
O  Sir.    when   William   died,  lie   died  at 

peace 


TENNYSON 


48 


With  all  men  ;  for  I  ask'd    him,  and  he 
said, 

He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me — 
I  had  been  a   patient    wife  ;  but,  Sir,  lie 

said 
That  he  was   wrong   to  cross   his  father 

thus. 
'  God  bless  him  !'    he  said,  '  and  may  lie 

never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro' ! '    Then 

lie  turn'd 
His   face   and   pass'd — unhappy    that   I 

am ! 
Bat  now,  Sir,  let   me   have  my  boy.  for 

you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and   he  will  learn 

to  slight 
His   father's   memory ;    and  take   Dora 

back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before.'' 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By   Mary.    There    was    silence   in   the 

room  ; 
And  all  at   once   the   old   man   burst  in 

sobs  : 
"  I  have  been  to   blame — to  blame.     I 

have  kill'd  my  son. 
I  have  kill'd  him — but  I  loved  him — my 

dear  son. 
May  God    forgive  me  ! — I  have  been  to 

blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many 

times. 
And  all  the   man    was   broken   with  re- 
morse ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a   hundred- 
fold ; 
And   for   three     hours    he   sobb'd    o'er 

William's  child 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together,  and  as  years 

Went  forward  Mary  took  anothermate  ; 

But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 

About  1835.     1842. 

ULYSSES  * 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

I>v  this  still  hearth,  among  tln'se  barren 

crags. 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and 

dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That    hoard,    and    sleep,   ami    feed,   ami 

know  not  me. 

»See  the  Life  of  Tennyson,  I 


I  cannot  rest  from  travel  ;  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees.     All  times  I  have  en- 

.i".v'd 
Greatly,  have  stiff er'd  greatly,  both  with 

th' 
That  loved  me.  and  alone  ;  onshore,  and 

when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vextthe  dim  sea.     I  am  become  a  name  ; 
For  always  roaming  with  ahungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known, — cities  of 

men 
And      manners.       climates,      councils, 

governments, 
Myself  not    least,  but  honor'd   of  them 

all.— 
And   drunk   delight  of  battle  with    my 

peers. 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy, 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met  : 
Yet  all  experience  isan  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams   that    untravell'd    world    whose 

margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use  ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life  !     Life  piled 

on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  ;  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From   that   eternal    silence,    something 

more, 
A  bringerof  new  things  :  and  vile  it  were 

>:ne  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself. 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 
Beyond    the   utmost    bound    of   human 

t  hi  night. 
This  is  my  son.  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To    whom  I  leave   the   sceptre   and  the 

isle, — 
Well-loved  of  me.  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,    by  slow   prudence  to   make 

mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subline  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most    blameless    is     he.    centred    in    the 

sphere 
( >f  common  dul  ies  decenl .  nol  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  ami  pay 
Meel  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  1  amgone.     He  works  his  work,  I 

mile'. 

There  lies  the  port  ;  the  vesselpuffs her 

sail  : 
There  gloom  the    dark,  broad  seas.     My 
ma  riuers. 


438 


BRITISH    POETS 


Souls  that  have  fcoil'd  and  wrought,  and 
thought  w  ii  h  me, — 

That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 

The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  op- 
posed 

Free  hearts,  free  foreheads, — you  and  I 
arc  clil  ; 

Old  age  liatli  yel  his  honor  and  his  toil. 

Death  closes  all ;  but  something  ere  the 

(Mill, 

Some   work  of  noble  note,  may   yet  be 

done, 
Not   unbecoming  men  that   strove  with 

Gods. 
The   lights   begin  to   twinkle   from  the 

rocks ; 
The   long  day   wanes;   the   slow   moon 

climbs  :  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come, 

my  friends 
'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows  ;  for   my  purpose 

holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be   that  the  gulfs    will   wash  us 

down  ; 
It  may  be  we  shall   touch  the  Happy 

Isles,  [knew. 

And    see  the   great  Achilles    whom  we 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and 

tho'  [old  days 

We  are  not  now  that  strength   which  in 
Moved  earth  and  heaven,  that  which  we 

are,  we  are, — 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong 

i/i  will 
To   strive,  to   seek,  to   find,  and   not   to 

yield.  1842. 

LOCKS  LEY  HALL  1 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while 

as  yet  "t  is  early  morn  ; 
Lea\e  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me, 

sound  upon  the  bugle-horn. 

'T  is  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of 
old,  the  curlews  call, 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  fly- 
ing over  Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance 
overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring 
into  cataracts. 

1  See  the  Life  of  Tennyson,  I,  176  and  195. 


Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  case- 
ment, ere  I  went  to  rest. 

Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly 
to.  the  west. 

Many  a  night   I  saw   the  Pleiads,  rising 

thro'  the  mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fireflies  tangled 

in  a  silver  braid. 

1  [ere  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nour- 
ishing a  youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  lales  of  science,  and  the 
long  result  of  time  ; 

When   the   centuries   behind   me  like  a 

fruitful  land  reposed  ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the 

promise  that  it  closed  ;    ' 

When  I  dipped  into  the  future  far  as  hu- 
man eye  could  see, 

Saw  tire  vision  of  the  world  and  all  the 
wonder  that  would  be. — 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes 
upon  the  robin's  breast ;    . 

In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets 
himself  another  crest  ; 

In  the  spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on 
the  burnish'd  dove; 

In  the  yu'ing  a  young  man's  fancy  light- 
ly t  urns  lot  houghts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner 
than  should  be  for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a 
mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak, 
and  speak  the  truth  tome, 

Trust  me.  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my 
being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a 

color  and  a  light. 
As  I  have  seen  the   rosy  red  flushing  in 

the  northern  night. 

And  shctuni'd — her  bosom  shaken  with 
a  sudden  storm  of  sighs — • 

All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the 
dark  of  hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  "  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fear- 
ing they  should  do  me  wrong  ;  " 

Saying,  '"Dost  thou  love  me.  cousin  ?" 
weeping,  ''I  have  loved  thee 
long." 


TENNYSON 


489 


Love  took  up  the  glass  of  time,  and 
turn'd  it  in  liis  glowing  bands  : 

Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself 
in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote 
on  all  the  chords  with  might : 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self ,  that,  trembling, 
past  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we 

hear  the  copses  ring. 
And    her   whisper   throng'd   my  pulses 

with  the  fulness  of  the  spring. 

Many  an  evening  by   the  waters  did  we 

watch  the  stately  ships. 
And  our  spirits   rush'd    together  at  the 

touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,   shallow-hearted  !     O   my 

Amy.  mine  no  more  ! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary,  moorland  !     O  the 

barren,  barren  shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser 
than  all  songs  have  sung, 

Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile 
to  a  shrewish  tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ?     having 

known  me — to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  nar- 
rower heart  than  mine  ! 

Yet  it  shall  be  :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his 

leyel  day  by  day. 
What  is  line  within  thee  growing  coarse 

to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is.  the  wife  is  ;  thou  art 

mated  with  a,  clown, 
And    the    grossness   of   his    nature  will 

have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall 

hive  spent    i  1  -,  11.  .yel   force, 

Something  better  than    big  dog,  a  little 

dearer  than  his  horse. 

Wha.t  is  this?  his  eves  are  heavy  :  think 
not  they  are  glazed  with   wine. 

Go  to  him,  it  is  thy  duty;  kiss  him. 
take  his  hand  in  thine. 

ft  may  be  my  lord  is  weary. that  his  brain 

is  overwrought  : 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch 

him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 


He   will  answer  to  the   purpose,    easy 

things  to  understand — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I 

slew  thee  with  my  hand  ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden 
from  the  heart's  disgrace, 

Roll'd  in  one  another"s  arms,  and  silent 
in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin 
against  the  strength  of  youth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us 
from  the  living  truth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from 

honest  Nature's  rule  ! 
Cursed     be    the    gold    that     gilds    the 

straiten 'd  forehead  of  the  fool  ! 

Well — 't  is  well  that  I  should  bluster  !-— 
Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved^- 

Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee 
more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  tha* 
which  bears  but  bitter  fruit  ? 

I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my 
heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  sue?" 
length  of  years  should  come 

As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  lead^ 
the  clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is   comfort?   in    division   of  th> 

records  of  the  mind  ? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her 

as  I  knew  her,  kind  ? 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd  ;  sweetlj 
did  she  speak  and  move; 

Such  a  one  .do  I  remember,  whom  to  look 
at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her 

for  the  love  she  bore  ? 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly;   love  is 

love  for  evermore. 

< 'oinf'ort?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils  !  this 
is  truth  the  poel  sings. 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  re- 
membering happier  tilings. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it., 
lest  thy  hearl  be  put  to  proof, 

In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when 
the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 


49  o 


BRITISH    POETS 


Like   :i    dog,    lie    hunts    in    dreams,   and 

thou  art  staling  at  the  wall. 
Where   the  dying  night-lamp   flickers, 
and  the  shadows  rise  ami  fall. 

Then   a  hand   shall    pass    before    thee, 

pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep. 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the 

tears  that  then  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never," 
whisper'd  by  the  phantom  years, 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the 
ringing  of  thine  ears  ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  an- 
cient kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow  ;  get 
thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay.  hut  Nature  brings  thee  solace;  for 

a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
T  is  a  purer  life  than  thine,  a  lip  to  drain 

thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  ;  my  latest 

rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me 

from  the  mother's  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with 

a  clearness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his;  it  will  be 

worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy 

petty  part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching 

down  a  daughter's  heart. 

"They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feel- 
ings— she  herself  was  not  exempt  — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd  " — Perish 
in  thy  self-contempt  ! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy!  where- 
fore should  I  care  ? 

I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I 
wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which   I   should    turn  to, 

lighting  upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  goki",  and  opens 

hut  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng' d   with  suitors,  all 

the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  :"i  angry  fancy  :  what  is  that 

which  1  should  do  ? 


I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on 
the  foeman's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapor,  and 
the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  tin;  guinea  helps  the 
hurt  that  Honor  feels, 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarl- 
ing at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?    I  will  turn 

that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou 

wondrous  Mother-Age  ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild   pulsation   that  I 

felt  before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days   before  me,    and 

the  tumult  of  my  life  ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that 
the  coming  years  would  yield, 

Eager-hearted  as  a  hoy  when  first  he 
leaves  his  father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the   dusky  highway 

near  and  nearer  drawn. 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring 

like  a  dreary  dawn  ; 

And  Lis  spirit   leaps   within   him   to  be 

gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath   the   light    he   looks  at,  in 

among  the  throngs  of  men  ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever 
reaping  something  new  ; 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest 
of  the  things  that  they  shall  do. 

For  I  dipped  into  the  future,  far  as  human 

eye  could  see. 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 

wonder  that  would  be  ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  ar- 
gosies of  magic  sails, 

Pilot  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping 
down  with  costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and 
there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 

From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling 
in  the  central  blue  ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the 
south-wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plung- 
ing thro'  the  thunder-storm  ; 


TENNYSON 


491 


Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer, 
and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd 

In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federa- 
tion of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall 
hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe. 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber, 
lapped  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping 

thro'  me  left  me  dry. 
Left  me  with  the  palsied   heart,- and  left 

me  with  the  jaundiced  eye  ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things 
here  are  out  of  joint. 

Science  moves,  hut  slowly,  slowly,  creep- 
ing on  from  point  to  point ; 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion, 
creeping  nigher. 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  be- 
hind a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  in- 
creasing purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd 
with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  har- 
vest of  his  youthful  joys. 

Tho'  the  dee])  heart  of  existence  beat  for 
ever  like  a  b  iy's  '.•■ 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers, 
and'I  linger  on  the  shore, 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the 
world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers, 
and  he  hears  a  laden  breast. 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward 
the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,    my    merry  comrades    call    me, 

Sounding  on  the  bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion   were 
a  target  for  their  scoim. 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  tome  to  harp  on 
such  a  mi  iulder'd  string  ? 

I  am  shamed  thro' all  my  nature  to  have 
loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with    weakness! 

woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain 
Nature   made     them     blinder     motions 

bounded  in  a  shallower  brain. 


Woman  is  the  lesser  man.  and  all  thy 
passions,  match'd  witli  mine. 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as 
water  unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens, 
nothing.     Ah,  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where 
my  life  began  to  beat, 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my 

father  eA'il-starr'd  ; — 
I   was   left   a   trampled   orphan,  and   a 

selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  nil  links  of  habit — there  to 

■  wander  far  away, 
On  from  island  unt<>  island  at  the   gate- 
ways of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,   mellow 

moons  and  happy  skies. 
Breadths   of    tropic  shade  and  palms  in 

cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an 

European  flag. 
Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland, 

swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag  ; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower, 
hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree — 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark- 
purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment 
more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the 
thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer 
shall  have  scope  and  breathing 
space  ; 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she 
shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sine w'd,  they  shall 
dive,  and  they  shall  run. 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and 
hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun  ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap 
the  rainbows  of  t  he  brooks. 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over 
miserable  books — 

Fool,  agaiu  the  dream,  the  fancy  !  but  I 
lenoio  my  words  are  wild. 

But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower 
than  the  Christian  child. 


49- 


BRITISH   POETS 


1,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant 
of  our  glorious  gains, 
:  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a 
beast  with  lower  pains  ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage  — what  to 
me  were  sun  or  clime  ! 

I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  fore- 
most tiles  of  time — ■ 

I    that    rather    held  it  better  men  should 

perish  one  by  one, 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like 

Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalou  ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  For- 
ward. 1'orward  let  us  range, 

Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down 
the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep 

into  the  younger  day  ; 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle 

of  Cathay. 

Mother-Age. — for  mine  I  knew  not, — 
help  me  as  when  life  begun  ; 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash 
the  lightnings,  weigh  the  sun. 

0,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit 

hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well   thro' 

all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be.  a  long  fare- 
well to  Eoeksley  Hall  ! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now 
for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  black- 
ening over  heath  and  holt, 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its 
breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or 
hail,  or  fire  or  snow  ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  sea- 
ward, and  I  go.  1842. 

GODIVA 

T  in  a' fed  for  the  train  at  Coventry  ; 

I  hung  with,  grooms  and  porters  on  the 

bridge, 
To  watch  tin-  three  t<itt  spires ;  and  there 

I  shaped 
Tlie  citif*  ancient  legend  into  this  : — 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 


Cry  down  the  past,   not  only  we,  that 

]  i  rate 
Of   rights   and    wrongs,  have  loved  the 

people  well, 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax'd  ;  but 

she 
Did   more,  and    underwent,   and  over- 
came, 
The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 
Godiva,  wife   to   that   grim   Earl,    who 

ruled 
In  Coventry  ;  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 
Upon   Ins   town,  and    all    the   mothers 

brought 
Their  children,  clamoring,  "If  we  pay, 

we  starve ! " 
She   sought   her   lord,  and   found  him, 

where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  Ins  hair 
A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their 

tears. 
And  pray'd  him,  "If  they  pay  this  tax 

they  starve." 
Whereat     he      stared,    replying,     half- 
amazed, 
"You  would  not  let  your  little   finger 

ache 
For  such  as  these  f  " — "  But  I  would  die," 

said  she. 
He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by 

Paul, 
Then  fillip'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear  : 
"O,  ay,  ay,  ay,  you   talk  i  " — "Alas!" 

she  said, 
"But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not 

do." 
And   from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's 

hand, 
He  p„nswer'd,  "  Ride  you  naked  thro'  the 

town, 
And  I  repeal  it ; "  and    nodding,   as  in 

scorn, 
He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his 

dogs. 
So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and 

blow, 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 
Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth. 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trum- 
pet, all 
The  hard  condition,  but  that  she  would 

loose 
The  people  ;  therefore,  as  they  loved  her 

well. 
From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace 

the  street,  [all 

No  eye  look  down,  she  passing,  but  that 


TENNYSON 


493 


Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  win- 
dow barr'd. 
Then  tied  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and 

there 
Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 
The    grim    Earl's   gift;  but    ever    at   a 

breath 
She    liuger'd,    looking    like    a  summer 

moon 
Half-dipped  in  cloud.     Anon  she  shook 

her  head. 
And  shower' d  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her 

knee  ; 
Unclad     herself   in    haste ;    adown   the 

stair 
Stole  on  :  and  like  a  creeping  sunbeam 

slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 
The  gateway  ;  there  she  found  her  pal- 
frey trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 
Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with 

chastity. 
The   deep  air  listen'd  round  her  as  she 

rode. 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed 

for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the 

spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see ;    the  barking 

cur 
Made   her    cheek   flame  ;   her  palfrey's 

footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  thro'  her  pulses  ;  the  blind 

walls 
Were  full  of  chinl;s  and  holes  ;  and  over- 
head 
Fantastic-     gables,     crowding,     stared  ; 

but  she 
Not  less  thro' all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she 

saw 
The  white-flower'd    elder-thicket  from 

the  field 
Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archway  in  the 

wall. 
Then  she  rode  bade,  clothed  on  with 

chastity. 
A  lid  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless 

earth. 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 
Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd — but    his  eyes,  before  they  had 

their  will. 
Were    shrivellM    into    darkness    in    his 

head.  [who  wait 

Anddropped  before  him.  So  the  Rowers, 
On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd   a  sense  mis- 
used ;  fat  once, 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd ;   and  all 


With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the 
shameless  noon  [dred  towers. 

Was  clash  "d  and  hammer' d  from  a  hun- 
One  after  one  ;  but  even  then  she  gairi'd 
Her  bower,  whence  reissuing,  robed  and 

crown'd, 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name." 

1842. 

SIR  GALAHAD 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men , 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure. 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel. 
The  splinterkl  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel  ; 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands. 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall  ! 
For  them  1  battle  till  the  end. 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall  • 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My     knees  are    bow'd   in   crypt   and 
shrine  ; 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam. 

Me    mightier     transports     move   and 
thrill; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

Alight  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns] 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  T  ride  ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  I  here  ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean. 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark. 
I  leap  on  hoard  ;  no  helmsman  steers: 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  ao  awful  light! 

Three  angels  hear  the  Holy  Grail; 


494 


BRITISH   POJiiS 


With  folded  feet,  iristolesof  wliite, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ali,  blessed  vision!  bloo'd  of  God! 

M\  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
Ajsdowndark  bides  the  glory  slides, 

And  starlike  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charter  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  ( !hrisj  mas  morn, 

Tiie  si  reels  are  ilumh  wit  h  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And.  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and 
mail  ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain.  I  climb  the  height  ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  : 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  feus  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope.  I  know  not  fear  ; 
I  yearn  t>.  l.reathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear, 
This   weight  and   size,    this   heart   and 
eyes,  ' 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 
"  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange  ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  Holy  Grail.     1842. 

A  FAREWELL 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver  ; 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet,  then  a  river  ; 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 


But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder-tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  wdl  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee. 

A  thousand  moons  will  quiver  ; 
But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

For  ever  and  for  ever.  1842 

THE  VISION  OF  SIN 


I  HAD  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late ; 

A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace- 
gate. 

He  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would 
have  flown, 

But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 

And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of  sin, 

And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him 
in, 

Where  sat  a  company  with  heated  eyes, 

Expecting  when  a  fountain  should  arise. 

A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and 
lips — 

As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclipse, 

Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles 
and  capes— 

Suffused  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid 
shapes, 

By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine, 
and  piles  of  grapes. 


Then  methought  I  heard  a  mellow 
sound, 

Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground; 

Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assem- 
bled, 

Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trem- 
bled, 

Woven  in  circles.  They  that  heard  it 
sigh'd, 

Panted  hand-in-hand  with  faces  pale, 

Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones  re- 
plied ; 

Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering 
wide 

Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail. 

Then  the  music  touch'd  the  gates  and 
died, 

Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail, 

Si  i  irm'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale  ; 

Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 
waile  1, 

As  't  were  a  hundred-throated  nightira« 
gale, 


TENNYSON 


495 


The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd 

and  palpitated  ; 
Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound, 
Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles, 
Purple     gauzes,    golden     hazes,    liquid 

mazes, 
Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round. 
Then  they  started  from  their  places, 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue, 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view. 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew, 
Hair  and  eyes  and  limbs  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces, 
Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 
Dash'd  together  in  blinding  dew  ; 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony, 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Fluttered  headlong  from  the  sky. 

Ill 

And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  mountain- 
tract, 

That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and 
lawn. 

I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  with- 
drawn 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of 
dawn, 

Unheeded  ;  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 

From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly 
drawing  near, 

A  vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold, 

Came  floating  on  for  many  a  month  and 
year, 

Unheeded  ;  and  I  thought  I  would  have 
spoken, 

And  warn'd  that  madman  ere  it  grew 
too  late, 

But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not.  Mine 
was  broken, 

When  that  cold  vapor  touch'dthe  palace- 
gate, 

And  link"d  again.  I  saw  within  my 
head 

A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean  as 
deal  li, 

Who  slowly  rode  across  a  wither'd 
heath, 

And  lighted  at  a  ruin'd  inn,  and  said  : 

IV 

"  Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin  ! 

I  [ere  is  custom  come  your  way  ; 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in, 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 


''Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed. 
What  !  the  flower  of  life  is  past ; 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

"  Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour, 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath  ! 

Let  us  have  a  quiet  hour, 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

"I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink  ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine  \ 
I  remember,  when  I  think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

""Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips, 
When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day. 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame. 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee  ,° 

What  care  I  for  any  name? 
What  for  order  or  degree  ? 

"  Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg  ; 

Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine  ; 
Callest  thou  that  thing  a  leg  ? 

Which  is  thinnest  ?    thine  or  mine? 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works, 
Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too  ; 

Ruin'd  trunks  on  wither'd  forks, 
Empty  scarecrows,  I  and  you  ! 

"  Fill  the  cup  and  fill  the  can, 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn  , 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 

"  We  are  men  of  ruin'd  blood  ; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

"  Name  and  fame  !  to  fly  sublime 
Thro'    the    courts,    the   campr,  the 
schools, 

Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 
Bandied  by  the  hands  of  fools. 

"  Friendship  ! — to  be  two  in  one — 

Let  the  canting  liar  pack  ! 
Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone, 

How  she  mouths  behind  my  back. 

"  Virtue  ! — to  be  good  and  just — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well, 

Is  a  clot  of  warmer  dust. 

Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  helh 


496 


BRITISH    POETS 


"  O,  we  two  as  well  can  look 
White. I  thought  and  cleanly  life 

As  t  he  priest,  above  his  boob 
Leering  at  his  neighbor's  wife. 

"Fill  the  cup  and  fill  the  can, 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn  : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man. 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 

"  Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave  ; 

They  are  fill'd  with  idle  spleen, 
Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave, 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 

"  He  that  roars  for  liberty 
Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power, 

And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

"Fill  the  can  and  fill  the  cup  ; 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 
Freedom,  gaily  doth  she  tread  ; 

In  her  right  a  civic  wreath, 
In  her  left  a  human  head. 

"  No,  I  love  not  what  is  new  ; 

She  is  of  an  ancient  house, 
And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 

Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

"  Let  her  go  !  her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs. 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

"  Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool. — 

Visions  of  a  perfect  State  ; 
Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 

Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

"  Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave, 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 

And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

"  Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue, 
Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free  ; 

What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 
Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

"  Change,  reverting  to  the  years, 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears, 
And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 


"  Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love — 

April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance- 
Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 

And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

"  Fill  the  can  and  fill  the  cup ; 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up. 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads — 

Welcome,  fellow-citizens. 
Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads  ! 

'•  You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that? 

Every  face,  however  full. 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

"  Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex  ! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones, 
Madam — if  I  know  your  sex 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 

"  No,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye — nor  yet  your  lip  ; 

All  the  more  do  I  admire 
Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

"  Lo  !  God's  likeness — the  ground- 
plan — 

Neither  modell'd,  glazed,  nor  framed; 
Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 

Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed  ! 

"Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a  little  breath  ! 

Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 
Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death  ! 

"  Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 
And  the  longer  night  is  near — 

What !  I  am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 

"  Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd  ; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 

And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

"  Fill  the  cup  and  fill  the  can  ; 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  ! 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man  ; 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn." 


The  voice  grew  faint 
further  change  ; 


there  came  a 


TENNYSON 


497 


Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  moun- 
tain range. 
Below   were  men  and   horses  pierced 
with  worms, 

And  slowly  quickening  into  lower  forms  : 

By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum  of 
dross, 

Old  plash  of  rains,  and   refuse   patch'd 
with  moss. 

Then  some  one  spake  :  "Behold  !  it  was 
a  crime 

Of  sense  avenged   by   sense  that    wore 
with  time." 

Another  said:  '"The  crime  of  sense  be- 
came 

The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  blame." 

And  one  :  "  He  had  not  wholly  quench'd 
Ins  power  ; 

A  little   grain   of  conscience   made  him 
sou  r." 

At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 

Cry  to  the  summit,  "  Is  there  any  hope  ?  " 

To   which   an   answer   peal'd  from  that 
high  land. 

But  in  a  tongue   no   man   could   under- 
stand ; 

And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  with- 
drawn 

God   made   Himself  an    awful    rose   of 
dawn.  1842. 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones.  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  thai  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 
That  lie  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O.  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill : 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  ! 

Break,  break .  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  eras'?-.  O  Sea  ! 
But  the   tender   grace    of  a   day  that   is 
dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me.        1843. 

THE  POET'S  SONG 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 
He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the 
street ; 

T.2 


A    light  wind  blew   from  the   gates  of 
the  sun, 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the 
wheat ; 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place. 
And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweei . 
That  made  the   wild-swan  pause   in  her 
cloud. 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopped  as  he  limited  the  fly. 

The  snake  slipped  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on 
his  beak, 

And  stared,  withhis  foot  on  the  prey  : 
And  the    nightingale    thought.   "  I  have 
sung  many  songs. 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away."  1842. 

LYRICS  FROM  THE   PRINCESS 

Teaks,  idle  tears,  I   know   not  what 
they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  de- 
spair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn-fields, 
And   thinking   of  the   days  that  are  no 
more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on 

a  sail, 
That    brings   our   friends   up   from   the 

underworld. 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks    with  all   we  love   below  the 

verge  ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

All,  sad  and  strange  as  ir  dark  sum- 
mer dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd   birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement   slowly  grows  a  glimmer- 
ing square ; 
So  sad.  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no 
more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those   by  hopeless  fancy 

feign'd 
On  lips  thai  are  for  others ;  deepaslove, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  re- 
gret ; 
O   Death  in   Life,  the  days  that  are  no 
more  ' 


498 


BRITISH   POETS 


O    Swallow,    Swallow,    flying,    flying 
south, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  1  tell  to  thee. 

O,  tell  her.  Swallow,  thou  that  know- 
est  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the 

South. 
And   dark  and  true   and   tender   is   the 
North. 

O  Swallow.   Swallow,   if  I   could  fol- 
low, and  light 
Upon  her  lattice.  1  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And   cheep   and  twitter   twenty  million 
loves. 

O,  were  I  thou  that  she  might   take 
me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died  ! 

Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart 

with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are 

green  ? 

O,  tell  her,   Swallow,  that  thy  brood 
is  flown  ; 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is 
made. 

O,  tell  her.  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And   brief   the    sun    of    summer  in  the 

North, 
And  brief  the   moon  of   beauty   in   the 

South. 

O   Swallow,   flying   from   the    golden 
woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and   pipe  and   woo  her,  and 

make  her  mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee. 


As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears. 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O,  we  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 
And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears! 
For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 


There  above  the  little  grave, 
O,  there  above  the  little  grave, 
We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me  : 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  ; 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty 
one,  sleep. 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 
Blow,    bugle;    answer,    echoes,    dying, 
dying,  dying. 

O,  hark,  O.  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
O,  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  hormsof  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  reply- 
ing, 
Blow,    bugle :    answer,   echoes,    dying, 
dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river ; 
Our  eohoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,    bugle,  blow,  set  the   wild  echoes 

flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 


Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums 
That  heat  to  battle  where  he  stands; 

Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 
And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 


TENNYSON 


499 


A.  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 
He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 

The  next,  like  tire  lie  meets  the  foe, 
And  strikes  him  dead  foi    thine  and 
thee. 


Home  they  brought  her  war  ior  dead  ; 

She  nor  swoon'd  nor  utter'd  cry. 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

••She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place. 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stepped, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her   tears- 
"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon   may  draw 
the  sea ; 


The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and 

take  the  shape. 
With  fold  to  fold,   of  mountain  or  of 
cape ; 
But  O  too  fond,    when  have  I  answer'd 
thee  ? 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  what  answer  should  1 
give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 
Yet.  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee 
die  ! 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee 
live ; 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are 
seal'd  ; 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in 

vain  ; 
Let  the  great  river  take   me  to  the 
main. 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield  : 
Ask  me  no  more. 

1847-1830.1 

1  The  first  two  of  these  lyrics,  included  in  the 
1 1 oi  1  i  <>f  the  work,  were  published  in  the  original 
edition,  1847;  the  others,  inserted  between  the 
sections  of  the  poem,  were  first  given  in  the 
edition  of  1850. 


IX  MEMORIAM  A.  IT.  H. 


OBIIT     MDCCCXXXIII 


Strong  Sm  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace^ 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove  ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade  ; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute; 

Thou  madest  Death  ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 
Thou  madest  man.  lie  knows  not  why, 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 

Ami  thou  hast  made,  him  :  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine. 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou. 

Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how  ; 
Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them   thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  thfir  day  ; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  he  ; 

They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 
And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 


We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know, 
For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see  ; 
And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 

A  beam  in  darkness  :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell  ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  hear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  hear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me, 
What  seem'd  my  w<  it i i  since  I  began  ; 
For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 

And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

>  Arthur  Henry  H;illam,  Tennyson's  closest 
friend,  and  betrothed  to  Tennyson's  sister  Emily, 
died  al  Vienna,  September  r..  1833  See  the  Life 
of  Tennyson,  I.,  49-65,  75-8:1,  104-108;  and  2115-327, 


500 


BRITISH    POETS 


Forgive  rny  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  1  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

i  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

ive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth; 
Forgive  t  liem  where  they  fail  in  truth, 
And  in  thy  wis  lorn  make  me  wise. 

III 

0  Sorrow,  cruel  fellowship, 

O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath. 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip? 

"  The  stars,1'  she  whispers,  "blindly  run  ; 

A  web  is  woven  across  the  sky  ; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a  ciy, 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun  ; 

"  And  all  the  phantom.  Nature,  stands — 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own, — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind, 
Embrace  her  as  myr  natural  good  ; 
Or  crush  her.  like  a  vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind? 


I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel  ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I  '11  wrap  me  o'er 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  thecold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  en- 
fold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

•It  must  be  particularly  noticed  that  this  in- 
troductory poem  was  among  the  last  written  of 
tbose  which  make  up  In  Memoriam.  The  early 
parts  begin  with  No.  II.  or  No.  III. 

On  the  development  of  thought  and  feeling  in 
the  poem  as  a  whole,  which  is  fully  shown  m  t lie 
parts  here  given,  see  Thomas  Davidson's  Prole- 
gomena to  In  Memoriam,  Alfred  Gatty's  Key  to 

In  Memoriam,  and  J.  Tr'.  Genung's  In  Memoriam. 

See  also  the  special  Bibliography,  p.  460. 


VI 


One  writes,  that  "  other  friends  remain," 
That  "  loss  is  common  to  the  race  " — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more. 
Too  common  !     Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  wheresoe'erthou  be. 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son, 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 

Hath  still'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor, — while  ihyr  head  is  bow'd, 
ITis  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And     something     written,      something 
thought ; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home  ; 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  "  hereto-day," 

Or  "  here  to-morrow  will  he  come." 

0,  somewhere,  meek,  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair  ; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And   thinking   "this  will  please  him 
best,"  # 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color  burns  ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right ; 

And.  even  when  she  turn'd.  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'  the  ford, 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O,  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  ? 

To  her  perpetual  maidenhood, 
And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 


TENNYSON 


5°i 


VII 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street. 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was   used   to 
beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  fur  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more — 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep. 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  ;  but  far  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 

IX 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the 
prow  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run  ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


I  hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel : 
I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night; 
I  see  the  cabin-window  bright  ; 

I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bring'st  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell'd  men  from  foreign  lands ; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands; 

And  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him  :  we  have  idle  dreams  ; 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies.     O.  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 


To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 
That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet   drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God  ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gidf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine. 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in   mine, 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


-^■*L-tn-itJL 


XI 


Calm  is  the  mora  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief. 
Ami  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground; 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  on   these   dews  that  drench  the 

furze. 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  ; 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon   great  plain 
That    sweeps    with    all    its    autumn 

bowers, 
And    crowded    farms    and    lessening 
towers, 
To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  ; 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall, 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,   a  calm  despair  ; 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that   sway  themselves  in 

rest. 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 
Which    heaves    but    with    the    heaving 
deep. 

XIII 

Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And   moves   his  doubtful   arms,   and 
feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these  ; 

Which  weep  a  loss  for  ever  new, 

A  void  where  heart  on  heart  reposed  ; 
And,  where  warm   hands   have   prest 
and  closed, 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too  ; 

Which  weep  (he  comrade  of  my  choice 
An  awful  thought,  a  liferemoved, 
The  human-hearted  man  I  !oved, 

A  Spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 


BRITISH  POETS 


Come,  Time,  and  teach  me.  many  years, 

I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream  ; 

For  now   so  strange   do  these   things 
seem. 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears, 

Mv  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 

And    -lance    ahout   the   approaching 

sails. 
As  tho'  they  brought   but   merchants' 
bales, 
And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 

XIV 

If  one  should  bring  me  this  report, 
That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land  to- 
day, 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port  ; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe, 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come   stepping     lightly     down      the 
plank, 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know  ; 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I  held  as  half-divine, 
Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine, 

And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home  ; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 
And  how  my  life  had  droop'd  of  late, 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 

And  marvel  what  possess'd  my  brain  ; 

And  I  perceived  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 

XVIII 

'T  is  well  ;  't  is  something ;    we    may 
stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'T  is  little  ;  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and   bear   the 
head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 


Ah  yet,  even  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart. 
Would  breathing  thro'  his  lips  impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me  ; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 

XIX 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken'd  heart  that  beat  no  more  ; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills  ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  lulls. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along, 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all. 
When   fill'd    with   tears   that   cannot 
fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls  ; 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 

And  lean  speak  a  little  then. 

to  /         »— 

xxi  flM<<s^*>~ 

I  sing  to  him  that  rests  below, 
And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave. 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then. 
And  sometimes  harshly  will  bespeak: 
"This  fellow   would   make   weakness 
weak, 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men." 

Another  answers  :  "  Let  him  be, 
He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy." 

A  third  is  wroth  :  "  Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 
When  more  and  more  the  people  throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  ? 

"  A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 

When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To   feel   from    world    to    world,   and 
charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon  ?  " 


TENNYSON 


5°3 


Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing  ; 
Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust. 

I  do  but  sing  because  I  must. 
And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing  ; 

And  one  is  glad  ;  her  note  is  gay, 
For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged  ; 
And  one  is  sad  ;  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stolen  away. 

XX  III 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits, 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 

The  Shadow  cloak'd  from  head  to  foot, 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame, 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads  ; 

And  crying.  How  changed   from  where 
it  ran 
Thro'    lands   where  not   a    leaf    was 

dumb, 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 
The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan  ; 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 

And  Fancy  light  from    Fancy  caught, 

And  Thought   leaped  out  to  wed  with 

Thought 

Ere    Thought    could    wed     itself    with 

Speech ; 

And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 
And  all    was   good   that   Time  could 

bring. 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  ; 

A  ml  many  an  old  philosophy 
On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang. 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady. 

XXVII 

I  envy  not  in  any  7noods 
The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  bom  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods  ; 

1  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes; 

'Tor,  wliat  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth 


But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth; 
Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most ; 

"T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  Lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVIII 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still  ; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 

Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 
From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor. 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound ; 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease, 
Peace   and    goodwill,     goodwill    and 
peace. 

Peace  and  goodwill,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept,  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again  ; 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 
For  they  controlTd  me  when  a  boy  ; 
They  bring   me   sorrow   touch'd  with 
joy, 

The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Yule. 

XXX 

With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth; 
A  rainy  cloud  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gamboll'd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We    paused :    the   winds  were   in    the 
beech  ; 
We    heard    them  sweep    the    winter 

land  ; 
And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 
Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang  ; 
We  sung,  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year  ;  impetuously  we  sang. 


D°  + 


BRITISH   POETS 


We  ceased  ;  a  gentler  feeling  crept 
Upon  ns  :  surety  rest  is  inert. 
"They  rest."    we  said,  "their  sleep  is 
svveel ." 

And  silence  follow'd,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range: 

Once  more  we  sang  :   *'  They  do  not  die 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 

Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change  ; 

"  Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gather'd  power,  yet  the  same, 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil." 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  morn, 
Draw    forth    the   cheerful    day   from 

night : 
O  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 
The  light  that   shone    when    Hope   was 
born. 

XXXI 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  return'd, 
Was  this  demanded — if  he  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave? 

"  Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four 
days  ?  " 
There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbors  met. 
The  streets    were   fill'd    with    joyful 

sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd; 

He  told  it  not,  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist 

XXXII 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  be  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  I  lathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 


Thrice  blest  whose  lives  aie  faithful 
prayers, 

Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 

What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 
Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs? 

XXXIII 

O  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm 
Mayst  seem  to  have  reach'd  a  purei 

air, 
Whose  faith  lias  centre  everywhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  heaven,  her  happy  views  ; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good. 
O,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine  ! 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within, 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin, 

And  even  for  want  of  such  a  type. 


Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower  ! 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth 
rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes  ; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love : 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming  as  is  meet  and  fit 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each  ; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  those  great  offices  that  suit 

The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern  ! 
How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
lie  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the  bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return, 


TENNYSON 


5°5 


And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 
And   bring  her   babe,  and  make  her 

boast, 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  most 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old  ; 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands, 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low  ; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  1  know, 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 

XLVIII 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  pro- 
posed, 
Then  thesa  were  such  as  men  might 
scorn. 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  pr<  v* 
She  takes,    when  harsher    moods  re- 
mit, 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flit, 

And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love  ; 

And  hence  indeed,  she  sports  with  words. 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law, 
And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords  ; 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay, 
But  ratlier  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 


LIV 


- 


Qj  vet  we  trust  that  sorriehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood  j 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet  ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shriveil'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Id.  we  know  not  anything: 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last— far  off— at  last,  to  all. 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream  ;  but  what  am  I? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night; 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light, 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry, 


The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
Tint  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams?  . 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life, 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds. 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

LVI 

'So  careful  of  the  type?"  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "  A  thousand  types  are  gone  ; 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"  Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me  : 
I  bring  to  life.  I  bring  to  death  ; 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath  : 

I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roli'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies. 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  Go  I  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law— 
Tiio'  Xature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 
With  ravine,  snriek'd  against  his  creed— 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  ? 

No  more?     A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him  . 

0  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail  ! 

O  for  thy  voice  bo  sunt  he  and  bless! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


Sob 


HklTISH   POETS 


LVII 

Peace  :  come  away  :  the  song  of  woe 

[s  after  all  an  earthly  song. 

Peace  |  come  away  :  we  do  him  wrong 
To  sing  so  wildly  :  let  us  go. 

Come  :   let  us  go  :  your  cheeks  are  pale  ; 

But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind. 

Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined  ; 
But  I  shall  pass,  my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing-  dies. 
One  set  slow  bell   will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

I  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead  ; 
And  "  Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 

'•  Adieu,  adieu,"  for  evermore. 


In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell. 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 

In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day, 
Half-conscious  of  their  dying  clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they   shall 
cease. 

The  high   Muse    answer'd  :"  Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear? 

Abide  a  little  longer  here, 
And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 


Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 

And  on  a  simple  village  green  ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star  ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys, 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne  ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope. 

The  center  of  a  world's  desire  ; 


Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 

When  all  his  active  powers  are  still. 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  arid  kings 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate  ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands: 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me?" 

LXVH 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight -falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls  : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away. 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies  ; 

And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 
I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  ; 

And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church  like  a  ghost 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  in  the  dawn. 

LXXIV 

As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face, 
To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before, 

Comes  out — to  some  one  of  his  race  ;    • 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 
I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it.  knowing  Death  has  made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth; 
The  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 


TENNYSON 


$»/ 


The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 

Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace, 

And  dance  and  song  and  hood  man -blind. 

"Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress? 
No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain— 
0  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane? 

O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less? 

0  last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No — mixed  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry, 

LXXXIII 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 

0  sweet  new-year  delaying  long  ; 
Thou  doest  expectant  Natme  wrong; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  : 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping- wells  of  fire. 

O  thou,  new-year,  delaying  Ions:. 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXV 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 

1  felt  it,  when  T  sorrow'd  most, 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 
Than  SS  loved  at  all-    ■ 

O  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead  ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow,  or  sustain 'd  : 
And  whether  love  for  him  have  drain'd 

My  capabilil  ies  of  love  ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast, 


Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  expressed 
And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 
Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls, 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept. 

The  ureal  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate. 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there 

And  led  him  thro* the  blissful  climes, 
And  show'd  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times.    V 

But  I  remain'd,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 
AVliose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little 

worth, 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth, 
AVhere  all  things  round  me  breathed  of 
him. 

O  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 
O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 
O  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

AVhatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine  ; 

A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 
With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  expres? 
All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilizing  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  1  iind 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  t  hat  once  I  met  ; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forgel 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  vis  men. 


5o8 


BRITISH    POETS 


I  woo  your  love :  1  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch; 
1.  the  <ln  ided  half  of  such 

A  friendship  as  had  master'd  Time ; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears. 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  ; 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 
And   Spring   that   swells   the   narrow 

brooks. 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave. 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak  : 
"  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

"  I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore ; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach  ; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
AVe  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 
How  is  it  ?    Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  ?  " 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall : 
•'  'T  is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this  ; 
I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 

And  that  serene  result  of  all." 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead  ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say  ; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end, 

That  those  tilings  pass,  audi  shall  prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  ci-aveyour  pardon,  O  my  friend  ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  I  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  winch  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours? 
First     love,     first     friendship,     equal 
powei  s, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 


Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

I  Jut  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more, 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast. 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring, 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  deal*. 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

LXXXVI 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air. 
That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  the  dewy  tassell'd  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  floo<\ 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and 
Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "  Peace." 

LXXXVII 

I  past  beside'the  reverend  walls 
In  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls  ; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The    storm     their    high-built    organs 

make, 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophet  blazon'd  on  the  panes  ; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows  ;  paced  the  shored 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about. 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same  ;  and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 


TKXXYSON 


5°9 


Another  name  was  on  the  door. 
I  linger'd  ;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,   and    clapping   hands,   and 
hoys 

That  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor  ; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land  ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string  ; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring, 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there  ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he, 

Would   cleave   the   mark.     A    willing 

ear 
"We  lent  him.     Who  but  hung  to  hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From   point   to  point,  with   power  and 
grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise  ; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo? 

LXXXVIII 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 
Rings  Eden  thro' the  budded  quicks, 
O,  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 

O,  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence   radiate  :    fierce   extremes  em- 
ploy 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy  ; 

And  I — my  harp  would  prelude  woe — 
I  cannot  all  command  the  strings  ; 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

XCVI 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue 

eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 


Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 
But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true  ; 

Perplexed  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  lie  beat  his  music  out. 
There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt. 

Believe  nic,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He    fought     his     doubts    and    gather'd 
strength, 
He   would    not    make    his   judgment 

blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 
And  laid  them  ;  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own. 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night. 

Which    makes   the  darkness   and  the 
light, 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 


My  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees  ; 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory -crown'd  ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life — 

I  look'd  on  these  and  thought  of  thee 
In  vastness  and  in   mystery, 

And  of  1113'  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 

These  two— they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye, 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune, 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  palling  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away  ; 
The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart  ; 
He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tlio'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

lie  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 

I  lc  looks  so  cold  :  she  t  hinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 
A  wit  her'd  violet  is  her  bliss  ; 
She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is, 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 


BRITISH   POETS 


For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house, 

And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  fixed  and  cannot  move, 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise. 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

"  I  cannot  understand  ;  I  love." 

CII 

We  leave  the  well-beloved  place 

Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky  ; 
The  roofs  that  heard  our  earliest  cry 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but- ere  we  go  from  home, 
As  down  the  garden-walks  I  move, 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  "  Here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung." 

The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have  stray'd  in  after  hours 
With    thy    lost    friend    among    the 
bowers. 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 
And  each  prefers  his  separate  claim, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  turn  to  go  ;  my  feet  are  set 

To     leave     the     pleasant    fields    and 
farms  ; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 

Civ 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ ; 

The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 

A  single  church  below  the  hill 
Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below. 
That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  stravs. 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 


CVI 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  • 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor  ; 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times 
Ring    out,    ring    out    ray    mournful 
rhymes. 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease  ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand: 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land. 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

CVIII 

I  will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 
And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 
I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 

Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho' with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height. 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  death  ? 

What  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 
But    mine    own    phantom     chanting 

hymns? 
And   on    the    depths   of  death    there 
swims 
The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 


TENNYSON 


51* 


I'll  rather  take  what  fruit  may  lie 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
"T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee= 

CXI 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 
Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all, 
To  him  who  grasps  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown, — 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale  ; 

For  who  can  always  act?  but  he, 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seem'd  to  be, 

Best  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  join'd 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind  ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light; 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  use, 

CXIII 

Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 

Yet  how   much   wisdom  sleeps  with 
th.ee 

Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 
But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise  ; 

For  can  I  doubt,  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil— 

I   doubt   not   what   thou   wouldst   have 
been  : 

A.  life  in  civic  action  warm, 
A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillai  steadfast  in  the  stoi'm. 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force, 
Becoming,  when  the  time  lias  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course, 


With  thousand   shocks  that   come  and 
go, 
^  itli  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthro wings,  and  with  cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 

CXIV 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge  ?     Who  shall 
rail 
Against  her  beauty  ?    MajT  she  mix 
With    men   and  prosper!     Who  shall 
fix 
Her  pillars?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire  ; 
She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet.  a  child,  and  vain- 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  demons?  fiery-IiQt  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.     Let  her  know  her  place  ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  all  be  not  in  vain,  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  b}r  side 

With  Wisdom,  like  the  younger  child ; 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 
But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
O  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 


CXV 


Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About     the    flowering    squares,    and 
thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long. 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue. 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  floclcs  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea. 


51 


BRITISH    POETS 


Where  now  the  seainew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The   happy    birds,    thai    change  their 
sky 

To  build  and  brood,  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land ;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too,  and  my  regret 
Heroines  an  April  violet. 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 


Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth  ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime  ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.     They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man  ; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime  to 
clime, 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more  ; 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like   glories,   move    his    course,   and 
show- 
That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipped  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

\nd  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.     Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

CXXIII 

There  rolls  the   deep  where  grew  the 
tree. 
O  earth,  what  changes  hast  thou  seen  ! 
There  where  the  long  street  roarshath 

been 

The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From      form    to    form,  and    nothing 
stands  j 


They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 
Like  clouds   they  shape  themselves  and 
go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

,\]\d  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true  ; 

For  t  ho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

CXXIV 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless  ; 

Our  dearest  faith  ;  our  ghastliest 
doubt ; 

He,  They,  One,  All  ;  within,  without ; 
The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess, — 

I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye, 
Nor  thro'  the  questions  men  may  try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun. 

If  e'er  when  faith  had  fallen  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice,  "  believe  no  more," 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep, 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answer'd,  "  I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear : 
But  that  blind  clamor  made  me  wise  ; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries, 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near  ; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands  ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 

That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 

CXXV 

"What  ever  I  have  said  or  sung, 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give, 
Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  live 

A  contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

Yet  hope  had  never  lost  her  youth. 
She  did  but  look  through  dimmer  eyes ; 
Or  Love  but  play'd  with  gracious  lies, 

Because  he  felt  so  fix'd  in  truth  ; 

And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 
He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song  ; 
And  if    the    words    were    sweet   and 
strong 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there ; 


TENNYSON 


5*3 


Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 
To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

cxxvi 

Love  is  and  was  my  lord  and  king, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  king  and  lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  the  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place , 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

CXXVII 

And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear  ; 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  tha  t  hear 

A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  even  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags  ! 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags  ; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down, 

And  molten  up.  and  roar  in  flood  ; 
The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky, 

And  the  great  iEon  sinks  in  blood, 

And  compass'd  by  the  fires  of  hell  ; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tumult  from  afar, 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 

cxxix 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal, 
O  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 

There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher  ; 

Known  and  unknown,  human,  divine; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye  ; 

Dear   heavenly   friend  that  canst  not 
die, 
Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine  ? 

33 


Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be  ; 

Loved  deeplier,  darklier  understood  ; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good. 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

exxx 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  ; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ?     I  cannot  guess  ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less. 

My  love  involves  the  love  before  ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou. 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh  ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice  ; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice  ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 

CXXXI 

O  living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  aTTthat  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 
Eise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow   thro'  our  deeds  and   make   them 
pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 

Witli  faith  that  comes  of  self-control. 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 

1833-49.     1850. 

TO  THE  QUEEN  i 

Revered,  beloved— O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth  _ 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria,— since  your  Royal  grace 
'1',,  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  Utter'd  nothing  base  ; 

lprefixed  to    the  first  edition  of  Tennyson's 
p  iems  published  after  hebecame  Poet,  Laureate. 


5H 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there  ; 

Then— while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 
And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song  ; 
For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 

Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
"  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good  ; 

"Her  court  was  pure  ;  her  life  serene  ; 

God  gave  her  peace  ;  her  land  reposed  ; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen  ; 

"  And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"  By  shaping  some  august  decree 
Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still, 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will, 

And  compass'd  by  the  inviolate  sea." 

THE  EAGLE 

FRAGMKXT 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands, 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls  ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 

1851. 

COME  NOT  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD 

Come  not,  when  I  am  dead, 
To   drop   thy   foolish   tears  upon  my 
grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And    vex    the    unhappy    dust    thou 
wouldst  nol  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover 
cry  ; 
But  thou,  go  by. 


Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest : 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  ol 
time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where 
I  lie ; 
Go  by,  go  by.  1851. 

ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE 
.  OF  WELLINGTON 

I 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation  ; 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To   the   noise  of   the   mourning  of  a 
mighty  nation  ; 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

II 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we 

deplore  ? 
Here,   in    streaming    London's    central 

roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for. 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

Ill 

Lead  out  the  pageant  :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long,  long  procession  go, 

And   let  the   sorrowing   crowd  about  it 

grow,  _ 

And   let   the    mournful   martial   music 

blow  ; 
The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV 

Mourn,  for  to  us  lie  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the 

past, 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute! 
Mourn   for   the    man  of   long-enduring 

blood, 
The  statesman  warrior,  moderate,  reso« 

lute. 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 


TENNYSON 


5*5 


Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 

drew, 
O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O  fallen  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Whichstood  four-square  to  all  the  winds 

that  blew! 
Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The  great   World-victor's  victor   will  be 

seen  no  more. 


Ail  is  over  and  done, 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd, 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds. 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd   deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd, 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be 
knoll'd  ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 
roll'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  Ids 
loss  ; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom. 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices 
wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame, 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  cap- 
tain taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name 

Which  he  has  w  orn  so  pure  of  blame, 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

\  man  of  well-at temper'd  frame. 

0  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  sued)  a  name. 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song! 


VI 


"Who  is  he  that   cometh,  like  an  hon 

or'd  guest, 
With  banner  and  with  music,   with  sol- 
dier and  with  priest. 
With   a  nation   weeping,  and  breaking 

on  my  rest  ?  " — 
Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  ereat  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine    island    loves     thee     well,     thou 

famous  man, 
The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  be- 
gan. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes  ; 
For  this  is  ]% 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
His  foes  were  thine  ;  lie  kept  us  free  ; 
O,  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 
And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee  ; 
For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 
He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  rights, 
Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  ; 
This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won  ; 
And  underneath  another  sun, 
Warring  on  a  later  day, 
Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 
The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
Of  his  labor'd  rampart  lines, 
Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 
Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 
And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 
Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 
Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 
Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 
Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 
Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 
Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 
With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 
Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 
And  England  pouring  on  her  foes, 
Such  a  war  had  such  a  (dose. 
Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  vvheel'don  Europe-shadowing 

wings, 
And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 
Till  one    that   sought  but   Duty's   iron 

crown 
On  that  loud  Sabbath  shook   the  spoiler 

down  ; 
\  da  v  of  onsets  of  despair  ! 
I  lash'd  on  e\  cry  rooky  square, 
Their    surging  charges    foam'd    them* 

selves  away  ; 
Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  ; 


5*6 


BRITISH    POETS 


Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash 'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray. 
And  down   we  swept  ami  charged  and 

overl  hrew. 
So  great  a,  soldier  taught  us  there 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 
A n\l  pure   as    he  from   taint  of   craven 

guile, 
()  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 
0  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine. 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all. 
Be  glad,  because  his  bones^re  laid  by 

thine ! 
And    thro'  the  centuries   let  a  people's 

voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  lib  name. 

VII 

A  people's  voice  !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all   men  else  their  nobler  dreams 

forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless 

Powers, 
Thank    Him    who    isled    us    here,    and 

roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming 

showers, 
We  have  a  voice  with  which  to  pay  the 

debt 
Of   boundless   love   and    reverence  and 

regret 
To   those   great   men  who   fought,  and 

kept  it  ours. 
And   keep   it   ours,  O  God,    from  brute 

control  ! 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye, 

the  soul 
Of    Europe,    keep    our    noble   England 

whole, 
An  1  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom 

sown 
Betwixt    a    people    and    their    ancient 

throne, 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 

springs 
Our  loyal    passion    for    our    temperate 

kings  !  [kind 

For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  man- 


Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust. 
And  drill  the  raw  world   for  the  inarch 

of  mind. 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 

be  just. 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 

wall  ; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever  :  and  whatever  tempests  lour 
For  ever  silent  ;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent  ;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who 

spoke  ; 
Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the 

hour. 
Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power; 
Who   let   the  turbid  streams   of   rumor 

flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and 

low  ; 
Whose  life   was  work,  whose  language 

rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  ; 
Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one 

rebuke 
All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the 

right. 
Truth-teller   was  our  England's  Alfred 

named  ; 
Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ! 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


Lo  !  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent   Fortune   emptied   all   her 

horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  awTait 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island' 

story 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 
He  that  walks  it.  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes. 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  burst- 
ing 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  out-redden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story 


TENNYSON 


5i7 


The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 
On   with   toil   of  heart  and   knees   and 

hands, 
Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has 

won 
His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd, 
Shall   find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty 

scaled 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and 

sun. 
Such  was  lie  :  his  work  is  done. 
But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land. 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman 

pure  ; 
Till  in  all  lands  and  thro' all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory. 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths-he  saved 

from  shame 
For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And    when    the    long-illumined     cities 

flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see. 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung. 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 

brain 
Once   the   weight   and   fate   of   Europe 

hung. 
Ours  t lie  pain,  be  his  the  gain  ! 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
A l  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  sec  not  we  revere  ; 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 
We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity, 
Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  he  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 


And  Victor  lie  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will, 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 

roll 
Round  us.  each  with  different  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 

trust. 
Hush,    the    Dead   March    wails   in    the 

people's  ears  ; 
The   dark  crowd    moves,  and  there  are 

solis  and  tears  ; 
The  black  earth  yawns  ;  the  mortal  dis- 
appears : 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 
He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 
Gone,  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  State, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave 

him. 
Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him, 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him  ! 

1852. 

HANDS  ALL  ROUND 

First   pledge    our    Queen    this   solemn 
night, 
Then  drink  to  England,  every  guest  ; 
That  man's  the  best  Cosmopolite 

Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 
May  freedom's  oak  for  ever  live 

With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day  ; 
That  man's  the  true  Conservative 

Who  lops  the  moulder'd branch  away. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink,  un- 
friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round. 

To  all  the  loyal  hearts  who  long 

To  keep  our  English  Empire  whole  ! 
To  all  our  noble  sons,  the  strong 

New  England  of  the  Southern  Pole  ! 
To  England  under  Indian  skies. 

To  those  dark  millions  of  her  realm  1 
To  Canada  whom  we  love  and  prize, 

Whatever  state-man  hold  the  helm. 
Hands  all  round  1 


i8 


BRITISH   POETi 


God  the  traitor's  hopa  confound  ! 
To  this  great  name  of  England  drink,  my 
friends,  [round. 

And  all  her  glorious  empire,  round  and 

To  all  our  statesmen  so  they  be 

True  leaders  of  the  land's  desire ! 
To  both  our  Houses,  may  they  see 

Beyond  the  borough  and  the  shire  J 
We  sail'd  wherever  ship  could  sail, 

We  founded  many  a  mighty  state  ; 
I 'ray  God  our  greatness  may  not  fail 
Thro'  craven  fears  of  being  great ! 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink,  my 
friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round.  1852. 

THE      CHARGE      OF     THE     LIGHT 
BRIGADE  i 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
li  Forward  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns  !  "  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd. 
Theirs  not  t  o  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm 'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 

i  "  On  Dec.  2d  he  wrote  the  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade  in  a  few  minutes,  after  reading 
the  description  in  the  Times  in  which  occurred 
ili.-  phrase '  Some  one  had  blundered,1  and  this 
was  the  origin  of  the  metre  of  his  poem."  (Life 
I  881.) 


Sabring  tin- gunners  there, 
( Jharging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  suuder'd. 
Then  thej  rode  hack,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hum  1  red  ! 

December  9,  1854. 


THE  BROOK 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern 

I  make  a  sudden  sally. 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  gc 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 


TENNYSON 


5*9 


I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me.  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  water-break 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  : 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  'lance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses  ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars, 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever.  1855. 

LYRICS  FROM  MAUD  J 

PART  I 


A  VOICE  by  the  cedar  tree 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to 

me, 
A  passional"  ballad  gallant  and  tray. 
A  mart  ial  son--  like  a  trumpet's  call  ! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 
In  tlm  happy  morning  of  lite  and  of  May, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Rea  ly  in  heart  a  ad  ready  in  hand. 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 

*See  Hi-  Life  of  Tennyson,  I,  393-406. 


Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny- 
sky. 

And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English 
green. 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and.  hei 
grace, 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that 
cannot  die, 

Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sor- 
did and  mean, 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  jo}r  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still  !     I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  \rour  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a 
choice 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  be- 
fore 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore. 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind. 

Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 


XI 


O,  let  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet! 

Then  let  come  what  come  may, 

What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 

I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 

Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me  ! 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I  shall  have  had  my  day. 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud. 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 

Where  was  Maud?  in  our  wood  ; 

And  I — who  else  ? — was  with  her 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

Myriads  blow  together. 

Birds  in  our  wood  sang 
Hinging  thro'  the.  valleys, 

Maud  is  here.  here,  here 
In  among  the  lilies. 


BRITISH  POETS 


I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand, 

Slie  took  the  kiss  sedately  ; 
Maud  is  not  seventeen, 

Bui  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

i  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  hei  favor ! 
0.  Maud  wore  sure  of  heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her! 

I  know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 

For  her  feet  have  touch'dthe  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 

Where  is  Maud,  Maud.  Maud,  ? 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door. 

And  little  King  Charley  snarling  ! 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 

You  are  not  her  darling. 

XVII 

Go  not,  happy  day. 

From  the  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  happy  day, 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

Over  glowing  ships ; 
Over  blowing  seas, 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West ; 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East. 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West. 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

A  ml  a  rose  her  mouth. 


1  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only 
friend. 

Th^re  is  none  likelier,  none. 


And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-forend, 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised 
good. 

None  like  her.  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  patter- 
ing talk 

Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden 
walk, 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes 
once  more. 

But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door  ; 

The  gates  of  heaven  are  closed,  and  she 
is  gone. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none, 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  de- 
ceased. 

O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 

In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy 
delicious  East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  in- 
creased, 

Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 

And  looking  to  the  South  and  fed 

With  honey 'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 

And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 

Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my 
fate, 

And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar- 
flame  : 

And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have 
spread 

With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy 
great 

Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden, 
there 

Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from 
whom  she  came  ? 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches 

sway,  [day 

And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn 
As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 
To  labor  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand 
Than   nursed   at   ease   and    brought    to 

understand 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That   makes   you   tyrants   in  your  iron 

skies, 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and 

brand 
His  nothingness  into  man. 


TENNYSON 


521 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a 

pearl 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow 

sky, 
And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would 

die 
To  save  from  some  slight   shame   one 

simple  girl  ? — 

.Vould  die,   for    sullen-seeming    Death 

may  give 
More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet  't  is  sweet 

to  live. 
Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass  ; 
It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 
A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 
A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

Not  die,  but  live  a  life  of  ti-uest  breath, 

And  teacli  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal 
wrongs. 

O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drink- 
ing songs, 

Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of 
death  ? 

Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  loving 
kiss, 

Life  of  mj-  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer 
this  ? 

"The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven 
here 

With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  him- 
self more  dear." 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 
Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder 

bay  ? 
And  hark   the  clock  within,  the  silver 

knell 
Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal 

white, 
And   died    to   live,   long    as  my   pulses 

play  ; 
But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her 

sight, 
And   given    false   death   her  hand,  and 

stolen  away 
To  dreamful   wastes  where  footless  fan- 
cies dwell 
Among  the    fragments  of    the  golden 

day. 
Mav    nothing   there   her   maiden   grace 

affright  ! 
Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy 

spel  1 . 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 


My  own  heart's  heart,  my  ownest  own, 

farewell  ; 
It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go. 
And  ye  meanwhile  far   over  moor  and 

fell 
Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night ! 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the 

glow 
Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so 

bright  ? 
/have  climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely  hell. 
Beat,  happy   stars,    timing  with  things 

below, 
Beat  with   my   heart  more  blest  than 

heart  can  tell, 
Blest,  but  for  seme  dark   undercurrent 

woe  [so ; 

That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not  be 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 

XXI 

Rivulet  crossing  my  ground, 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I  found, 

Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me. 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tinkling  fall, 

And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea  ; 

O  rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee — 

If  I  read  her  sweet  will  right — 

On  a  blushing  mission  to  me, 

Saving  in  odor  and  color,  "  Ah  be 

Among  the  roses  to-night." 

XXII 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  lias  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud. 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And   the   woodbine    spices   are   wafted 
abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bass 1  : 

All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine 
stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 


;22 


BRITISH    POETS 


I  said  to  tlif  Lily,  "There  is  but  one. 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.'' 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stem1 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

O  young  lord  lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 
For  one  that  will  never   be  thine? 

But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the 
rose, 
"For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 

blood. 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  Hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake" to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all  ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left. 
so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To    the   woody   hollows    in    which    we 
meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree  ; 
The   white    lake-blossom   fell    into   the 
lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea  ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake   all   night    for 
your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen    rose  of    the    rosebud   garden   of 
girls. 

Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  sal  in  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ;         [curls, 
Shine  out.  little  head,  sunning  over  with 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  lias  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate, 

She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear  ; 
She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate. 

The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is 
near ; " 


And    the    white   rose   weeps,  "  She  is 
late;" 
The  larkspur  listens.  "  I  hear,  I  hear  ;" 
And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wail.*' 

She  is  coming, my  own,  my  sweet  ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  etntli  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  (\<-.\<\, 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

PART  II 


See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  f airily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  1 

What  is  it?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name." 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncuiTd 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro' his  dim  water-world? 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand  ! 

Breton,  not  Briton  :  here 

Like  a  shipwreck'd  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear — 

Plagued  with  a  flitting  to  and  fro, 

A  disease,  a  hard  mechanic  ghost 

That  never  came  from  on  high 

Nor  ever  arose  from  below, 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye, 

Flying  along  the  land  and  tin1  main — 


TENNYSON 


523 


Why  should  it  look  like  Maud? 
Am  I  to  be  overawed 
By  what  1  cannot  but  know- 
Is  a  juggle  bom  of  the  brain  ? 

Back  from  the  Breton  coast, 

Sick  of  a  nameless  fear, 

Back  to  the  dark  sea-line 

Looking,  thinking  of  all  I  have  lost ; 

An  old  song  vexes  my  ear. 

But  that  of  Lameoh  is  mine. 

For  years,  a  measureless  ill, 
For  years,  for  ever,  1"  part — 
But  she,  she  would  love  me  still ; 
And  as  long,  O  God,  as  she 
Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me, 
So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt, 
Shall  I  nurse  in  my  dark  heart, 
However  weary,  a  spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 

Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 

With  a.  passion  so  intense 

One  would  think  that  it  well 

Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye. — ■ 

That  it  should,  by  being  so  overwrought, 

Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense 

For  a  shell,  or  a  flowei .  little  things 

Which  else  would  have  been  past  by  ! 

And  now  I  remember,  I. 

"When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings — 

For  he    had    many,    poor   worm  —  and 

thought, 
It  is  his  mother's  hair. 

Who  knows  if  he  he  dead  ? 

Whether  I  need  have  lied? 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood  ? 

However  this  may  be, 

Comfort    her,    comfort   her,    all   things 

good, 
While  I  am  over  the  sea  ! 
Bet  me  and  my  passionate  love  goby, 
lint  speak   to   Jut  all   things  holy  and 

high, 
Whatever  happen   to  me  ' 
Me  and  my  harmful  1<>\  e  go  by  ; 
But  come  to  hev  waking,  find  her  asleep, 
Powers   of   the    height,  Powers   of    the 

deep, 
And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die  ! 

rv 

0  that  't  were  possible 

After  long  gi  ief  and  pain 

To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 

Round  me  once  again  1 


When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
Tn  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixed  with  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,  hut  like  to  thee. 

Ah,  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell 

us 
What  and  where  they  be  ! 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies ; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 

'T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  a  dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that   clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls  ; 
T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet. 

She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings  ; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet. 
She  is  singing  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old. 
My  bird  with  the  shining  head. 
My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye? 
But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passionate 

cry. 
There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 
And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roll'd  ; 
For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city. 
And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled. 
Tn  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold. 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity, 
By  l  he  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold  I 


5-4 


BRITISH  POETS 


Get  thee  hence,  nor  norae  again, 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  erase  to  move  about  ! 
T  i-  tin1  blol  upon  the  brain 
fhat  will  show  itself  without. 

Then  I  rise,  the  eave-drops  fall, 
And  the  yellow  vapors  clioke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide  ; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 

Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

I  steal,  a  wasted  frame  ; 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there. 

Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud, 

Tlie  shadow  still  the  same; 

And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 

My  angnish  hangs  like  shame. 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 

At  the  quiet  evenfall, 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  hall  1 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest, 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  "  Forgive  the  wrong," 
Or  to  ask  her,  "  Take  me,  sweet, 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest  "  ? 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 

And  will  not  let  me  be  ; 

And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me. 

Always  I  long  to  creep 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee.  1855. 

WILL 

O,  WELL,  for  him  whose  will  is  strong  ! 

He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long ; 

He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong. 

For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's 
random  mock, 

Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  con- 
found, 

Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock, 


That,  compass'd  round  with    turbulent 

sound, 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 
Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown'd. 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with 
time, 

Corrupts    the    strength    of    heaven-de- 
scended Will, 

And     ever    weaker    grows   thro'   acted 
crime, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault. 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still  ! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps  halt, 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand. 

And  o'er  a  weary  sultry  land, 

Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault, 

Sown   in  a   wrinkle   of    the    monstrous 
hill, 

The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 

1855. 

ENID'S  SONG 

Turn,   Fortune,    turn    thy    wheel,   and 

lower  the  proud  ; 
Turn   thy    wild    wheel   thro'   sunshine, 

storm,  and  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor 

hate. 

Turn,    Fortune,    turn   thy    wheel   with 

smile  or  frown  ; 
With  that  wild   wheel  we   go  not   up  or 

down  ; 
Our   hoard  is  little,  but   our  hearts  are 

great. 

Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many 

lands ; 
Frown   and  we   smile,  the   lords  of   our 

own  hands ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring 

crowd  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the 

cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor 

bate. 
From  the  Marriage  of  Geraint,  1859. 

VIVIEN'S  SONG 

In  love,  if  love  be  love,  if  love  be  ours, 
Faith   and   unfaith   can   ne'er   be  equal 

powers  : 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all 


TENNYSON 


525 


It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That   by   and   by  will  make  the   music 

mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute. 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit. 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

It  is  not  worth  the  keeping  ;  let  it  go  : 
But  shall  it '?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all. 

From  Merlin  and  Vivien,  1859. 

ELAINE'S  SONG 

Sweet  is  true  love  tho'  given  in  vain,  in 

vain  ; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to 

pain. 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  1. 

Love,  art  thou  sweet?  then  bitter  death 

must  be. 
Love,  thou  art  bitter  ;  sweet  is  death  to 

me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 

Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade 
away  ; 

Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  love- 
less clay  ; 

1  know7  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could 

be; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for 

me  ; 
Call  and  I  follow.  T  follow  !  let  me  die. 

From  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  1859. 

GUINEVERE 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court, 
and  sat 

There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 

Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a  little 
maid, 

A  novice.  One  low  light  betwixt  them 
burn'd 

Blurr'd  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all 
abroad, 

Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  full. 

The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  tin- 
face, 

Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land 
was  still. 

For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of 
flight 


Sir  Modred  ;  he  that  like  a  subtle  l>easi 

Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
throne. 

Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance.  For 
this 

He  chill'd  the  popular  praises  of  the 
King 

With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparage- 
ment ; 

And  tamper'd  with  the  Lords  of  the 
White  Horse, 

Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left  ;  and 
sought 

To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 

Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  iv  into  feuds 

Serving  his  traitorous  end  ;  and  all  his 
aims 

Were  sharpened  by  strong  hate  for  Lance- 
lot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when  all 
the  court, 
Green-suited,     but    with     plumes    that 

mock'd  the  May, 
Had  been— their  wont— a-maying  and 

return'd, 
That  Modred  still  in  green,   all  ear  and 

eve. 
Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden- 
wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might, 
And  saw  the  Queen  who  sat  betwixt  her 

best 
Enid  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The    wiliest    and    the    worst;  and  more 

than  this 
lie  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied  where  he  couch'd,  and  as  the  gar- 
dener's hand 
Picks  from  the  colewort  a  green  cater- 
pillar, 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering 

grove 
Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck'd  him  by  the 

heel. 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way  ; 
But    when     he    knew    the    prince    tho' 

marr'd  with  dust, 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad 

man, 
Made    such    excuses    as    he    might,    ami 

these 
Full    knightly    without   scorn.      For  in 

those  days 

No   knight  of   Arthur's   noblest  dealt  in 

scorn  ;  I  him 

But,  i!'  a  man    were   halt,  or  hunch'd.  in 

]'>v    those   whom    God    had    made   full- 

limb'd  and  tall, 


,-'<3 


UR1T1SH    POETS 


Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part,  of  his  defect, 

And  he  was  answer"' I  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.  So  Sir  Lancelot  liolp 
To  raise   the  prince,  who  rising  twice  or 

thrice 
Full  sharply  smote  his  knees,  and  smiled, 

and  went  : 
But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 
As  i  he   sharp    wind  that  ruffles  all  day 

long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This    matter   to  the  Queen,  at  first  she 

laugh'd 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dusty  fall, 
Then  shudder'd,  as  the  village  wife  who 

cries, 
"I  shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my 

grave  ;  " 
Then  laugh'd  again,  but  faintlier,  for  in- 
deed 
She  half-foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle  beast, 
Would  track  her   guilt  until  he  found, 

and  hers 
Would  be  for  evermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in 

hall, 
Or  elsewhere.  Modred's  narrow  foxy  face, 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent 

eye. 
Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that  tend 

the  soul. 
To  help  it  from   the  death  that  cannot 

die, 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.     Many  a  time  for 

hours. 
Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the  King, 
In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and 

went 
Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear — 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking 

doors, 
Heard    by    the   watcher    in   a    haunted 

house, 
That   keeps   the  rust  of   murder  on  the 

walls — 
Held   her   awake ;    or  if  she   slept   she 

dream'd  [stand 

An  awful  dream,  for  then  she  seem VI  to 
On  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting  sun, 
And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made  at 

her 
A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow  flew 
Before   it   till   it    couch'd   her,   and  she 

turn'd— 


When    lo !  her    own,   that    broadening 

from  her  feet, 
And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land, 

and  in  it 
Far  cities   burnt,   and    with  a  cry  she 

woke. 
And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but 

grew, 
Till  even  the   clear  face  of  the  guileless 

King, 
And  trustful  courtesies  of  household  life, 
Became  her  bane  ;  and   at  the   last   she 

said : 
"  O  Lancelot,  get    thee   hence   to  thine 

own  land, 
For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again, 
And  if  we  meet  again  some  evil  chancre 
Will    make     the    smouldering    scandal 

break  and  blaze 
Before  the  people  and  our  lord  the  King." 
And   Lancelot   ever    promised,    but  re- 

main'd 
And  still  they  met  and  met.     Again  she 

said. 
"0   Lancelot,  if  thou   love   me  get  thee 

hence." 
And   then   they   were     agreed   upon    a 

night — 
When  the  good  King  should  not  be  there 

— to  meet 
And   part   for    ever.     Vivien,   lurking, 

heard. 
She  told  Sir  Modred.     Passion-pale  they 

met 
And  greeted.     Hands  in  hands,  and  eye 

to  eye, 
Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they  sat 
Stammering  and   staring.     It  was  their 

last  hour, 
A  madness  of   farewells.     And    Modred 

brought 
His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the 

tower 
For  testimony ;   and    crying  with    full 

voice, 
"  Traitor,  come   out,  ye  are   trapped  at 

last,"  aroused 
Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lionlike 
Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  headlong, 

and  he  fell 
Stunn'd  and  his  creatures  took  and  bare 

him  off, 
And  all  was  still.     Then  she,  "  The  end 

is  come, 
And  I  am  shamed  for  ever ;  "  and  he 

said : 
"  Mine  be  the  shame,  mine  was  the  si'  \ 

but  rise, 
And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  over-seas. 


TENNYSON 


52'/ 


There  will  I  hide   thee   till  my  life  shall 

end, 
There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against  the 

world." 
Sheanswer'd  :  "  Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold 

me  so  ? 
Nay,  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  fare- 
wells. 
Would   God  that   thou  couldst  hide  me 

from  myself  ! 
Mine  is   the   shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and 

thou 
TJnwedded  ;  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly, 
For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary, 
And  bide  my   doom."     So   Lancelot  got 

her  horse, 
Set   her   thereon,  and   mounted  on   his 

own, 
And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way, 
There  kiss'd,  and   parted  weeping  ;  for 

he  passed, 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen, 
Back  to  his  land  ;  but  she  to  Almesbury 
Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste 

and  weald, 
And  heard  the  spirits  of  the   waste  and 

weald 
Moan  as   she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard 

them  moan. 
And  in  herself  she   moan'd,    "  Too  late, 

too  late ! " 
Till  in  the   cold  wind   that  foreruns  the 

morn. 
A  blot  in  heaven,  the  raven,  flying  high, 
Croak'd,  and  she   thought,  '•  He  spies  a 

field  of  death  ; 
For  now  the   heathen  of  the   Northern 

Sea, 
Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the 

court, 
Begin  to  slay  the  folk  and  spoil  the  land." 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury  she 
spake 

There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  "  Mine  ene- 
mies 

Pursue  me,  but,  O  peaceful  Sisterhood, 

Receive  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor  ask 

Her  name  to  whom  ye  yield  it  till  her 
time 

To  tell  you  ;  "  and  her  beauty,  grace, 
and  power 

Wrought  as  a  charm  upon  them,  and 
they  spared 

To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  the 
nuns, 


Nor  with  themmix'd,  nor  told  her  name, 

nor  sought, 
Wrapt   in   her   grief,  for  housel  or   for 

shrift. 
But    communed    only    with    the    little 

maid , 
Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heed- 
lessness 
Which   often  lured   her   from   herself ; 

but  now, 
This  night,  a  rumor  wildly  blown  about 
Came  that  Sir  Modred  had  usurp'd  the 

realm 
And   leagued   him   with   the    heathen, 

while  the  King 
Was  waging  war  on    Lancelot.      Then 

she  thought, 
"  With  what  a  hate  the  people  and  the 

King 
Must  hate  rat  "  and  bow'd  down  upon 

her  hands 
Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook'd 
No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  "  Late  !  so 

late ! 
What,  hour,  I  wonder  now  ?"and  when 

she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 
An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her  :  "  Late, 

so  late ! " 
Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen  look'd 

up  and  said. 
"  O  maiden,  if  indeed  ye  list  to  sing, 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may 

wee])." 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang   the   little 

maid. 

Late,  late,  so  late  1  and  dark  the  night  and 
chill  1 
Late,  late,  so  late  1  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late  1  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  No  light  had  we  ;  for  that  we  do  repent, 
A 1 1 > I  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late  1  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"No  light  1  so  late!  and  dark  and  chill  the 
night  1 
o,  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light  1 
Too  late,  too  late  1  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so 
sweet  1 
O,  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet  1 
No,  no,  too  late  I  ye  cannot  enter  now." 

So  sang   the   novice,   while  full   pas- 
sionately, 
Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remembering 
Ber  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept 

the  sad  Queen. 
Then  said  the  little  novice,  prattling  to 
her: 


52b 


BRITISH    POETS 


"O    pray   you,   noble  lady,  weep  no 

more  ; 
But  let    my  words — the  words  of  one  so 

small. 
Who   knowing  nothing    knows  but   to 

obey, 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given  — 
Comfort   your  sorrows,  for  they  do  not 

lloW 

From  evil  done;  right  sure  am  I  of  that, 
Who  sees  your  tender  grace  and  state- 

liness. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord 

the  King's, 
And  weighing  find  them  less;  forgone 

is  he 
To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot 

there, 
Round  thai  strong  oastle  where  beholds 

the  Queen  ; 
And  Mo  lied  whom  he  left  in  charge  of 

all. 
The  traitor—  Ah,  sweet  lady,  the  King's 

grief 
For  his  own   self,   and  his  own  Queen 

and  realm, 
Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any  of 

ours  I 
For   me,  I  thank   the  saints,  I  am   not 

great ; 
For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 
I  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done  : 
None    knows    it,    and    my    tears    have 

brought  me  good. 
But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 
As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this 

grief 
Is   added  to  the   griefs   the  great   must 

bear, 
That,  howsoever  much  they  may  deshe 
Silence,    they    cannot   weep    behind    a 

cloud  : 
As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 
Aboin    the    good   King   and   his  wicked 

Queen. 
And  were  I  such  a  King  with   such  a 

Queen. 
Well  might  I  wish  to  veil  her  wicked- 
ness. 
But  were  I  such  a  King  it  could  not  be." 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter'd 
the  Queen, 

"Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  inno- 
cent talk  ?  " 

But  openly  she  answer'd.  "  Must  not  I, 

If  this  false  traitor  have  displace  1  Lis 
lord.  [realm  i  " 

Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the 


'"Yea,"   sail  the    maid,    "that  all   is 

woman's  grief, 
That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath    wrought    confusion    in  the  Table 

Round 
Which  good  King  Arthur  founded,  years 

ago, 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders, 

there 
At    Camelot,   ere    the    coming    of    the 

Queen." 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  her- 
self again, 

"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish 
prate  ? " 

But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 

••O  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery 
walls, 

What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and 
Tables  Round, 

Or  wdiat  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the 
signs 

And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery?" 

To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulously: 
"  Yea,  but  I  know  ;  the  land  was  full  of 

signs 
And   wonders   ere    the   coming   of   the 

Queen. 
So   said   my    father,   and    himself   was 

knight 
Of  the  great  Table — at  the  founding  of 

it, 
And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse  ;  and 

he  said 
That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe  twain 
After   the   sunset,    down   the   coast,  he 

heard 
Strange  music,  and  he  paused,  and  turn- 
ing—there, 
All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyonnesse, 
Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  head, 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  his  feet, 
He  saw  them — headland  after  headland 

flame 
Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west. 
And  in  the  light  the  white  mermaiden 

swam, 
And   strong   man-breasted  things  stood 

from  the  sea, 
And  sent  a  deep  sea-voice  thro'  all  the 

hind. 
To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and 

cleft 
Made   answer,  sounding   like   a   distant 

horn. 
So   said   my   father — yea,   and   further- 
more, 


TENNYSON 


529 


JJext  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim-lit 

woods 
Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with 

joy 
Come   dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside 

flower. 
That  shook  beneath  them  as  the  thistle 

shakes 
When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for  the 

seed. 
And    still    at    evenings  on    before   his 

horse 
Tlie  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel'd   and 

broke 
Flying,   and  link'd   again,  and   wheel'd 

and  broke 
Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the 

hall ; 
And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man  had  dream' d  ;  for  every 

knight 
Had    whatsoever    meat    he   long'd   for 

served 
By  hands  unseen  ;  and  even  as  he  said 
Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated  things 
Shoulder'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on  the 

butts 
While  the  wine  ran  ;  so  glad  were  spirits 

and  men 
Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen." 

Then  spake  the  Queen  and  somewhat 

bitterly. 
"Were  they  so  glad?  ill  prophets  were 

they  all, 
Spirits  and  men.     Could  none  of  them 

foresee, 
Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fallen  upon  the 

realm  ?  " 

To    whom    the     novice    garrulously 

again  : 
"  Yea,  one,  a  bard,  of  whom  my  father 

said, 
Full  many  a  noble  war-song  had  he  sung, 
Even   in   the    presence   of    an   enemy's 

fleet, 
Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming 

wave  ; 
And  many  a  mystic  lay    of  life    and 

death 
Had  chanted  on   the   smoky  mountain- 
tops, 
When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the 

hills 

34 


With   all  their   dewy   hair   blown  back 

like  flame. 
So  said   my  lather— and  that  night  the 

bard 
Sang  Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and  sang 

the  King 
As  wellnigli  more  than  man.  and  rail  d 

at  those 
Who  call'd  him  the  false  son  of  Gorloi's. 
For    there    was    no    man    knew    from 

whence  lie  came  ; 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave 

broke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude 

and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaver,  end 

then 
They   found  a    naked   child  upon    the 

sands 
Of  dark  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  sea. 
And  that  was  Arthur,  and  they  foster'd 

him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  King  ; 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
From  all  men,  like  his  birth  ;   and  could 

he  find 
A  woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As   he   was   in   his   manhood,  then,   he 

sang. 
The  twain  together  well  might  change 

the  world. 
But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter'd,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the 

harp, 
And  pale  he  turn'd  and  reel'd,  and  would 

have  fallen. 
But  that  they  stav'd  him  up  ;  nor  would 

he  tell 
His  vision  ;  but  what  doubt  that  he  fore- 
saw 
This    evil    work    of    Lancelot   and    the 

Queen  ?  " 

Then  thought  the  Queen,  "  Lo !  they 

have  set  her  on, 
Our  simple-seeming  abbess  and  her  nuns, 
To  play  upon  me,"  and  bowrd  her  head 

nor  spake. 
Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp'd 

hands, 
Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garrulously, 
Said    the   good    nuns  would    check   her 

gadding  tongue 
Full  often,  "  and.  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 
To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me, 
Unmannerly,    with    prattling    and    the 

tales 

W.ik  n   my  good  father  told  me,  check 
me  too 


53° 


BRITISH    POETS 


Nor  let  iin'  shame  my  father's  memory, 

one 
Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself  would 

say 
Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest;    and  he 

die.v 
Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  summers 

hark. 
And  left  me  ;  but  of  others  who  remain, 
And   of  the    two   first-famed   for   cour- 
tesy— 
And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss — 
But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest,  while 

you  moved 
Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the 

king?" 

Then  the  pale  Queen   look'd   up  and 

answer'd  her  : 
"  Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a  noble  knight, 
Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the  same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore   his  own   advantage,    and    the 

King 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore   his   own  advantage,  and  these 

two 
Were  the  most  nobly  manner'd  men  of 

all; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature  and  of  noble  mind." 

"  Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "  be  manners 
such  fair  fruit? 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thou- 
sand-fold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs, 
The   most    disloyal    friend    in    all    the 
world." 

To  which  a  mournful  answer  made 
the  Queen  : 

"  O,  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery- 
walls, 

What  knowest  thou  of  the  world  and  all 
its  lights 

And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all  the 
woe? 

If  ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble  knight, 

Were  for  or.z  hour  less  noble  than  him- 
self, 

Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of 
fire, 

And  weep  for  her  who  drew  him  to  his 
doom." 

"Yea,"  said  the  little  novice,  "I  pray 

for  both  ; 
But  I  should  all  as  soon  believe  that  his, 


Sir  Lancelot's,   were    as    noble  as    the 

King's, 
As   I  could    think,   sweet    lady,    yours 

would  be 
Such  as   they  are,  were  you  the  sinful 

Queen." 

So   she,    like  many  another  babbler 

hurt 
Whom   she  would   soothe,  and   liannV 

where  she  would  heal  : 
For  here  a  sudden  flush  of  wrathful  heat, 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen,  who 

cried  : 
"  Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden  more 
For   ever  !    thou   their   tool,   set   on    to 

plague 
And  play   upon  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 
And   traitress  ! "     When   that  storm   of 

anger  brake 
From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden  rose, 
White  as  her  veil,  and  stood   before   the 

Queen 
As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,  ready  to  break  and  fly, 
And  when  the  Queen   had   added,  "  Get 

thee  hence  ^  " 
Fled    frighted.     Then    that    other    left 

alone 
Sigh'd.  and  began  to  gather  heart  again, 
Saying  in  herself  :     '•  The  simple,  fearful 

child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful 

guilt. 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But   help   me,  Heaven,  for  surely  I   re- 
pent 1 
For    what    is   true   repentance    but    in 

thought — 
Not  even   in   inmost   thought   to   think 

again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  "pleasant 

to  us  ? 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him  more, 
To  see  him  more." 

And  even  in  saying  this 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 
Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden  days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lan- 
celot came, 
Reputed   the   best  knight  and   goodliest 

man. 
Ambassador,  to  yield  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Rapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And   sport   and  tilts  and  pleasure, — foz 
the  time 


TENNYSON 


531 


Was  may-time,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 

dream'd, — 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  paradise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd    the    heavens    upbreaking 

thro'  the  earth, 
And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur  raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before  ;  and  on  again, 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they 

saw 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship, 
That   crown'd  the  state  pavilion   of   the 

King, 
Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook    or    silent 

well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in  such 
a  trance. 
And  moving  thro'  the  past  unconscious- 

Came  to  that  point  where  first  she  saw 

the  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to 

find 
Her    journey    done,    glanced    at     him, 

thought  him  cold, 
High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless,  not 

like  him, 
"  Not    like    my     Lancelot*' — while    she 

brooded  thus 
And  grew   half-guilty   in   her   thoughts 

again, 
There    rode   an   armed    warrior  to    the 

doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnery 

ran, 
Then  on  a  sudden  a  cry,    "  The   King  ! " 

She  Sat 
Stiff-stricken,  listening  ;  but  when  armed 

feet 
Thro'    the   long  gallery  from  the  outer 

doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from   off   her   seat 

she  fell, 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against   the 

floor. 
There    with   her   milk-white   arms   and 

shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness   from   the 

.  Kin&' 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  feet 

Pause  by  her  ;  then  came  silence,  then  a 

voice, 

Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  ghost's 

Denouncing    judgment,     but,     though 

changed,  the  King's: 


"  Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child   of 

one 
I  honor'd,  happy,  dead  before  thy  shame  ? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  and 

fire, 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws, 
The   craft   of   kindred   and    the   godless 

hosts 
Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern 

Sea; 
Whom   I,    while   yet  Sir   Lancelot,   my 

right  arm. 
The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  ab<  Ce  with 

me, 
Have   everv where     about   this   land   of 

Christ 
In   twelve   great   battles   ruining   over- 
thrown. 
And  knowest  thou   now  from    whence  I 

come— from  him, 
From  waging  bitter   war  with  him  ;  and 

he, 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse 

way, 
Had  yet  that  grace   of  courtesy   in   him 

left, 
He  spared  to  lift   his   hand   against   the 

King 
Who  made   him   knight.     But   many   a 

knight  was  slain  ; 
An  i   many  more  and   all   his  kith   and 

kin 
Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own  land. 
And  many   more   when   Modred   raised 

revolt, 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a   remnant   stays   witli 

me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part, 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I 

live, 
To  guard  thee  in  the   wild  hour   coming 

on, 
Lest  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  be 

harm'd. 
Fear  not ;  thou  shalt  be  guarded  till  my 

death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet  my 

doom. 
Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet  to 

me, 
That  I  the  King  should   grer.tly   care  to 

live  ; 
For  thou  hast  spoilt   the  purpose  of   niv 

life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last    (imp    whilel 

show, 


53« 


BRITISH    POETS 


Even  for  thy  sake,  the   sin    which    thou 
hast  sinn'd  [law 

For  win-  i  tin'  Honia.n    left  us,  and    their 
Etelax'd  it--  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  fill 'd  with  rapine,   here  and  there 

a  deed 
Of   prowess     done   redress'd   a   random 

wrong, 
Bui  1  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew 
The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm  and 

all 
The   realms   together   under   me,    their 

Head, 
In  that  fair  Order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men, 
To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  world, 
And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 
I  made  them   lay   their   hands  in    mine 

and  swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and   their   conscience 

as  their  King. 
To  break  the   heathen   and   uphold   the 

Christ, 
To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it, 
To  honor  his  own  word  as  if  his  God's, 
To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 
And  worship  her  by  yparsof  noble  deeds, 
Until  they  won  her  ;  for  indeed  I  knew 
Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But  teacli    high   thought,   and   amiable 

words 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame. 
And  love  of  truth,   and  all  that  makes  a 

man. 
And  all  this  throve  before  I  wedded  thee, 
Believing,  "  Lo,  mine    helpmate,  one  to 

feel 

My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy  !  '* 
Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lance- 
lot: 
Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  Isolt  ; 
Then     others.       following      these     my 

mightiest  knights, 
And  drawing  foul   ensample   from   fair 

names, 
Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain, 
And  all  thro'    thee  !  so   that  this  life   of 

mine 
I  guard  as  God's  high   gift   from   scathe 

and  wrong, 
Not  greatly  care  to  lose  ;  but  rather  think 
How  sad  it  were   for  Arthur,   should  he 
live, 


To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall, 
And  miss    the    wonted    number   of    my 

knights* 
And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 
As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 
For  which  of  us  who  might  be  left  could 

speak 
Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at 

thee  ■'. 
And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 
Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room 

to  room, 
And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 
In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament. 
Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 
For  think    not,    tho'    thou    wouldst   not 

love  thy  lord. 
Thy  lord  has    wholly   lost   his  love   for 

thee. 
I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 
Yet  must  I  leave   thee,    woman,  to   thy 

shame. 
I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 
Who  either   for   his   own   or   children's 

sake, 
To  save  bis  blood  from  scandal*  lets  the 

wife 
Whom  he  knows   false   abide  and  rule 

the  house  : 
For  being  thro'  bis  cowardice  allow'd 
Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  pure, 
She  like  a.  new  disease,  unknown  to  men, 
Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the 

crowd. 
Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and 

saps 
The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the 

pulse 
With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the 

young. 
Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he 

that  reigns  ! 
Better    the    King's   waste   hearth    and 

aching  heart 
Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light, 
The  mockery  of  my   people  and   their 

bane !  " 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept 

an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 
Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war-horse 

neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,   and  he  spake 

again  : 

"  Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge 
thy  crimes  : 


TENNYSON 


533 


I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
Tosee  thee,  laying  :.iere  thy  golden  head, 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet. 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on 

that  fierce  law, 
The  doom   of   treason  and  the  flaming 

death, — 
When  first  I  learned  thee  hidden  here. — 

is  past. 
The  pang — which,  while  I  weigh'd  thy 

heart  with  one 
Too  wholly  true  to  dream   untruth  in 

thee, 
Made   my  tears  burn — is   also  past — in 

part. 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo.  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives  !  Jo  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the 

rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved  ? 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not     knowing!       O     imperial-moulded 

form, 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore. 
Until  it   came  a  kingdom's   curse  with 

thee — 

1  cannot   touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not 

mine, 
But   Lancelot's  ;  nay,   they  never  were 

the  King's. 
I  cannot  take  thy  hand  ;  that  too  is  flesh , 
And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd;  and 

mine  own  flesh, 
Here  looking   down  on  thine  polluted, 

cries, 
'  I  loathe  thee  ; '  yet  not  less,  O  Guine- 
vere, 
For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 
My  love   thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into 

my  life 
So  far  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 
Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee 

still. 
Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul, 
And    so   thou   lean   on   our   fair  father 

Christ, 
Hereafter  in  that  world  where   all  are 

pure 
We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and 

thou 
Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine, 

and  know 
T  am  thine  husband — not  a  smaller  soul. 
Nor   Lancelot,  nor  another.     Leave  me 

that, 
I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.     Now  must  T 

hence.  [blow. 

Thro' the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet 


They   summon   me   their   King  to  lead 

mine  hosts 
Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west, 
Where   I    must  strike  against  the  man 

they  call 
My   sister's   son — no   kin  of  mine,  who 

leagues 
With  Lords  of  the  White  Horse,  heathen, 

and  knights. 
Traitors — and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet 

myself 
Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious 

doom. 
And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the 

event ; 
But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again. 
Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more — 
Farewell ! " 

And  while  shf  grovejl'd  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er 

her  neck, 
And  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that 

blessed. 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps 

were  gone. 
Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  anguish 

found 
The  casement:  '"  peradventure,"  so  she 

thought. 
"If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be 

seen." 
And  lo.  lie  sat  on  horseback  atthedoor  ! 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a 

lig.it 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about 

the  Queen, 
'I'm  guard  and  foster  her  for  evermore. 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his   helm 

was  lower'd, 
To  which  for  crest   the   golden    dragon 

clung 
Of  Britain  ;  so  she  did  not  see  the  face. 
Which  then  was  as  an  angel's,  but  she 

saw. 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the 

lights, 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship 
Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of 

fire. 
And  even  then  he  turn'd  ;  and  niereard 

more 
The  moony  vapor  rolling  round  the  King. 
Who  seem'd  the  phantom  of  a  gianl   in 

it, 
Enwound  him  fold  by    fold,  and    made 

him  gray 


534 


BRITISH  POETS 


And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 
Before    her,    moving    ghostlike    to    his 
doom. 

Then  she  stretch 'd  out  her  arms  and 
cried  aloud, 

"  O  Arthur  ! "  there  her  voice  brake  sud- 
denly, 

Then — as  a  stream  that  spouting  from  a 
cliff 

Fails  in  mid  air,  but  gathering  at  the 
base 

Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 
vale — 

Went  on  in  passionate  utterance  : 

"  Gone — my  lord  ! 
Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be  slain  ! 
And   he   forgave   me,  and   I   could   not 

speak. 
Farewell  ?    I  should  have  answer'd  his 

farewell. 
His  mercy  choked  me.     Gone,  my  lord 

the  King, 
My  own  true  lord  !  how  dare  I  call  him 

mine  ? 
The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me. 
And  makes  me  one  pollution.     He,  the 

King, 
Call'd  me  polluted.     Shall  I  kill  mysel  f  ? 
What  help  in  that?     I  cannot   kill  my 

sin, 
If  soul  be  soul,  nor  can  I  kill  my  shame  ; 
No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 
The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks 

to  months, 
The   months   will   add    themselves  and 

make  the  years, 
The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries, 
And  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 
I  must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 
Let  the   world   be ;  that   is   but   of   the 

world — 
What  else?  what  hope?   I   think   there 

was  a  hope, 
Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake  of 

hope  ; 
His   hope   he   call'd   it ;    but    he    never 

mocks, 
For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts. 
And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath  for- 
given 
My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me  hope 
That  in  mine  own  heart  I  can  live  down 

sin 
And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heavens 
Before  high  God  !     Ah  great  and  gentle 

lord, 
Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a  saint 


Among    his     warring    senses,    to    thy 

knights — 
To   whom   my   false   voluptuous   pride, 

that  took 
Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below, 
Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised  the 

height 
To  which  I  would  not   or   I   could    not 

climb — 
I  thought  I  could  not  breathe   in   that 

fine  air, 
That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light — 
I  yearn 'd  for  warmth  and  color  which  I 

found 
In  Lancelot — now  I  see  thee  what  thou 

art, 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human 

too, 
Not   Lancelot,   nor    another.      Is   there 

none 
Will  tell  the  King  I  love   him   tho'   so 

late? 
Now — ere  he  goes  to  the  great   battle? 

none  ! 
Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life. 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.     Ah  my  God , 
What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy  fair 

world, 
Had  I  but  loved   thy   highest   creature 

here  ? 
It   was   my   duty    to    have    loved    the 

highest  ; 
It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I  known  ; 
It  would   have  been   my   pleasure  had  I 

seen. 
We  needs   must  love  the   highest  when 

we  see  it, 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another." 

Here  her  hand 
Grasp'd   made   her   veil  her  eyes.     She 

look'd  and  saw 
The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and  said 

to  her, 
"  Yea,  little    maid,  for  am  I  not    for- 
given ?  " 
Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  holy  nuns 
All  round  her,  weeping  ;  and  her  heart 

was  loosed 
Within   her,  and  she   wept   with  these 
and  said  : 

"  Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked  ones 
who  broke 

The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the  King. 

O,  shut  me  round  with   narrowing  nun- 
nery walls, 

Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying, 
'  Shame  ! ' 


TENNYSON 


535 


I  must  not  scorn   myself  ;  lie   loves  me 

still. 
Let  no  one  dream  but  that  be  loves  me 

still. 
So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me. 
Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell   with 

you; 
Wear   black   and  white,  and   be  a   nun 

like  you, 
Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with 

your  feasts  ; 
Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at 

your  jo}-s, 
But   not   rejoicing ;   mingle   with   your 

rites  ; 
Pray  and  be  pray'd  for  ;  lie   before  your 

shrines  ; 
Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house  ; 
Walk  your   dim  cloister,  and  distribute 

dole 
To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  His  eyes 
Who  ransoin'd  us,  and  baler  too  than  I  : 
And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and  heal 

mine  own  ; 
And  so   wear  out  in  alms-deed  and  in 

prayer 
The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous  clay 
Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the 

King." 

She  said.  They  took  her  to  themselves  ; 
and  she 

Still  hoping,  fearing  "  Is  it  yet  too  late?" 

Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  ab- 
bess died. 

Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her  pure 
life. 

And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her, 

And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had 
borne, 

Was  chosen  abbess,  there,  an  abbess, 
lived 

For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an  ab- 
bess, passed 

To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is 
peace.  1839. 

TITHONUS 

The  woods  decav,  the  woods  decay  and 
fall, 

The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the 
ground, 

Man  conies  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  be- 
neath, 

And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality 

Consumes;  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 

Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 


A   white-hair'd   shadow   roaming  like  a 

dream 
The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and   gleaming  halls  of 

morn. 
Alas !   for    this  gray     shadow,   once  a 

man — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice, 
Who   madest  him   thy  chosen,   that  he 

seem*d 
To   his   great   heart  none   other   than  a 

God! 
I  ask'd  thee,  "  Give  me  immortality." 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with 

a  smile, 
Like   wealthy   men   who  care  not   how 

they  give. 
But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd 

their  wills, 
And   beat   me   down     and   marr'd   and 

wasted  me, 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me 

maim'd 
To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 
And  all  I  was  in  ashes.     Can  thy  love, 
Thy   beauty,   make   amends,    tho'   even 

now, 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide, 
Shines  in  those   tremulous  eyes   that  fill 

with  tears 
To  hear  me  ?     Let  me  go  ;  take  back  thy 

gift. 
"W  by  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 
Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet 

for  all  ? 
A  soft  air  fans  the   cloud   apart  ;   there 

comes 
A  glimpse  of  that   dark  world   where  I 

was  born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer 

steals 
From    thy   pure  brows,   and   from   thy 

shoulders  pure, 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 
Thy   cheek   begins  to  redden  thro'   the 

gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to 

mine, 
Ere  yet  they  blind   the   stars,   and  the 

wild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke 

arise, 
And    shake    the    darkness    from    their 

loosen'd  manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 
Lo  !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 


53b 


BRITISH   POETS 


In    silence,  .then    before    thine  answer 

given 
Departest,    and    thy    tears   uie..on   my 

cheek. 
Why  wilt  thou  eversoare  me  with  thy 

tears. 
And    make   me   tremble   lest   a  saying 

learnt. 
In  day-;  far-oil",  on    tint   dark    earth,   be 

true  ? 
•'The    Gods    themselves    cannot    recall 

i  ben  gifl  s." 
Ay  me  !    ay  me  !    with  what  another 

heart 
In   days    far-off.    and    with    what  other 

eyes 
I    used    to    watch — if   I    be    he     that 

watch'd— 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee  ; 

saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings  ; 
Changed  with  thy   mystic  change,  and 

felt  my  blood 
Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crim- 
son "d  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,   while  I 

lay, 
Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy- 
warm 
With    kisses   balmier  than  half-opening 

buds 
Of  April,   and  could   hear  the  lips  that 

kiss'd 
Whispering   I   knew  not   what   of  wild 

and  sweet, 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo 

sing. 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 
Yet    hold   me   not  for   ever   in  thine 

East : 
How  can  my   nature  longer  mix  with 

thine? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my   wrink- 
led feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,   when 

the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about 

the  homes  [die, 

Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to 
And  grassy  harrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release    me.    and    restore    me    to    the 

ground.  [grave; 

Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn   by 

morn,  [courts, 

I    earth    in   earth   forget   these    empty 
And  thee  returning  on  thv  silver  wheels. 
Abmd  1835.     I860. 


THE  SAILOR  BOY 

He  rose  at  dawn  and.  fired  with  hope, 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbor-bar, 

And    reach'd  the  ship   and  caught   the 
rope, 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

"  0  boy,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  proud, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

"The  sands  and  jreasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 

And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks. 
And    in   thy  heart   the    scrawl   shall 

play." 

"  Fool,"  he  answer'd,  "  death  is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and  those  that  roam, 

But  I  will  nevermore  endure 
To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

•'  My  mother  clings  about  my  neck, 
My  sisters  crying,   '  Stay  for   shame  ;' 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck, — 
They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to 
blame. 

"  God  help  me  !  save  I  take  my  part 
Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 

A  devil  rises  in  my  heart, 
Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me." 

1861. 

MILTON 

(ALCAICS) 

O  mighty-MOUTH'd  inventor  of  harmo- 
nies, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ- voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages: 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from    Jehovah's  gorgeous  armo- 
ries, 
Towei-,  as  the  deep-domed  emp3rrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset! 
Me  rather  ail  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring. 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
<  harm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
SI  reams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle, 
And   crimson-hued  the  stately   palm- 
woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even 

1863, 


TENNYSON 


537 


THE  VOYAGE 

We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 

That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth  : 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 

As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  south. 
How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 

On  open  main  or  winding  shore  ! 
We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 

And  we  might  sail  for  evermore. 

Warm  broke    the    breeze    against    the 
brow, 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail ; 
The  lady's-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd  the 
gale. 
The  broad  seas  swell'd  to  meet  the  keel, 

And  swept  behind  ;  so  quick  the  run 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel, 

We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  sun  ! 

How  oft  we  saw  the  sun  retire, 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Fall  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire. 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar'd  light  ! 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
As  thro'  the  slumber  of  the  globe 

Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawn  ! 

New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 

Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view  ; 
They  climb'd  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 

Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean's  heaving  field, 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 

Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield. 

The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

High  towns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen  ; 
We  passed  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 

And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 

Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove. 
Where    those    long    swells   of    breaker 
sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 

By  peaks  that  flamed,  or.  all  in  shade, 

Glooin'd  the  low  coast  and  quivering 
brine 
With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 

Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine  ; 
By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  fl Is 

Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woo   - 

Glow'**  «ur  a  moment  as  we  passed. 


O  hundred  shores  of  happy  climes, 

How  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark  ! 
At  times  the  whole  sea  burn'd,  at  times 

With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark  ; 
At  times  a  carven  craft  would  shoot 

From  havens  bid  in  fairy  bowers, 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit. 

But    we    nor    paused    for    fruit     noi 
flowers. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  and  night. 
And  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led, 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 
Her  face  was  evermore  unseen. 

And  fixed  upon  the  far  sea  line  ; 
But  each  man  murmur'd,  "  O  my  queen, 

I  follow  till  I  make  thee  mine  !  " 

And  now  we  lost  her.  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air. 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem'd 

Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge  fair, 
Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 

Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown'd  the 
sea, 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed, 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 

And  only  one  among  us — him 

We     pleased     not — he     was     seldom 
pleased  ; 
He  saw  not  far,  his  eyes  were  dim, 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
"  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  shriek *d  in  spite, 

'•'A    ship   of    fools,"   he    sneer'd    and 
wept, 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night 

He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  fmTd, 

Nor  anchor  dropped  at  eve  or  morn  ; 
We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world. 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn. 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and  cease, 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove  the 
sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace, 

And  to  and  thro'  the  counter  gale  ? 

Again  to  colder  climes  we  came, 

For  st  ill  we  follow'd  where  she  led  ; 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame. 

And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead, 
Hut.  blind  or  lame  or  sic  '".  or  sound, 

We  follow  thai  which  nies  before; 
We  know  the  merry  world  is  round, 

And  we  may  sail  for  evermore. 

1864, 


533 


BRITISH   POETS 


NORTHERN  FARMER 

OLD  STYLE 

Wiii.i.K    "asta    bean    saw  long   and  raea 

liggin'  'ere  aloan  ? 
Noorse?  thoort  nowt  o' a  noorse ;  whoy, 

1  (octor  's  abean  an'  agoan  ; 
Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  aale,  but 

I  hea iit  a  fool  ; 
Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I  beant  a-gawin' 

to  break  my  rule. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a  says 

what  's  nawways  true  ; 
Naw  soort  o'   koind  o'  use   to  saay  the 

tilings  that  a  do. 
I  've  'ed   my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight 

sin'  I  bean  *ere. 
An'   I  've   'ed    my   quart    ivry   market- 

noight  for  foorty  year. 

Parson  's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin' 

ere  o'  my  bed. 
"The  Amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you1  to 

'issen,'  my  friend,"  a  said. 
An'  a  towd    ma   my  sins,  an'  's  toithe 

were  due.  an'  I  gied  it  in  bond  ; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'urn,  as  I  'a  done 

boy  the  loud. 

Larn'd  a  ma'  bea.     I  reckons  I  'annot 

sa  mooch  to  lain. 
But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'bout  Bessy 

Marris's  barne. 
Thaw   a    knaws    I    hallus    voated    wi' 

Squoire  an'  choorch  an'  staate,  - 
'  i'  tbe  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver 


An 


agin  the  raate. 


An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to  's  choorch  afoor 

moy  Sally  wur  dead, 
An'  'eard  'um  a  bumrain'  awaay  loike  a 

buzzard-clock  2  ower  my  'ead, 
An' I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  niean'd  but 

I  thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said, 

an'  I  coom'd  awaay. 

Bessy   Marris's   barne !   tha   knaws   she 

laaid  it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a 

bad  un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  'um,  I  kep  'um,  my  lass, 

tha  mun  understond  ; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done 

boy  the  lond. 

1  ou  as  in  hour.     [The  notes  on  this  poem  ?.re 
Tennyson's. T 
*  Cockchafer. 


But  Parson  a  cooms  an'  a  goas,  an'  a 
says  it  easy  an'  freea  : 

"The  Amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  tc 
'issen,  my  friend,"  says  'ea. 

I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  sum- 
in  un  said  it  in  'aaste  ; 

But  'e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  1 
'a  stubb'd  Thurnaby  waaste. 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass?  naw, 

naw,  tha  was  not  born  then  ; 
Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eard 

'um  mysen  ; 
Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,1  fur  I  'eard 

'um  about  an'  about. 
But   I  stubb'd  'um  oop  wi'  the  lot,  an' 

raaved  an'  rembled  'um  out. 

Keaper's  it  wur  ;  fo'  they  fun  'um  theer 

a-laaid  of  'is  faace 
Down   i'   the   woild    'enemies2  afoor   I 

coom'd  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks   or  Thimbleby— toaner3  'ed  shot 

'um  as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  "ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soiZ3— 

but  git  ma  my  aale. 

Dubbut    loook    at    the   waaste ;    theer 

warn't  not  feead  for  a  cow  ; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an' 

loook  at  it  now — 
Warn't   worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now 

theer  's  lots  o'  feead, 
Fourscoor  yows  *  upon  it,  an'  some  on  it 

down  i'  seead.5 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it  's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to 

'a  stubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  plow 

thruff  it  an'  all, 
If  Godamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nobbut  let 

ma  aloan, — 
Mea,     wi'    haate    hoonderd    haacre    o' 

Squoire's,  an  lond  o'  my  oan. 

Do  Godamoighty  knaw  what  a's  doing 
a-taakin'  o'  mea  ? 

I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an  yon- 
der a  pea ; 

An'  Squoire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all — a' 
dear,  a'  dear ! 

And  I  'a  managed  for  Squoire  coora 
Michaelmas  thutty  year. 

A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as 'ant  not 

a  'aapoth  o'  sense, 
Or  a  mowt  a'  taaen  young  Robins — a 

niver  mended  a  fence  ; 


1  Bittern.        !  Anemones. 
*  ou  as  in  hour. 


8  One  or  other. 
5  Clover. 


TENNYSON 


539 


But  Godamoighty  amoost  taake  meaan' 

taake  ma  now, 
VVi*  aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thurnaby 

hoalms  to  plow  I 

Loook  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when   they 

seeas  ma  a  passin'  boy, 
Says  to  thessen,  naw  doubt,  "  What  a 

man  a  bea  sewer-loy  !  " 
Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire 

sin'  fust  a  coom'd  to  the  'All ; 
I  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done 

moy  duty  boy  hall. 

Squoire '  s  i'  Lunnon,    an'    summun  I 

reckons  'ull  'a  to  wroite. 
For  whoa  's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea 

thot  muddles  ma  quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea  thot  a  weant  niver 

give  it  to  Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a   moant  to  Robins — a  niver 

rembles  the  stoans. 

But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap 

wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin' .  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds 

wi'  the  diva's  oan  team. 
Sin'  I   mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  thaw  loife 

tliey  says  is  sweet, 
But  sin'   I   mun  doy   I   mun  doy,  for  I 

couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  fur,  an'  doesn 

bring  ma  the  aale  ? 
Doctor  's  a  'toattler,  lass,  an  a's  hallus  i' 

the  owd  taale  ; 
I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws 

naw  moor  nor  a  floy  ; 
Git  ma  my  aale,  I  tell  tha,  an'  if  I  mun 

doy  I  mun  doy.  1864, 

THE  FLOWER  * 

Oxce  in  a  golden  hour 

I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 
Up  there  came  a  flower, 

The  people  said,  a  weed , 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light, 

But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night ; 

»  See  the  Life  of  Tennyson  II,  10-11. 


Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 

Till  all  the  people  cried 
"Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  fable  : 

He  that  runs  may  read. 
Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now 

For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough, 
And  some  are  poor  indeed  ; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed.  1864. 

IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  thatflashest 

white, 
Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening 

of  the  night, 
All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters 

flow. 
I  walk'd  witli  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty 

years  ago. 
All  along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd  to- 
day, 
The  two  and    thirty  years  were  a  mist 

that  rolls  away  ; 
For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky 

bed, 
Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice 

of  the  dead, 
And   all   along  the  valley,  by  rock  and 

cave  and  tree, 
The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice 

tome.  1861.  1864. 

A  DEDICATION 

Dear,  near  and  true, — no    truer   Time 

himself 
Can  prove  you,  tho'  he  make  you  ever- 
more 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the   fall, — take  this   and  pray 

that  he 
Who  wrote  it,  honoring  your  sweet  faith 

in  him, 
May  trust  himself  ;  and  after  praise  and 

scorn,  [world, 

As    one    who    feels    the    immeasurable 
Attain  the  wise  indifference  of  the  wise; 
And  after  autumn  past— if  left  to  pass 
His  autumn  into  seeming-leafless  days 
Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  longesi 

night,  [fruit 

Wearing  bis   wisdom   lightly,  like   the 
Which  in  our    winter  woodland    looks  a 

1  lower.  1804. 


54° 


BRITISH    POETS 


WAGES 

GLORY  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory 
of  song, 
Tai.l  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost 

on  an  endless  sea — 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  light,  to  struggle,  to 

I'ight  Hie  wrong — 
Nay.  but    she    aim'd    not   at  glory,  no 

lover  of  glory  she  ; 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still 

to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death  :  if  the  wages 

of  Virtue  be  dust. 
Would    she  have    heart  to    endure  for 

the  life  of  the  worm  and  the  fly  ? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet 

seats  of  the  just, 
To  rest  in  a  golden   grove,  or   to  bask 

in  a  summer  sky  ; 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not 

to  die.  1868. 

FROM    THE    COMING    OF    ARTHUR 
merlin's  riddle 

Rain,  rain,  and   sun  !  a   rainbow   in  the 

sky  ! 
A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by  ; 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he  die. 

Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a   rainbow   on  the 

lea! 
And  truth  is  this  to  me.  and  that  to  thee  ; 
And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it  lie. 

Rain,  sun,  and  rain  !  and  the  free  blos- 
som blows  : 

Sun,  rain,  and  sun  !  and  where  is  he  who 
knows  ? 

From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 
he  goes.  1869. 

TKCIIPET  SONG 

Blowr   trumpet,  for   the    world   is  white 

with  May  ! 
Blow  trumpet,  the  long  night  hath  roll'd 

away  ! 
Blow  thro'  the   living  world — "  Let  the 

King  reign  ! " 

Shall  Rome  or  Heathen  rule  in  Arthur's 

realm  ? 
Flash   brand   and  lance,  fall  battle-axe 

upon  helm, 
Fall   battle-axe,  and    flash   brand!     Let 

the  King  reign  ! 


Strike  for  the  King  and  live  !  his  knights 

have  heard 
That  God   hath  told  the   King  a  secret 

word. 
Fall   battle-axe,    and   flash  brand  !     Let 

the  King  reign  ! 

Blow  trumpet  1  he  will  lift   us  from  the 

dust. 
Blow   trumpet!  live  the   strength,  and 

die  the  lust ! 
Clang  battle-axe,  and  clash  brand  !     Let 

the  King  reign  ! 

Strike  for  the  King  and  die  !  and  if  thou 

diest, 
The  King  is  king,  and  ever   wills  the 

highest. 
Clang  battle-axe,  and  clash  brand  !     Let 

the  King  reign  ! 

Blow,  for  our  Sun  is  mighty  in  his  May  ! 
Blow,  for   our   Sun   is   mightier  day  by 

day  ! 
Clang  battle-axe,  and  clash  brand  !    Let 

the  King  reign ! 

The  King  will  follow  Christ,  and  we  the 

King, 
In   whom   high   God   hath    breathed   a 

secret  thing. 
Fall  battle-axe.  and    flash  brand  !     Let 

the  King  reign  !  1874. 

THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas, 
the  hills  and  the  plains, — 

Are  not  these,  OSoul,  the  Vision  of  Him 
who  reigns? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He,  tho'  He  be  not  that 

which  He  seems? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do 

we  not  live  in  dreams  ? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of 

body  and  limb, 
Are  they   not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy 

division  from  Him  ? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee  ;  thyself  art 

the  reason  why, 
For  is  He   not   all  but  thou,  that  hast 

power  to  feel  "  I  am  I"  ? 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee  ;  and 
thou  fulfillest  thy  doom, 

Making  Him  broken  gleams  and  a  stifled 
splendor  and  gloom. 


TENNYSON 


541 


Speak  to  Him,  thou,  for  He  hears,  and 

Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet- 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer 
than  hands  and  feet. 

God   is  law,  say  the  wise  ;  0  soul,  and 

let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is 

yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,   say  some  ;  no  God  at  all, 

says  the  fool, 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight 

staff  bent  in  a  pool ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the 

eye  of  man  cannot  see  ; 
But   if   we   coul  I    see    and    hear,    tins 

Vision — were  it  not  He  V       1869. 

FLOWER  IN  THE  CRANNIED  WALL 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies. 

I   hold   you   here,   root  and   all,  in  my 

hand, 
Little  flower— but  if  I  could  understand 
What  von  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in 

all. 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

L8G9. 

NORTHERN    FARMER 

NEW    STYLE 

Dosx'T  thou  "ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they 

canters  a  waay  ? 
Proputty.     proputty,     proputty — that's 

what  I  'cars  'em  saay. 
Proputty,      proputty,     proputty — Sam, 

tliou's  an  ass  for  thy  pai'ns  ; 
Xheer's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs,  nor 

in  all  thy  brains. 

Woa — theer's  a  craw  to  pluck  wi'  tha, 
Sam  :  yon  's  parson's  'ouse — ■ 

Dosn't  thou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be 
eather  a  man  or  a  mouse? 

Time  to  flunk  on  it  then  ;  for  thou'll  be 
t  won  v  to  weeak.1 

Proputty.  proputty— woa  then,  woa — let 
ma  'ear  mysen  speak. 

Me   an'   thy   mutlier.    Sammy,  'as  bean 

a-talkin'  o'  thee  : 
rhou'a  bean  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she 

bean  a-tellm'  it  me. 
rhcu'll  not  marry    for   mnnny — thou's 

sweet  upo'  parson's  lass — 

'  This  week 


Noa — thou  '11  marry  for  luvv — an'  we 
boatli  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 

Seea'd  herto-daay  goa  by — Saaint's  daay 

— they  was  ringing  the  1  ells. 
She's  a  beauty,  thou  thinks — an'  soa  is 

SCOors  o'   gel  Is. 

Them  as  'as  munny  an  .1 — wot's  a 
beauty  ? — the  flower  as  blaws. 

But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  pro- 
putty, proputty  grows. 

Do'ant  be  stunt  ;a  taake  time.     I  knaws 

what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  I  craazed  fur  the   lasses   mysen 

when  I  wur  a  lad  ? 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often 

'as  towd  ma  this  : 
•'  Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa 

wheer  munny  is  !  " 

An'  I  went  wheer  munny  war  ;   an'  thy 

muther  coom  to  'and. 
Wi'lotso'  munny  laaid  by,  an' a  nicetish 

bit  o'  land. 
Maaybe  she  warn't  a  beauty — Iniver  giv 

it  a  thowt — 
But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss 

as  a  lass  as  'ant  nowt  ? 

Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a 

nowt  when  'e  's  dead, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summvt,  and 

addle2  her  bread. 
Why?  fur   'e   's   nobbut  a    curate,    an' 

weant  niver  get  hissen  clear, 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor 

'e  coom'd  to  theshere. 

An'  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots 

o'  Varsity  debt, 
Stook  to  his  taa'il  they   did.   an'   'e   'ant 

got  shut  on  'em  yet. 
An' 'e  ligs  on  'is    back   i'   the  grip,   wi' 

noan  to  lend  Mm  a  shove, 
Woorse  nor   a  far-welter'd  3  yowe ;  fur, 

Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luvv. 

Luvv?  what's  luvv?  thou  can  luvv  tin- 
lass  an'  Vr  munny  too, 

Maakin"emgoa  togither,  as  they've  good 
right  to  do. 

Couhln  I  luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  'o 
'ei-  munny  laa'i  1  by  ? 

Naay— fur  I  luvv'd  'er  a*  vast  sight  moor 
fur  it ;  reason  why. 

mate.  "  Earn. 

3d,  r'd, — sai    of  a  sheep  lying  on  its 

back  in  the  furrow. 


542 


BRITISH   POETS 


Ay,  an'  thy  muther  says  thou   wants  to 

many  the  lass, 
Cooms  of  a   gentleman    burn;  an'    we 

boatli  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
Woa  tlien,  proputty,  wiltha? — an  ass  as 

near  as  mays  nowt1 — 
Woa  then,  wiltha  ?  dangtha  1— the  bees 

is  as  Cell  as  owt.a 

Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead, 

lad,  out  o'  the  fence,! 
Gentleman    burn  !      what  s     gentleman 

burn?  is  it  sliillins  an'  pence  ? 
Proputty,  proputty's  ivrything  'ere,  an', 

Sammy,  I'm  blest 
If  it  is   n't   the  saame   oop  yonder,   fur 

them  as  'as  it  's  the  best. 

Tis  'n  them  as  'as  muiiny  as  breaks  into 

'ouses  an'  steals, 
Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  backs  an' 

taakes  their  regular  meals. 
Noa,  but  it  's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer 

a  meal's  to  be  'ad. 
Taake  my  word  for  it  Sammy,  the  poor 

in  a  loomp  is  bad. 

Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  'a 

bean  a  laazy  lot, 
Fur  work  mun  'a  gone  to  the  gittin'  whin- 

iver  munny  was  got. 
Feyther  'ad  aminost  nowt ;  leastways  'is 

munny  was  'id. 
But  'e  tued  an'  moil'd  issen    dead,  an'  'e 

died  a  good  un,  'e  did. 

Loook  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck 

cooins  out  by  the  'ill ! 
Feyther  run  oop  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs 

oop  to  the  mill ; 
An'  I  '11   run   oop  to  the  brig,  an'  that 

thou  '11  live  to  see  ; 
And  if  thou  marries  a  good  un  I  '11  leave 

the  land  to  thee. 

Thim's   my    noations,  Sammy,  wheerby 

I  means  to  stick  ; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I  '11  leave 

the  land  to  Dick. — 
Coom    oop,    proputty,    proputty — that's 

what  I  'ears  'im  saay — 
Proputty,     proputty,    proputty — canter 

an'  canter  awaay.  1870. 

ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA  IN  1782 

O  THOU  that  sendest  out  the  man 
To  rule  by  land  and  sea, 

1  Makes  nothing. 

1  The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 


Strong  mother  of  a  lion-line, 
Be  proud  of  those  strong  sons  of  thine 
Who  wrench'd  their  rights  from  thee 5 

What  wonder  if  in  noble  heat 

Those  men  thine  arms  withstood, 
Retaught  the  lesson  thou  hadst  taught, 
And  in  thy  spirit  with  thee  fought — 
Who  sprang  from  English  blood  1 

But  thou  rejoice  with  liberal  joy, 

Lift  up  thy  rocky  face, 
And  shatter,  when  the  storms  are  black, 
In  many  a  streaming  torrent  back, 

The  seas  that  shock  thy  base  1 

Whatever  harmonies  of  law 

The  growing  world  assume, 
Thy  work  is  thine — the  single  note 
From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden 
smote 

Will  vibrate  to  the  doom.  1872. 

THE  VOICE   AND  THE  PEAK 

The  voice  and  the  Peak, 

Far  over  summit  and  lawn, 
The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn  ! 

All  night  have  I  heard  the  voice 

Rave  over  the  rocky  bar, 
But  thou  wert  silent  in  heaven, 

Above  thee  glided  the  star. 

Hast  thou  no  voice,  O  Peak. 

That  standest  high  above  all? 
"  I  am  the  voice  of  the  Peak, 

I  roar  and  rave,  for  I  fall. 

"  A  thousand  voices  go 

To  North,  South,  East,  and  West ; 
They  leave  the  heights  and  are  troubled, 

And  moan  and  sink  to  their  rest. 

"  The  fields  are  fair  beside  them, 
The  chestnut  towers  in  his  bloom  ; 

But  they — they  feel  the  desire  of  the 
deep — 
Fall,  and  follow  their  doom, 

"  The  deep  has  power  on  the  height, 
And  the  height  has  power  on  the  deep} 

They  are  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 
And  sink  again  into  sleep." 

Not  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 
But  when  their  cycle  is  o'er. 


TENNYSON 


543 


The  valley,  the  voice,  the  peak,  the  star 
Pass,  and  are  found  no  more. 

The  Peak  is  high  and  fiush'd 
At  Ins  highest  with  sunrise  fire  ; 

The  Peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are  high, 
And  the  thought  of  a  man  is  higher. 

A  deep  below  the  deep, 

And  a  lieiglit  beyond  the  height! 
Our  hearing  is  not  hearing, 

And  our  seeing  is  not  sight. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 

Far  into  heaven  withdrawn, 

The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn  !  1S74. 

LYRICS   FROM    QUEEN  MARY 
milkmaid's  soxa 

Shame  upon  yon,  Robin, 

Shame  upon  you  now  1 
Kiss  me  would  you  ?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  ? 

Daisies  grow  again. 

Kingcups  blow  again. 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me   milking 
the  cow. 

Robin  came  behind  me, 

Kiss'd  me  well,  I  vow. 
Cuff  him  could  I  ?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  ? 

Swallows  fly  again, 

Cuckoos  cry  again, 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking 
the  cow. 

Come,  Robin,  Robin, 

Come  and  kiss  me  now  ; 
Help  it  can  I  ?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  'i 

Ringdoves  coo  again, 

All  things  woo  again. 
Come     behind     and    kiss    me    milking 
the  cow  ! 

LOW,    LUTE,   LOW! 

Hapless  doom  of  woman  happy  in  be- 
trothing ! 

Beauty  passes  like  a   breath,  and  love  is 
lost  iii  loal  hing. 

Low,  my   lute  ;  speak  low,  my  lute,  but 
say  the  world  is  nothing — 
Low,  lute,  low ! 


Love  will  hover  round  the  flowers  when 

they  first  awaken  ; 
Love  will  fly  the  fallen   leaf,  and  not  be 

overtaken. 
Low,  my  lute  !  O,  low,  my  lute  !  we  fade 
and  are  forsaken — 

Low,  dear  lute,  low  ! 

1875. 

MONTENEGRO 

They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle 
sails, 

They  kept  their  faith,  their  freedom,  on 
the  height, 

Chaste,  frugal,  savage,  armVl  by  day 
and  night 

Against  the  Turk  ;  whose  inroad  no- 
where scales 

Their  headlong  passes,  but  his  footstep 
fails. 

And  red  with  blood  the  Crescent  reels 
from  fight 

Before  their  dauntless  hundreds,  in 
prone  flight 

By  thousands  down  the  crags  and  thro' 
the  vales. 

O  smallest  among  peoples  !  rough  rock- 
throne 

Of  Freedom  !  warriors  beating  back  the 
swarm 

Of  Turkish  Islam  for  five  hundred  years, 

Great  Tsernogora  !  never  since  thine  own 

Black  ridges  drew  the  cloud  and  brake 
the  storm 

Has  breathed  a  race  of  mightier  moun- 
taineers. 1877. 

THE  REVENGE  * 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FLEET 


At  Flores   in   the    Azores   Sir   Richard 

Grenville  lay, 
And  a    pinnace,  like    a    flutter'd   bird, 

came  flying  from  faraway  ; 
•'Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea!    we  have 

sighted  fifty-three  !  " 
Then     sware    Lord     Thomas   Howard : 

"  'Fore  God  I  am  no  coward  ; 
But  I  cannot   meet   them   here,  for   my 

ships  are  out  of  gear, 
Ami  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must 

fly.  hut  follow  quick. 
We   are  six   ships   of  the  line;  can  we 

light  with  fifty-three?" 

1  See  the  Life  of  Tennyson,  II.  !.'51-2. 


544 


BRITISH    POETS 


II 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville  :  "1 
know  you  are  n<>  coward  ; 

you  ilv  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with 
them  again. 

But  I  've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are 
lying  sick  ashore. 

I  should  count' myself  the  coward  if  I 
left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devil- 
doms of  Spain." 

Ill 

So   Lord   Howard   past   away  with  five 

ships  of  war  that  day, 
Till  lie  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent 

summer  heaven  : 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  hissick 

men  from  the  land 
Very  carefully  and  slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on   the   ballast  down 

below  : 
For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 
And  they  blest    him  in    their  pain,  that 

they  were  not  left  to  Spain, 
To  the  thumb-screw    and   the  stake,  for 

the  glory  of  the  Lord. 

IV 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work 

the  ship  and  to  fight 
And  he  sailed  away  from   Florestill  the 

Spaniard  came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon 

the  weather  bow*. 
"  Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly  ? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die  I 
There  '11  be   little  of  us  left  by  the  time 

this  sun  be  set." 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again  :  "  We  be  all 

goo  1  English  men. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the 

children  of  the  devil. 
For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or 

devil  yet." 


Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh'd,  and 
we  roar'd  a  hurrah,  and  so 

The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the 
heart  of  the  foe, 

With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and 
her  ninety  sick  below  • 


For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and 
half  to  the  left  were  seen, 

And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro'  the 
long  sea-lane  between. 

VI 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down 

from  their  decks  and  laugh'd, 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock 

at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on.  till  delay'd 
By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip  that, 

of  fifteen  hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with 

her  yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we 

stay'd. 

VII 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip 
hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Long  and  loud, 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two 
upon  the  starboard  lay. 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them 
all. 

VIII 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  be- 
thought herself  and  went, 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had 
left  her  ill  content ; 

And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and 
they  fought  us  hand  to  hand, 

For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their 
pikes  and  musqueteers, 

And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  k 
dog  that  shakes  his  ears 

When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the 
land. 

IX 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars 

came   out   far    over  the   summer 

sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of 

the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 
Ship  after   ship,  the  whole  night  long, 

their  high-built  galleons  came, 
Ship   after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 

with  her  battle-thunder  and  flame; 
Ship  after  ship,  the   whole  night  long, 

drew  back  with  her  dead  and  her 

shame. 
For   some    were  sunk   and   many   were 

shatter'd,  and  so  could  fight  us  no 

more — 


TENNYSON 


545 


rod  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like 
this  in  the  world  before? 


For  be  said,  "  Fight  on  !  fight  on  !  " 

Tho?  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck ; 

And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the 
short  summer  night  was  gone. 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had 
deft  the  deck, 

But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dress- 
ing it  suddenly  dead. 

And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in 
the  side  and  the  head. 

And  he  said,  "  Fight  on  !  fight  on  I  " 

XI 

And  the  night  wTent  clown,  and  the  sun 

smiled   out   far  over  the  summer 

sea. 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides 

lay  round  us  all  in  a  ring  ; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for 

they   fear'd    that    we   still   could 

stin  o* 
So  they  watch'd  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we. 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were 

slain, 
And  half  of  the   rest  of  us  maim'd  for 

life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the 

desperate  strife  ; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were 

most  of  them  stark  and  cold. 
And  the  pikes  were  all   broken  or  bent, 

and  the  powder  was  all  of  it  spent  ; 
And    the    masts    and    the   rigging    were 

lying  over  the  side  ; 
But   Sir   Richard   cried   in   his   English 

pride  : 
'•  We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day 

and  a  night 
As  may  never  lie  fought  again  ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  1 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At,  sea  or  ashore, 
Wo  die — does  it  matter  when  ? 
Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner — sink 

her,  split  her  in  t  wain  ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the 

hands  of  Spain  !  " 

XII 

And  the  gunner  said.  "  Ay,  ay,"  but  the 
si '.imeii  made  reply  : 

35 


"  We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard   promise,  if 

we  yield,  to  let  us  go  ; 
We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike 

another  blow." 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they 

yielded  to  the  foe. 

XIII 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their 

flagship  bore  him  then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old 

Sir  Richard  caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with 

their  courtly  foreign  grace; 
But   he  rose  upon  their   decks,   and   he 

cried  : 
"  I  have   fought   for   Queen  and   Faith 

like  a  valiant  man  and  true  : 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is 

bound  to  do. 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Gren- 

ville  die  ! " 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he 

died. 

XIV 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had 

been  so  valiant  and  true, 
And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of 

Spain  so  cheap 
That  he  dared   her  with  one  little  ship 

and  his  English  few  ; 
AVas  he  devil  or  man  ?     He  was  devil  for 

aught  they  knew, 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down 

into  the  (hep. 
Ainl  they  mann'd  the  Revenge  with   a 

swarthier  alien  crew, 
And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and 

long'd  for  her  own  ; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had 

ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep, 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the 

weather  to  moan, 
And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great 

gale  blew, 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised 

by  an  earthquake  grew, 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails 

and  their  masts  and  their  flags, 
And  the  whole  sea   plunged   and  fell  on 

the shot-shatter'd  navy  of  Spain. 
And    the   little    Revenge    herself   went 

down  by  t  lie  isla  nd  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 

1878. 


546 


BRITISH    POETS 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW: 


Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  O 

banner  of  Britain,  hast  thou 
Floated  in  conquering  battle  or  flapped 

to  the  battle-civ  ! 
Never  with  mightier  glory  than  when 

we  had  rear'd  thee  on  high 
Flying  at  top  of  the  roofs  in  the  ghastly 

siege  of  Lucknow — 
Shot  thro'  the  staff  or  the  halyard,  but 

ever  we  raised  thee  anew, 
And   ever   upon   the   topmost   roof   our 

banner  of  England  blew. 


Frail  were  the  works  that  defended  the 

hold  that  we  held  with  our  lives — 
Women   and   children   among   us,   God 

help  them,  our  children  and  wives! 
Hold  it  we  might — and  for  fifteen  days 

or  for  twenty  at  most. 
"  Never  surrender,    I   charge   you,   but 

every  man  die  at  his  post  !  " 
Voice  of  the  dead  whom  we  loved,  our 

Lawrence,  the  best  of  the  brave  ; 
Cold   were   his  brows  when    we    kiss'd 

him — we  laid  him  that  night  in 

his  grave. 
*'  Every  man  die  at  his  post !  "  and  there 

hail'd  on  our  houses  and  halls 
Death  from  their  rifle  bullets,  and  death 

from  their  cannon-balls, 
Death  in  our  innermost  chamber,  and 

death  at  our  slight  barricade, 
Death  while  we  stood  with  tlie  musket, 

and  death  while  we  stooped  to  the 

spade, 
Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  to  the 

wounded,  for  often  there  fell, 
Striking    the     hospital    wall,    crashing 

thro'  it,  their  shot  and  their  shell, 
Death — for  their  spies  were  among  us. 

their  marksmen  were  told  of  our 

best, 
So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  thro'  the 

brain    that    could    think   for  the 

rest ; 
Bullets  would   sing   by   our  foreheads, 

and    bullets    would    rain    at  our 

feet — 

1  "  The  old  flag  used  during  the  defence  of  the 
Residency,  was  hoisted  on  the  Lucknow  flagstaff 
by  General  Wilson,  and  the  soldiers  who  still 
survived  from  the  siege  were  all  mustered  on 
parade  in  honor  of  this  poem,  when  my  son 
Lionel  (who  died  on  his  journey  from  India) 
visited  Lucknow.  A  tribute  overwhelmingly 
touching. '"     (Tennyson.) 


Fire  from  ten  thousand  at  once  of  the 

rebels  that  girdled  us  round — 
Death  at  the  glimpse  of  a  finger  from 

over  the  breadth  of  a  street, 
Death  from  the  heights  of  the  mosque 

and  the  palace,  and  death  in  the 

ground  ! 
Mine?     yes,     a     mine!      Countermine! 

down,  down!   and  creep  thro' the 

hole ! 
Keep   the   revolver   in    hand  !    you  can 

hear  him — the  murderous  mole  ! 
Quiet ,  ah  !  quiet — wait  till  the  point  of 

the  pickaxe  be  thro' ! 
Click  with  the  pick,  coming  nearer  and 

nearer  again  than  before — 
Now  let.it  speak,  and  you  fire,  and  the 

dark  pioneer  is  no  more  ; 
And   ever  upon   the  topmost  roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew  ! 

Ill 

Ay,  but  the  foe  sprung  his  mine  many 

times,  and  it  chanced  on  a  day 
Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground 

thunder-clap  echo'd  away 
Dark  thro'  the  smoke  and  the  sulphur 

like  so  many  fiends  in  their  hell—. 
Cannon-shot,     musket-shot,     volley   on 

volley,  and  yell  upon  yell — 
Fiercely  on  all  the  defences  our  myriad 

enemy  fell. 
What   have   they   done  ?    where   is  it  ? 

Out  yonder.     Guard  the  Redan  ! 
Storm  at  the  Water-gate  !  storm  at  the 

Bailey-gate  !  storm,  and  it  ran 
Surging  and  swaying  all   round   us,  as 

ocean  on  every  side 
Plunges  and  heaves  at  a  bank  that  is 

daily  drowned  by  the  tide — 
So  many  thousands  that,  if  they  be  bold 

enough,  who  shall  escape? 
Kill  or  be  kill'd,  live  or  die,  they  shall 

know  we  are  soldiers  and  men  ! 
Ready  !  take  aim  at  their  leaders — their 

masses  are  gapp'd  with  our  grape — 
Backward  they  reel  like  the  wave,  like 

the  wave  fingering  forward  again, 
Flying   and    foil'd    at    the   last   by   the 

handful  they  could  not  subdue  ; 
And   ever   upon  the   topmost   roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew  ! 

IV 

Handful  of  men  as  we  were,  we  were 
English  in  heart  and  in  limb, 

Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race  tc 
command,  to  obey,  to  endure, 


TENNYSON 


547 


Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the  gar- 
rison hung  but  on  him; 
Still — could  we  watch  at  all  points?  we 

were  every  day  fewer  and   fewer. 
There  was  a  whisper  among  us,  but  only 

a  whisper  that  past  : 
"  Children  and  wives — if  the  tigers  leap 

into  the  fold  unawares — 
Every  man  die  at  his  post — and  the  foe 

may  outlive  us  at  last — 
Better  to  fall  by  the    hands    that   they 

love,  than  to  fall  into  theirs!" 
Roar  upon  roar  in  a  moment  two  mines 

by  the  enemy  sprung 
Clove  into  perilous  chasms  our  walls  and 

oar  poor  palisades. 
Riflemen,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be  sure 

that  your  hand  he  as  true  ! 
Sharp  is  the  fire  of  assault,  better  aimed 

are  your  flank  fusilades— 
Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to   earth  from 

the  ladders    to   which    they   had 

clung, 
Twice  from  the  ditch  where  they  shelter 

we    drive    them    with    hand-gre- 
nades ; 
And  ever   upon   the  topmost   roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew  ! 


Then  on  another  wild  morning  another 

wild  earthquake  out-tore 
Clean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or 

twelve  good  paces  or  more. 
Riflemen,  high  on  the  roof,  hidden  there 

from  the  light  of  the  sun 
One  has  leaped  up  on  the  breach,  crying 

out  :    "  Follow  me,  follow  me  !  " — 
Mark  him — lie  falls!  then  another  and 

him  too,  and  down  goes  he. 
Had  they  been  bold   enough  then,    who 

can  tell  but  the  traitors  had  won  ? 
Boardings    and   rafters    and    doors — an 

embrasure  !  make  way  for  the  gun  ! 
Now  double-charge  it  with  grape  !    It  is 

charged  and  we  fire,  and  they  run. 
Praise  to  our    Indian    brothers,  and    let 

the  dark  face  have  his  due  ! 
Thanks  to  the    kindly    dark    faces    who 

fought  with  us,  faithful  and  few, 
Fought  with  the  bravest  among  us,  and 

drove  them,  and  smote  them,  and 

slew, 
That  ever   upon   the   topmost   roof   our 

banner  in  India  blew. 

VI 

Men  will  forget  what   we  suffer  and  not 
what  we  do.     We  can  fight ! 


But  to  be  soldier  all  day.  and  be  sentinel 

all  thro'  the  night — 
Ever  the  mine   and  assault,    our   sallies, 

their  lying  alarms, 
Bugles  and  drums  in  the   darkness,  and 

shoutings  and  soundings  to  arms, 
Ever  the  labor  of   fifty   that   had   to  be 

done  by  five, 
Ever   the   marvel   among  us    that   one 

should  be  left  alive, 
Ever  the  day  with   its  traitorous  death 

from  the  loopholes  around, 
Ever  the  night  with   its  coffinless  corpse 

to  be  laid  in  the  ground, 
Heat  like  the  mouth  of  a  hell,  or  a  deluge 

of  cataract   skies, 
Stench  of  old  offal  decaying,  and  infinite 

torment  of  flies, 
Thoughts  of  the  breezes  of  May  blowing 

over  an  English  field, 
Cholera,  scurvy,   and   fever,  the   wound 

that  would  not  be  heaPd, 
Lopping  away  of  the  limb  by  the  pitiful- 
pitiless  knife. — 
Torture  and  trouble  in  vain, — for  it  never 

could  save  us  a  life, 
Valor  of   delicate    women    who   tended 

the  hospital  bed. 
Horror  of  women  in    travail   among  the 

dying  and  dead. 
Grief  for   our   perishing   children,   and 

never  a  moment  for  grief. 
Toil  and   ineffable   weariness,    faltering 

hopes  of  relief, 
Havelock  baffled,  or  beaten,  or  butcher'd 

for  all  that  we  knew — 
Then  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  com- 
ing   down  -on     the   still-shatter'd 

•walls 
Millions   of    musket-bullets,    and   thou- 
sands of  cannon-balls — 
But   ever   upon    the    topmost   roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew. 

VII 

Hark  cannonade,  fusillade  !    is  it  true 

what  was  told  by  the  scout, 
Outram   and   Havelock    breaking  their 

way  through  the  fell  mutineers? 
Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  ringing 

again  in  our  ears  ? 
All   on  a   sudden    the   garrison   utter  a 

jubilant  shout. 
Havelock's  glorious  Highlanders  answer 

with  conquering  cheers, 
Sick  from  t  he  hospital  echo  them,  women 

ami  children  come  out, 
Blessing  the  wholesome    white  faces  of 

Havelock's  tcood  f usileers. 


543 


BRITISH    POETS 


Kissing   the   war-harden'd   hand  of  the 

Highlander  wet  with  their  tears  I 
Dance  to  the   pibroch  1 — saved!  we  are 

saved  ! — is  it  you?  is  it  you? 
Saved  by  the  valor   of   Havelock,   saved 

by  the  blessing  of  heaven  ! 
•'Hold    it    for   fifteen    days!"  we   have 

held  it  for  eighty-seven  ! 
And  ever  aloft  on  the  palace  roof  the  old 

banner  of  England  blew.      1871). 

RIZPAH  » 
17— 

WAILING,    wailing,    wailing,    the    wind 

over  land  and  sea — 
And    "Willy's    voice   in   the    wind,  "  0 

mother,  come  out  to  me  !  " 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when 

he  knows  that  I  cannot  go  ? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and 

the  full  moon  stares  at  the   snow. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear  ;  they  would 

spy  us  ont  of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,   and  the 

storm  rushing  over  the  down, 
When  I  cannot  see   my  own   hand,   but 

am  led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son   till  1 

find   myself   drenched    with    the 

rain. 

Anything  fallen  again  ?   nay — wdiat  was 

there  left  to  fall? 
I  have  taken  them    home,  I   have   num- 

ber'd   the   bones,    I   have  hidden 

them  all. 
What  am  I  saving?  and  what  are  you  f 

do  you  come  as  a  spy  ! 
Falls?  what  falls?  who  knows?  As  the 

tree  falls  so  must  it  lie. 

Who  let  her  in?  how  long  has  shebeen? 

you— what  have  you  heard  ? 
Why  did  you   sit   so   quiet?  you  never 

have  spoken  a  word. 
O — to  pray  with  me — }res — a  lady — none 

of  their  spies — 
But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart, 

and  begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 

Ah — you,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what 
should  you  know  of  the  night, 

The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and 
the  bitter  frost  and  the  fright? 

I  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep — 
you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 

'  See  the  Life  of  Tennyson  II,  249-251. 


I  have  gather'd  my  baby  together — and 
now  you  may  go  your  way. 

Nay— for  it 's  kind  of  you,  madam,  to  sit 

by  an  old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have 

only  an  hour  of  life. 
I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he 

went  out  to  die. 
"They  dared  me  to  do  it,"  lie  said,  and 

he  never  has  told  me_a  lie. 
I  whipped  him  for  robbing  an  orchard 

once  when  he  was  but  a  child — 
•'  The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said  ; 

he  was  always  so  wild — 
And   idle — and   could   n't    be   idle — 1113' 

Willy — he  never  could  rest. 
The  King  should  have  made  him  a  sol- 
dier, he  would    have  been  one  of 

his  best. 

But  he  lived  with  a  lot   of  wild  mates, 

and  they  never  would  let  him  be 

good  ; 
They   swore  that  he   dare   not   rob  the 

mail,  and  he  swore  that  he  would  ; 
And  he  took  no   life,    but   he  took   one 

purse,  and  when  all  was  done 
He  flung   it   among    his   fellows — "I'll 

none  of  it,"  said  my  son. 

I  came  into  court  to  the  judge  and  the 

lawyers.     I  told  them  my  tale, 
God's  own  truth — but  they  kill'd  him, 

they  kill'd   him   for  robbing   the 

mail. 
They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show — 

we    had    always     borne     a    good 

name — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief — and  then  put 

away — is  n't  that  enough  shame? 
Dust  to   dust — low  down — let  us   hide  ! 

but  they  set  him  so  high 
That   all  the   ships  of   the  world   could 

stare  at  him,  passing  by. 
God  '11  pardon  the  hell-black  raven  and 

horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But   not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawwr 

who   kill'd   him   and  hang'd  him 

there. 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.     I  had 

bid  him  my  last  good-bye  ; 
They  had  fasten'd  the  door  of  his  cell. 

"  O  mother  !  "    I  heard  him  cry. 
I  could  n't  get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had 

something  further  to  say, 
And   now  I  never  shall  know  it.     The 

jailer  forced  me  away. 


TENNYSON 


549 


Then  since  I  could  n't  but  hear  that  cry 
of  my  boy  that  was  dead, 

Tiiey  seized  me  and  shut  me  up  :  they 
fasten'd  ine  down  on  my  bed. 

"  Mother,  O  mother!" — lie  call'd  in  the 
dark  to  me  year  after  year — 

They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me — 
you  know  that  I  could  n't  but 
hear  ; 

And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had 
grown  so  stupid  and  still 

They  let  me  abroad  again — but  the  crea- 
tures had  worked  their  will. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of 

my  bone  was  left — 
I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers — and 

you,  will  you  call  it  a  theft?— 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd  me, 

the   bones  that   had  laughed  and 

had  cried— 
Theirs  ?     O,    no !    they    are    mine — not 

theirs — they   had    moved    in    my 

side. 

Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones  ? 

I  kias'd  'em,  I  buried  'em  all — 
I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old — in  the  night 

by  the  churchyard  wall. 
My  Willy  '11  rise   up   whole   when    the 

trumpet  of  judgment  '11  sound. 
But  I  charge   you  never  to   say  that  I 

laid  him  in  holy  ground. 

They  would  scratch  him  up — they  would 

hang  him  again  on  the  cursed  tree. 
Sin?  0,  yes,  we  are  sinners,  I  know — let 

all  that  be. 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's 

goodwill  toward  men — ■ 
"  Full  of  compassion   and   mercy,  the 

Lord  " — let  me  hear  it  again  ; 
"  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy — long- 
suffering."     Yes,  O.  yesl 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder — 

the  Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He  '11  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except 

for  the  worst  of  the  worst. 
And  the  hist  may  be  last — I  have  heard 

it  in  church — and  the  last  may  be 

first. 
Suffering — 0,  long- suffering — yes,  as  the 

Lord  must  know, 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind 

and  the  shower  and  the  snow. 

Heard,  have  you?  what?  they  have  told 
you  he  never  repented  his  sin. 

How  do  they  know  it?  are  they  his 
mother?  are  you  of  his  kin  ': 


Heard!  have  }Tou  ever  heard,  when  the 
storm  on  the  downs  began, 

The  wind  that  '11  wail  like  a  child  and 
the  sea  that  '11  moan  like  a  man  ': 

Ekution,   Election,    and  Reprobation-. 

it 's  all  very  well. 
But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall 

not  find  him  in  hell. 
For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the 

Lord  has  look'd  into  my  care, 
And  He  means  me  I  'm  sure  to  be  happy 

with  Willy,  I  know  not  where. 

And  if  lie  be  lost — but  to  save  my  soul, 

that  is  all  your  desire — 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  lor  my  soul  if 

my  boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark — go, 

go,  you  may  leave  me  alone— 
You  never  have  borne  a  child — you  are 

just  as  hard  as  a  stone. 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  think 
that  you  mean  to  be  kind. 

But  1  cannot  hear  what  yon  say  for  my 
Willy's  voice  in  the  wind  — 

The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright — lie 
used  but  to  call  in  the  dark, 

And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the 
church  and  not  from  the  gibbet — 
for  hark  ! 

Nay — you  can  hear  it  yourself — it  is 
coming — shaking  the  walls — 

Willy — the  moon  's  in  a  cloud Good- 
night.    I  am  going.     He  calls. 

1880. 

SONG   FROM   THE   SISTERS 

O  DIVINER  air. 

Thro'  the  heat,  thedrowth,  the  dust,  the 

glare, 
Far  from  out   the   west   in   shadowing 

showers. 
Over  all  the  meadow  baked  and  bare, 
Making  fresh  and  fair 
All  the  bowers  and  the  flowers, 
Fainting  flowers,  faded  bowers, 
Over  all  this  weary  world  of  ours, 
Breathe,  diviner  Air ! 

O  diviner  light, 

Thro'  the  cloud  that  roofs  our  noon  with 

night, 
Thro"   the    blotting   mist,    the    blinding 

showers. 
Far  from  out  a,  sky  for  ever  bright, 
Over  all  the  woodland's  flooded  bowers, 


55° 


BRITISH   POETS 


Over  all  the  meadow's  drowning  flowers, 
Over  all  this  ruin'd  world  of  ours, 
Break,  diviner  light  1  1880. 

TO  VIRGIL  » 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest  Ilion's 
lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 

Ilion  falling,  Home  arising,  wars,  and 
filial  faith,  and  Dido's  pyre  ; 

Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language  more 
than  he  that  sang  the  "  Works  and 
Days," 

All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy  flashing  out 
from  many  a  golden  phrase  ; 

Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland) 
tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse 
and  herd  ; 

All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 

often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word  ; 

Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus  piping  under- 
neath his  beechen  bowers  ; 

Poet  of  the  poet-satyr  whom  the  laugh- 
ing shepherd  bound  with  flowers  ; 

Chanter  of  the  Pollio,  globing  in  the 
blissful  years  again  to  be, 

Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow,  un- 
laborious  earth  and  oarless  sea  ; 

Thou  that  seest  Universal  Nature  moved 

by  Universal  Mind  ; 
Thou  majestic   in   thy   sadness    at   the 

doubtful  doom  of  human  kind  ; 

Light   among   the   vanish'd   ages  ;   star 

that    gildest    yet    this    phantom 

shore  ; 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows,  kings 

and   realms  that   pass  to  rise   no 

more  ; 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer,  fallen 
every  purple  Caesar's  dome — 

Tho'  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm  sound 
forever  of  Imperial  Rome — 

Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perish'd, 
and  the  Rome  of  freemen  holds  her 
place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island  sunder'd 
once  from  all  the  human  race, 

1  "  To  Virgil  was  written  at  the  request  of  the 
Mantuans  for  the  nineteenth  centenary  of  Virgil's 
Death."     (Life  of  Tennyson,  II,  320.) ' 


I  salute  thee,  Mantovano,  I  that  loved 
thee  since  my  day  began, 

Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure  ever 
moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 

1882. 

"  FRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALE" 

Row  us  out  from   Desenzano,  to  youi 

Sirmione  row  1 
So  they  row'd,  and  there  we  landed — "  O 

venusta  Sirmio !  " 
There  to  me  thro'  all  the  groves  of  olive 

in  the  summer  glow, 
There  beneath  the  Roman  ruin  where  the 

purple  flowers  grow, 
Came   that    "Ave  atque  Vale"   of  the 

Poet's  hopeless  woe, 
Tenderest    of    Roman     poets    nineteen 

hundred  years  ago 
"  Frater    Ave    atque    Vale"  —  as    we 

wander'd  to  and  fro 
Gazing   at   the   Lydian  laughter  of  the 

Garda  Lake  below 
Sweet    Catullus's    all-but-island,    olive- 
silvery  Sirmio  1  1883. 

EPILOGUE  TO  THE  CHARGE  OF 
THE  HEAVY  BRIGADE 

And  here  the  Singer  for  his  art 

Not  all  in  vain  may  plead 
"  The  song  that  nerves  a  nation's  heart 

Is  in  itself  a  deed."  1885. 

VASTNESS 

Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs 
after  many  a  vanish'd  face, 

Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll 
with  the  dust  of  a  vanish'd  race. 

Raving  politics,  never  at  rest — as  this 
poor  earth's  pale  history  runs, — 

What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in  the 
gleam  of  a  million  million  of  suns? 

Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side, 

truthless  violence  mourn'd  by  the 

wise, 
Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own 

in  a  popular  torrent  of  lies  upon 

lies  ; 

Stately  purposes,  valor  in  battle,  glorious 
annals  of  army  and  fleet, 

Death  for  the  right  cause,  death  for  the 
wrong  cause,  trumpets  of  victory, 
groans  of  defeat ; 


TENNYSON 


551 


Innocence  seethed  in  her  mother's  milk, 

and   Charity   setting   the   martyr 

aflame  ; 
Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of 

Freedom,  and  recks  not  to  ruin  a 

realm  in  her  name. 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the 

gloom  of  doubts  that  darken   the 

schools  ; 
Craft  with  a  bunch  of  all-heal  in   her 

hand,   follow'd  up  by   her   vassal 

legion  of  fools ; 

Trade  Syis-g  over  a  thousand  seas  with 
her  spice  and  her  vintage,  her  silk 
and  her  corn  ; 

Desolate  offing,  sailorless  harbors,  fam- 
ishing populace,  wharves  forlorn  ; 

Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sun- 
rise ;  gloom  of  the  evening,  Life 
at  a  close ; 

Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  down- 
way  with  her  flying  robe  and  her 
poison'd  rose  ; 

Pain  that  has  crawl'd  from  the  corpse  of 

Pleasure,  a  worm  which   writhes 

all  day,  and  at  night 
Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper, 

and  stings  him  back  to  the  curse 

of  the  light ; 

Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded 
harlots  ;  honest  Poverty,  bare  to 
the  bone  ; 

Opulent  Avarice,  lean  as  Poverty  ;  Flat- 
tery gilding  the  rift  in  a  throne  ; 

Fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden  trum- 
pet a  jubilant  challenge  to  Time 
and  to  Fate  ; 

Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle 
on  all  .the  laurell'd  graves  of  the 
great ; 

Love  for  the  maiden,  crown'd  with  mar- 
riage, no  regrets  for  aught  that 
has  been, 

Household  happiness,  gracious  children, 
debtless  competence,  golden  mean; 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations, 
and  pigmy  spites  of  the  village 
spire  ; 

Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death- 
ruckle,  and  vows  that  are  snapt  in 
a  moment  of  tire  ; 


He  that  has  lived   for   the   lust   of   the 

minute,  and  died  in  the  doing  it, 

flesh  without  mind  ; 
He  that  has  nail'd  all  flesh  to  the  Cross, 

till  Self  died  out  in  the  love  of  his 

kind  ; 

Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  and 
Winter,  and  all  these  old  revolu- 
tions of  earth  ; 

All  new-old  revolutions  of  Empire — 
change  of  the  tide — what  is  all  of 
it  worth  ? 

What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences, 
poesy,  varying  voices  of  prayer, 

All  that  is  noblest,  all  that  is  basest,  all 
that  is  filthy  with  all  that  is  fair? 

What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in 
being  our  own  corpse-coffins  at 
last  ? 

Swallow'd  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence, 
drown'd  in  the  deeps  of  a  meaning- 
less Past  ? 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the 
gloom,  or  a  moment's  anger  of 
bees  in  their  hive  ? — 

Peace,  let  it  be !  for  I  loved  him.  and 
love  him  for  ever :  the  dead  are 
not  dead  but  alive.  18S5. 

MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM  i 

0  young  Mariner, 
You  from  the  haven 
Under  the  sea-cliff. 
You  that  are  watching 
The  gray  Magician 
With  eyes  of  wonder, 
Jam  Merlin, 

And  Jam  dying, 

Jam  Merlin 

AVho  follow  the  Gleam. 

Mighty  the  Wizard 
Who  found  me  at  sunrise 
Sleeping  and  woke  me 
And  learn'd  me  Magic! 
Great  the  Master, 
And  sweet  the  Magic, 
When  over  the  valley, 

1  n  early  summers, 
Over  the  mountain, 
On  human  faces, 

1  See  the  Life  of  Tennyson,  II,  30C         ^ 


552 


BRITISH    POETS 


A  nil  all  around  me, 
Moving  to  melody, 
Floated  the  Gleam. 

Once  at    the  croak  of    a  Raven    who 
crossed  ii . 
A  barbarous  people, 
Blind  to  the  magic 
And  deaf  to  the  melody, 
SnaiTd  ai  an  1  cursed  me. 
A  demon  vexed  me, 
The  light  retreated. 
The  landskip  darken'd, 
The  melody  deaden'd, 
The  Master  whisper'd 
"  Follow  the  Gleam.'' 

Then  to  the  melody 

Over  a  wilderness 

Gliding,  and  glancing  at 

Elf  of  the  woodland, 

Gnome  of  the.  cavern, 

Griffin  and  Giant, 

And  dancing  of  Fairies 

In  desolate  hollows. 

And  wraiths  of  the  mountain, 

And  rolling  of  dragons 

By  warble  of  water, 

Or  cataract  music 

Of  falling  torrents, 

Flitted  the  Gleam. 

Down  from  the  mountain 
And  over  the  level, 
And  streaming  and  shining  on 
Silent  river. 
Silvery  willow, 
Pasture  and  plowland, 
Innocent  maidens, 
Garrulous  children. 
Homestead  and  harvest, 
Reaper  and  gleaner, 
And  rough-ruddy  faces 
Of  lowly  labor, 
Slided  the  Gleam- 
Then,  with  a  melody 
Stronger  and  statelier, 
Led  me  at  length 
To  the  city  and  palace 
Of  Arthur  the  King  ; 
Touch'd  at  the  golden 
Cross  of  the  churches, 
Flash'd  on  the  tournament, 
Flicker'd  and  bicker'd 
From  helmet  to  helmet, 
And  last  on  the  forehead 
Of  Arthur  the  blameless 
Rested  the  Gleam. 


( llouds  and  darkness 

Closed  upon  Camelot  : 

Arthur  had    vanish'd 

I  knew  not  whither, 

The  king  who  loved  me, 

And  cannot  die  ; 

For  out  of  the  darkness 

Silent  and  slowly 
The  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  a  wintry 
glimmer 

On  icy  fallow 

And  faded  forest. 

Drew  to  the  valley 

Named  of  the  shadow, 

And  slowly  brightening 

Out  of  the  glimmer. 
And  slowly  moving  again  to  a  melody 

Yearningly  tender, 

Fell  on  the  shadow, 

No  longer  a  shadow. 

But  clothed  with  the  Gleam. 

And  broader  and  brighter 

The  Gleam  flying  onward, 

Wed  to  the  melody, 

Sang  thro'  the  world  ; 

And  slower  and  fainter, 

Old  and  weary. 

But  eager  to  follow, 

I  saw,  whenever 

In  passing  it  glanced  upon 

Hamlet  or  city. 

That  under  the  Crosses 

Tht  dead  man's  garden, 

The  mortal  hillock. 

Would  break  into  blossom  ; 

And  so  to  the  land's 

Last  limit  I  came — 

And  can  no  longer, 

But  die  rejoicing. 

For  thro'  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  hut  in  Heaven 

Hovers  the  Gleam. 

Not  of  the  sunlight, 

Not  of  the  moonlight, 

Not  of  the  starlight! 

O  young  Mariner, 

Down  to  the  haven, 

Call  your  companions, 

Launch  your  vessel 

And  crowd  your  canvas, 

And,  ere  it  vanishes 

Over  the  margin, 

After  it.  follow  it, 

Follow  the  Gleam.  1889. 


TENNYSON 


553 


FAR— FAR— AWAY 

(FOR     MUSIC) 

What  sight  so  lured  liim  thro*  the  fields 

lie  knew 
As     where     earth's     green     stole     into 

heaven's  own  hue. 

Far — far — away  ? 

What  sound   was  dearest  in  his  native 

dells? 
The  mellow  lin-lan-lone  of  evening  bells 
Far — far — a  wa  y . 

What  vague  world-whisper,  mystic  pain 

or  joy. 
Thro'  those   three   words   would   haunt 

him  when  a  boy. 

Far — far — away  ? 

A   whisper  from    his  dawn  of    life?  a 

breath 
From  some  fair  dawn  beyond  the  doors 

of  death 

Fa  r — fa  r — a  w  a  y  ? 

Far.  far,  how  far?  from  o'er  the  gates  of 

birth. 
The  faint  horizons,   all   the  bounds  of 

earth, 

Far — far — away  ? 

What  charm  in  words,  a  charm  no  words 

could  Rive ? 
0  dying  words,  can  Music  make  you  live 
Far— far— away  ?      '  1889. 

THE  THROSTLE 

•'Summer  Is  coming,  summer  is  coming. 

1  know  it,  I  know  it.  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  Leaf  again,  life  again,  love 
again  ! " 
Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"  New.  new,   new,   new  !  "  Is  it  tiien  so 
new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly  ? 

<:  Love  again,  song   again,  nest  again, 
young  again," 

Never  h  prophet  so  crazy  ! 
\nd  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

-      .  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 

'Here  again,  here,  here,  here,    happy 
year !  " 


O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden  ! 

Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear, 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 

1889. 

THE  OAK 

Live  thy  Life, 

Young  and  old, 
Like  yon  oak. 
Bright  in  spring, 

Living  gold  ; 

Summer-rich 

Then  :  and  then 
Autumn-changed, 
Soberer-hued 

Gold  again. 

All  his  leaves 

Fallen  at  length, 
Look,  he  stands. 
Trunk  and  bough. 

Naked  strength.  1889. 

CROSSING  THE  BAR1 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there   be   no  moaning  of  the 
bar. 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 
Too  full  for  sound  and  foam. 

When  that   which    drew   from  out  the 
boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell. 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And   mav  there  be  no  sadness  of  fare- 
well. 

When  I  embark  ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time 
and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar.     1889. 

1  •'  crossing  the  Bar  was  written  in  my  father's 
eigrhty-first  vear,  on  a  dav  in  October.  .  .  . 

"  I  said,  '  That  is  the  crown  of  your  life's  work  ;' 
lie  answered,  'It  came  in  a  moment.'  He  ex- 
plained the  '  Pilot'  as  ■  That  Divine  and  Unseen 
Who  is  always  guiding  ns.' 

■•  A  few  days  before  his  death  he  said  to  me  : 
'  Mind  you  put  Crossing  the  Bar  at  the  end  of  all 
editions  of  my  poems.'  "  (Life  of  Tennyson,  II., 
367.) 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 

LIST   OF   REFERENCES 
Editions 

*  Poetical  Works,  6  volumes,  edited  by  C.  Porter  and  H.  Clarke, 
Crowell,  1900.  ■ —  Poetical  Works,  6  volumes,  Scribner's,  1890.  — 
Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  H.  W.  Preston,  1900  (Cambridge 
Edition).  —  ^Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  F.  G.  Kenyon,  1897 
(Globe  Edition).  —  Poetical  Works,  1  volume  (Oxford  Edition).  — • 
Letters,  edited  by  F.  G.  Kenyon,  2  volumes,  1897.  - —  Letters  of  Robert 
Browning  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  Barrett,  2  volumes,  1899. 

Biography 

*  Kenyon  (F.  G.),  Letters  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  edited  with 
biographical  additions.  —  Horne  (R.  H.),  Life  and  Letters  of  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing. - — Ingram  (J.  H.),  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  (Famous  Women 
Series).  See  also  L'Estrange's  Life  of  M.  R.  Mitford,  and  The  Friendships 
of  M.  R.  Mitford;  The  Letters  of  M.  R,  Mitford;  Macpherson's  Memoirs  of 
Anna  Jameson;  and  Forster's  Life  of  Landor. 

Reminiscences  and  Early  Criticism 

Horne  (R.  H.),  A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age,  1844.  —  Ritchie  (Anne 
Thackeray),  Records  of  Tennyson,  Ruskin,  Browning,  1892.  —  *  Mitford 
(M.  R.),  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life. — -Coleridge  (Sara),  Memoirs 
and  Letters,  Vol.  I,  Chap.  12  (letter  of  1844  to  John  Kenyon);  Vol.  II, 
Chap.  12  (letter  of  1851  to  Ellis  Yarnall).  —  Bayne  (Peter),  Essays  in 
Biographv  and  Criticism  (1st  Series):  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning.  —  Roscoe 
(W.  C),  Poems  and  Essays,  Vol.  II,  1860.  —  Ossoli  (Margaret  Fuller), 
Art,  Literature  and  the  Drama.  —  Hawthorne,  Italian  Note-books.  — ■ 
Hillard  (G.  S.),  Six  Months  in  Italy.  —  *  W.  W.  Story  and  his  Friends, 
edited  by  Henry  James,  1903. 

Later  Criticism 

Benson  (A.  C),  Essays:  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. — Chesterton 
(G.  K.),  Twelve  Types,  1902.  —  Cunliffe  (J.  W.),  Elizabeth  Barrett's 
Influence  on  Browning's  Poetry;  in  the  Publications  of  the  Modern  Lan- 
guage Association,  June,  1908.  —  Darmesteter  (Mary  J.),  Menage  de 
Poetes;  in  the  Revue  de  Paris,  Vol.  V,  p.  295  and  p.  788.  —  *  Gosse 
(E.),  Critical  Kit-Kats:  The  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  etc.,  1896.  — 
Lubbock  (Percy),  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  In  her  Letters,  1906. — 
Montegut  (Emile),  Ecrivains  modernes  de  l'Angleterre,  Vol.  II,  1889.  — 
*,Stedman  (E.  C),  Victorian  Poets,  1875,  1887.  —  Texte  (Joseph), 
Etudes  de  litterature  europeenne,  1898. —  Whiting  (Lilian),  A  Study  of 
E.  B.  Browning,  1899. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE1 


I   THOUGHT  once   how    Theocritus    had 

sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished- 

for  years. 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young  : 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I    saw.   in   gradual   vision   through   my 

tears, 
The   sweet,  sad  years,  the   melancholy 

years, 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had 

flung 
A  shadow  across  me.      Straightway    I 

was  'ware, 
So   weeping,  how  a    mystic  Shape    did 

move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by 

the  hair  ; 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while    I 

strove, — 
"Guess  now  who  holds  thee?  "—"Death," 

I  said.     But,  there, 
The  silver  answer  rang,— "Not  Death, 

but  Love." 

II 

But  only  three  in  all  God's  universe 
Have  heard  this  word  thou  hast  said,— 

Himself,  beside 
Thee  speaking,  and  me  listening  !  and 

replied 
One  of  us  .  .  .  that  was  God,  .  .  .  and 

laid  the  curse 
So  darkly  on  my  eyelids,  as  to  amerce 
My   sight   from  seeing  thee,— that  if  I 

had  died, 
The  deathweights,  placed  there,  would 

have  signified 
Less    absolute     exclusion.       '-Nay"     is 

worse 
From  God  than  from  all  others,  O  my 

friend  ! 
Men  could  not  part  us  with  their  worldly 

jars, 


Nor  the  seas  change  us,  nor  the  tempests 

bend  ; 
Our   hands    would   touch    for    all    the 

mountain-bars : 
And,  heaven  being  rolled  between  us  at 

the  end, 
We  should  but  vow  the  faster  for  the 

stars. 

Ill2 

Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  princely  Heart ! 
Unlike  our  uses  and  our  destinies. 
Our  ministering  two  angels  look  surprise 
On  one  another,  as  they  strike  athwart 
Their  wings  in  passing.     Thou,  bethink 

thee,  art 
A  guest  for  queens  to  social  pageantries, 
With   gages   from   a  hundred   brighter 

eyes 
Than  tears  even  can  make  mine,  to  play 

thy  part 
Of  chief 'musician.     What  hast  thou  to 

do 
With  looking  from  the  lattice-lights  at 

me, 
A  poor,  tired,  wandering  singer,  sing- 
ing through 
The  dark,  and  leaning  up  a  cypress  tree? 
The  chrism  is  on  thine  head,— on  mine, 

the  dew. — 
And   Death  must  dig  the  1-jvel   where 

these  agree. 


Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace- 
floor, 

Most  gracious  singer  of  high  poems! 
where 

The  dancers  will  break  footing,  from  the 
care 

Of  watching  up  thy  pregnant  lips  for 
more. 

i  See  the  Letters  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
in;;.  1,  316-317. 

s  See  the  Letters  of  Robert  Brow uing  and  Eli*- 
aheth  Barrett  Barrett,  I,  74-75.    ^,Iay  24.  1845.) 


555 


556 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  dost  thou  lift  this  house's  latch  too 

poor 
For  hand  of  thine  ?  and  canst  thou  think 

and  bear 
To  let  thy  music  drop  here  unaware 
In  folds  of  golden  fulness  at  my  door? 
I  look  up  and  see  t  he  casement  broken  in. 
The  bats  and  owlets  builders  in  the  roof  ! 
My  cricket  chirps  against  thy  mandolin. 
Hush,  call  no  echo  up  in  further  proof 
Of  desolation  !  there's  a  voice  within 
That  weeps  ...  as  thou  must  sing  .  .  . 

alone,  aloof. 


I  LIFT  my  heavy  heart  up  solemnly, 
As  once  Electra  her  sepulchral  urn, 
And  looking  in  thine  eyes.  I  overturn 
The  ashes  at  thy  feet.     Behold  and  see 
What  a  great  heap  of  grief  lay  hid  in 

me, 
And  how  the  red  wild  sparkles  dimly 

burn 
Through  the   ashen    grayness.      If  thy 

foot  in  scorn 
Could  tread  them  out  to  darkness  utterly, 
It  might  be  well  perhaps.      But  if  in- 
stead 
Thou    wait  beside  me  for  the  wind  to 

blow 
The  gray  dust  up,  .  .  .  those  laurels  on 

thine  head, 
O  my  Beloved,  will  not  shield  thee  so, 
That  none  of  all  the  fires  shall  scorch 

and  shred 
The  hair    beneath.      Stand    farther  off 

then !  go. 

Yli 

Go    from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall 

stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Never- 
more 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  for- 
bore— 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest 

land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart 

in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I 
do 

1  See  the  Letters  of  R.  B.  and  E.  B.  B„  I,  74-75, 
and  144. 


And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the 

wine 
Mus.t  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when 

I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of 

thine. 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of 

two. 

VII 

The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  I 

think, 
Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy 

sonl 
Move  still,  oh,  still,  bes'de  me,  as  they 

stole 
Betwixt  me  and  the  dreadful  outer  brink 
Of  obvious  death,  where  I,  who  thought 

to  sink, 
Was  caught  up  into  love,  and  taught 

the  whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.     The  cup  of 

dole 
God  gave  for  baptism,  lam  fain  to  drink, 
And  praise  its  sweetness,  Sweet,   with 

thee  anear. 
The    names    of    country,    heaven,    are 

changed  away 
For  where  thou  art  or  shalt  be,  there  or 

here ; 
And  this  .  .  .  this  lute  and  song    .  .  . 

loved  yesterday, 
(The  singing  angels  know)  are  only  clear 
Because  thy  name  moves  right  in  wdiat 

they  say. 

VIII1 

What  can  I  give  thee  back,  O  liberal 
And  princely  giver,  who  hast  brought 

the  gold 
And   purple  of  thine  heart,  unstained, 

untold, 
And   laid  them  on   the   outside   of  the 

wall 
For  such  as  I  to  take  or  leave  withal, 
In  unexpected  largesse?  am  I  cold. 
Ungrateful,  that  for  these  most  manifold 
High  gifts,  I  render  nothing  back  at  all? 
Not  so  ;  not  cold, — but  very  poor  instead. 
Ask   God   who   knows.      For    frequent 

tears  have  run 
The  colors  from  my  life,  and  left  so  dead 
And  pale  a  stuff,  it  were  not  fitly  done 
To  give  the  same  as  pillow  to  thy  head, 
Go  farther  !  let  it  serve  to  trample  on. 

1  With  this  Sonnet  and  the  next,  compare  the 
Letters,  I,  183-5. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING 


557 


Can  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give  ? 
To  let  thee  ait  beneath  the  fall  of  tears 
As  salt  as  mine,  and  hear  the  sighing 

years 
Re-sighing  on  my  lips  renunciative 
Through  those  infrequent  smiles  which 

fail  to  live 
For  all  thy  adjurations?     0  my  fears, 
That  this  can  scarce  be  right!    "We  are 

not  peers, 
So  to  be  lovers  ;  and  I  own,  and  grieve. 
That   givers  of  such   gifts  as   mine  are, 

must 
Be  counted  with  the  ungenerous.     Out, 

alas  ! 
I  will  not  soil  thy  purple  with  my  dust, 
Nor   breathe  my    poison  on  thy  Venice- 
glass. 
Nor  give   thee   any   love — which   were 

unjust. 
Beloved,  I  only  love  thee  !  let  it  pass. 


Yet.  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed 
And   worthy   of    acceptation.      Fire   is 

bright, 
Let  temple  burn,  or  flax  ;  an  equal  light 
Leaps  in  the  flame  from   cedar-plank  or 

weed : 
And  love  is  fire.    And  when  I  say  at  need 
Hove  thee  .  .  .  mark  !  .  .  .  I  love  thee — in 

thy  sight 
I  stand  transfigured,  glorified  aright. 
With   conscience  of  the  new   rays  that 

proceed 
Out  of  my   face  toward   thine.     There's 

nothing  low- 
In  love,  when  love  the  lowest :  meanest 

creatures 
Who  love  God,  God  accepts  while  loving 

SO. 

And   what   I  feel,   across     the   inferior 

features 
Of  what  I  am,  doth  flash  itself, and  show 
How  that  great  work  of  Love  enhances 

Nature's. 


And  therefore  if  to  love  can  be  desert, 
I  am  not  all  unworthy.     Cheeks  as  pale 
As  these  you    see,  and  trembling   knees 

that  fail 
To  bear  the  burden  of  a  heavy  heart, — 
This  weary  minstrel-life    that    once  was 

girt 
To  climb  Aornus,  and  ran  scarce  avail 
To  pipe  now 'gainst  the  valley  nightingale 


A  melancholy  music,— why  advert 
To  these  things  ?     O  Beloved,  it  is  plain 
I  am  not  of  thy  worth  nor  for  thy  place  ! 
And  yet,  because  I  love  thee,  I  obtain 
From  that  same   love  this    vindicating 

grace, 
To  live  on  still  in  love,  and  yet  in  vain. — 
To  bless  thee,  yet   renounce  thee  to  thy 

face. 


Indeed  this  very  love  which  is  my  boast. 
And  which,  when  rising  up  from  breast 

to  brow, 
Doth  crown  me  with  a  ruby  large  enow 
To  draw  men's  eyes  and  prove  the  inner 

cost, — 
This  love  even,  all  my  worth,  totheutter- 

most, 
I  should  not  love  withal,  unless  that  thou 
Hadst   set   me    an   example,  shown  me 

how, 
When  first  thine  earnest  eyes  with  mine 

were  crossed, 
And  love  called  love.     And  thus,  I  can- 
not speak 
Of  love  even,  as  a  good  thing  of  my  own  : 
Thy  soul  hath  snatched  up  mine  all  faint 

and  weak. 
And    placed   it    by    thee   on    a    golden 

throne, — 
And   that  I  love    (O  soul,    we   must    be 

meek  !) 
Is  by  thee  only,  whom  I  love  alone. 


And  wilt  thou  have  me   fashion   into 

speech 
The  love  I    bear    thee,    finding    words 

enough, 
And  hold  the  torch  out,  while  the  winds 

are  rough. 
Between    our   faces,   to    cast   light   on 

each  ? — 
I  drop  it  at  thy  feet.     I  cannot  teach 
My  hand  to  hold  my  spirit  so  far  off 
From   myself — me — that  I  should  bring 

thee  proof 
In  words,   of  love  hid  in  me  out  of  reach. 
Nay,  let  the  silence  of  my   womanhood 
Commend  my    woman-love  to  thy   be- 
lief— 
Seeing   that   I   stand    unwon,   however 

wooed, 
And    rend    the   garment  of  my   life,   in 

brief, 
By  a  most  dauntless,  voiceless  fortitude 
Lest  one  touch  of  this  heart  convey  its 

grief. 


558 


BRITISH   POETS 


If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  fornought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 

*'  I  love  her  for  her  smile — her  look — her 
way 

Of  speaking  gently, — for  a  trick  of 
thought 

That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes 
brought 

A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a 
day  " — 

For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved, 
may 

Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, — and 
love,  so  wrought, 

May  be  un wrought  so.  Neither  love  me 
for 

Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks 
dry. — 

A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who 
bore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love 
thereby  ! 

But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  ever- 
more 

Thou  maystlove  on,  through  love's  eter- 
nity. 

XV 

Accuse  me  not,   beseech  thee,  that  I 

wear 
Too   calm   and   sad   a   face   in  front  of 

thine ; 
For   we  two   look   two   ways,  and  can- 
not shine 
With   the   same   sunlight  on  our   brow 

and  hair. 
On   me  thou  lookest  with  no  doubting 

care, 
As  on  a  bee  shut  in  a  crystalline  ; 
Since  sorrow  hath  shut  me  safe  in  love's 

divine. 
And  to  spread  wing  and  fly  in  the  outer 

aii- 
Were  most  impossible  failure,  if  I  strove 
To  fail  so.   But  I  look  on  thee — on  thee — 
Beholding,  besides  love,  the  end  of  love, 
Hearing  oblivion  beyond  memory  ; 
As  one  who  sits  and  gazes  from  above, 
Over  the  rivers  to  the  bitter  sea. 

XVI2 

And  yet,  because  thou  overcomest  so, 
Because  thou  art  more  noble  and  like  a 
king, 

1  Compare  the  Letters,  I,  256,  274-5,  506,  508. 
1  Compare  the  Letters,  I,  545. 


Thou  canst  prevail  against  my  fears  and 

fling 
Thy   purple   round    me,   till    my  heart 

shall  grow 
Too  close  against  thine  heart  henceforth 

to  know 
How  it  shook  when  alone.     Why,  con- 
quering 
May   prove  as  lordly  and    complete  a 

thing 
In  lifting  upward,  as  in  crushing  low ! 
And  as  a  vanquished  soldier  yields  his 

sword 
To  one  who  lifts  him  from  the  bloody 

earth. 
Even  so,  Beloved,  I  at  last  record. 
Here  ends  my  strife.     It  thou  invite  me 

forth, 
I  rise  above  abasement  at  the  word. 
Make  thy  love  larger    to  enlarge  my 

worth. 

XVII 

My  poet,,  thou  canst  touch  on  all  the 

notes 
God  set  between  His  After  and  Before, 
And  strike  up  and  strike  off  the  general 

roar 
Of   the   rushing  worlds  a  melody   that 

floats  - 
In  a  serene  air  purely.     Antidotes 
Of  medicated  music,  answering  for 
Mankind's   forlornest    uses,  thou  canst 

pour 
From  thence  into  their  ears.     God's  will 

devotes 
Thine  to  such  ends,  and  mine  to  wait  on 

thine. 
How,  Dearest,  wilt   thou  have   me  for 

most  use  ? 
A  hope,  to  sing  by  gladly  ?  or  a  fine 
Sad  memory,   with  thy  songs  to  inter- 
fuse ? 
A  shade,  in  which  to  sing — of  palm  or 

pine  ? 
A  grave,  on  which  to  rest  from  singing? 

Choose. 

XVIII 

I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 
To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 
Which   now  upon   my  fingers  thought- 
fully, 
I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length  and 

say 
li  Take  it."     My  day  of  jTouth  went  yes- 
terday : 
My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's 
glee, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 


559 


Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 
As  girls  do,  any  more  ;  it  only  may 
Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the  mark 

of  tears. 
Taught   drooping   from   the    head   that 

hangs  aside 
Through  sorrow's  trick.     I  thought  the 

funeral-shears 
Would  take  this  first,  but  love  is  justi- 

•    fled,— 
Take  it  thou,  finding  pure,  from  all  those 

years, 
The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she 

died. 

XIX 

The  soul's  Rialto  hath  its  merchandise  ; 

I  barter  curl  for  curl  upon  that  mart, 

And  from  my  poet's  forehead  to  my 
heart 

Receive  this  lock  which  outweighs  ar- 
gosies,— 

As  purply  black,  as  erst  to  Pindar's  eyes 

The  dim  purpureal  tresses  gloomed 
athwart 

The  nine  white  Muse-brows.  For  this 
counterpart. 

The  bay-crown's  shade,  Beloved,  I  sur- 
mise, 

Still  lingers  on  thy  curl,  it  is  so  black  ! 

Thus,  with  a  fillet  of  smooth-kissing 
breath, 

I  tie  the  shadows  safe  from  gliding  back, 

And  lay  the  gift  where  nothing  hin- 
dereth  ; 

Here  on  my  heart,  as  on  thy  brow,  to 
lack 

No  natural  heat  till  mine  grows  cold  m 
death. 

XX  i 

Beloved,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think 
Tiiat  thou  wast  in  the  world  a  year  ago, 
What  time  1  sat  alone  here  in  the  snow 
And  saw  no  footprint,  heard  the  silence 

sink 
No  moment  at  thy  voice,  but,  link   bv 

link, 
Went  counting  all  my  chains  as  if  that 

so 
They  never  could  fall  o(T  at  any  blow 
Struck  by  thy  possible  hand, — why,  thus 

1  drink 
Of  life's  gnat  cup  of  wonder  !    Wonder- 
ful, 
Never  to  feel  thee  thrill  the  day  or  night 
With  personal  act  or  speech, — nor  ever 
cull 

1  Compare  the  Letters,  I,  1 17. 


Some  prescience  of  thee  with  the  blos- 
soms white 

Thou  sawest  growing !  Atheists  are  as 
dull, 

Who  cannot  guess  God's  presence  out  of 
sight. 

XXI  ! 

Say  over  again,  and  yet  onceover  again, 
That    thou   dost    love  me.     Though  the 

word  repeated 
Should  seem  "a  cuckoo-song,"  as  thou 

dost  treat  it. 
Remember,  never  to  the  hill  or  plain. 
Valley  and    wood,  without  her  cuckoo- 
strain 
Comes  the  fresh  Spring  in  all  her  green 

completed. 
Beloved,  I.  amid  the  darkness  greeted 
By  a  doubtful  spirit-voice,  in  that  doubt's 

pain 
Cry,  "  Speak  once  more — thou  lovest  !  " 

Who  can  fear 
Too  many  stars,  though  each  in  heaven 

shall  roll, 
Too   many   flowers,    though   each   shall 

crown  the  year? 
Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love  me 

—toll 
The     silver    iterance!  —  only   minding, 

Dear, 
To  love  me  also  in  silence  with  thy  soul. 


When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and 

strong, 
Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and 

nigher, 
Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into 

fire 
At   either   curved    point, — what    bitter 

,     wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should 

not  long 
Be  here  contented  ?  Think.  In  mount- 
ing higher, 
The  angels  would  press  on  us  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.  Lei  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth,  Beloved, — where   the 

unfit 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day, 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  round 

ing  it. 

1  Compare  the  Letters,  I,  336. 


50o 


BRITISH  POETS 


xxm  * 

Ts  it  indeed  so?     If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Wouldsl    thou   miss   any   life  in   losing 

mine? 
And  would  the  sun  for  thee  more  coldly 

shine 
Because   of   grave-damps  falling   round 

my  head  ? 
I  marvelled,  my  Beloved,  when  I  read 
Thy   though};    so    in  the   letter.     I  am 

thine — 
But  .  .  .  so  much  to  thee?    Can  I  pour 

thy  wine 
While   my  hands   tremble  ?    Then   my 

soul,  instead 
Of  dreams  of  death,  resumes  life's  lower 

range. 
Then,    love   me,    Love !     look   on    me — 

breathe  on  me  ! 
As    brighter     ladies    do    not    count    it 

strange, 
For  love,  to  give  up  acres  and  degree, 
I  yield  the  grave  for  thy  sake,  and  ex- 
change 
My  near  sweet  view  of  Heaven,  for  earth 

with  thee  ! 


Let  the  world's  sharpness,  like  a  clasp- 
ing knife. 
Shut  in  upon  itself  and  do  no  harm 
In  this  close  hand  of  Love,  now  soft  and 

warm. 
And  let   us  hear  no  sound  of  human 

strife 
After  the  click  of  the  shutting.     Life 

to  life — 
I  lean  upon  thee,  Dear,  without  alarm. 
And  feel  as  safe  as  guarded   by  a  charm 
Against  the  stab  of  worldlings,  who  if 

rife 
Are  weak  to  injure.     Very  whitely  still 
The  lilies  of  our  lives  may  reassure 
Their   blossoms   from    their    roots,   ac- 
cessible 
Alone  to  heavenly  dews  that  drop  not 

fewer, 
Growing   straight,  out  of  man's  reach, 
on  the  hill.  [us  poor. 

God  only,  who  made  us  rich,  can  make 

XXV 

A  heavy  heart,  Beloved,  have  I  borne 
From  year  to  year  until  I  saw  thy  face, 
And  sorrow  after  sorrow  took  the  place 
Of  all  those  natural  joys  as  lightly  worn 

1  Compare  the  Letters,  I,  337,  345,  350. 


As  the  stringed  pearls,  each  lifted  in  its 
turn 

By  a  beating  heart  at  dance-time. 
Hopes  apace 

Were  changed  to  long  despairs,  till  God's 
own  grace 

Could  scarcely  lift  above  the  world  for- 
lorn 

My  heavy  heart.  Then  thou  didst  bid 
me  bring 

And  let  it  drop  adown  thy  calmly  great 

I  >eep  being  !     Fast  it  sinketh,  as  a  tiling 

Which  its  own  nature  doth  precipitate, 

While  thine  doth  close  above  it,  media- 
ting 

Betwixt  the  stars  and  the  unaccom- 
plished fate. 


I  lived  with  visions  for  my  company 
Instead  of  men  and  women,  years  ago, 
And    found    them    gentle    mates,   nor 

thought  to  know 
A  sweeter  music   than  they  played  to 

me. 
But  soon  their  trailing  purple  was  not 

free 
Of  this   world's   dust,   their    lutes    did 

silent  grow, 
And  I  myself  grew  faint  and  blind  be- 
low 
Their  vanishing  eyes.     Then  thou  didst 

come — to  be. 
Beloved,     what     they    seemed.      Their 

shining  fronts, 
Their  songs,  their  splendors  (better,  yet 

the  same. 
As  river- water  hallowed  into  fonts), 
Met  in  thee,  and  from  out  thee  over 

came 
My  soul  with  satisfaction  of  all  wants  : 
Because   God's    gifts    put    man's    best 

dreams  to  shame. 

^xvn1 

My  own  Beloved,  who  hast  lifted  me 

From  this  drear  flat  of  earth  where  I 
was  thrown, 

And,  in  betwixt  the  languid  ringlets, 
blown 

A  life-breath,  till  the  forehead  hope- 
fully 

Shines  out  again,  as  all  the  angels  see, 

Before  thy  saving  kiss !  My  own,  my 
own, 

Who  earnest  to  me  when  the  world  was 
gone, 

1  Compare  the  Letters,  I,  595. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 


56i 


And  I  who  looked  for  only  God,  found 
thee  ! 

I  find  thee  ;  I  am  safe,  and  strong,  and 
glad. 

As  one  who  stands  in  dewless  asphodel 

Looks  backward  on  the  tedious  time  he 
had 

In  the  upper,  life, — so  I,  with  bosom- 
swell, 

Make  witness,  here,  between  the  good 
and  bad, 

That  Love,  as  strong  as  Death,  retrieves 
as  well. 

xxvm1 

My  letters  !  all  dead   paper,  mute  and 

white ! 
And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 
Against    my    tremulous    hands    which 

loose  the  string 
And   let   them  drop  down  on  my  knee 

to-night. 
This  said, — he  wished  to  have  me  in  his 

sight 
Once,  as  a  friend:  this  fixed   a  day  in 

spring 
To   come   and   touch    my   hand  ...  a 

simple  thing, 
Yet  I  wept  for  it  ! — this,  .  .  .  the  paper's 

light  .  .  . 
Said,  Dear,  I  love  thee;  and  I  sank  and 

quailed 
As  if  God'a    future   thundered   on    my 

past. 
Tins  said.  lam  thine — and  so  its  ink  has 

paled 
With  lying  at  my   heart  that   beat  too 

last.' 
And  this  .  .  .  O  Love,  thy  words  have 

ill  availed 
If,  what  this  said,  I  dared  repeat  at  last ! 

XXIX 

I  THINK  of  thee  ! — my  thoughts  do  twine 
and  bud 

About  thee,  as  wild  vines,  about  a  tree, 

Put  out  broad  leaves,  and  soon  there's 
nought  to  see 

Except  tin!  strangling  green  which  hides 
the  wood. 

Yet,  O  my  palm-tree,  be  it  understood 

I  will  not  have  my  thoughts  instead  <>( 
thee 

Who  art  dearer,  better!  Rather,  in- 
stantly 

Renew  thy  presence;  as  a  strong  tree 
should, 

1  Compare  the  Letters,  1,  G,  70,  365. 
36 


Rustle  thy  boughs  and  set  thy  trunk  all 

bare, 
And  let  these  bands  of  greenery  which 

insphere  thee 
Drop   heavily  down, — burst,  shattered, 

everywhere  ! 
Because,  in  this  deep  joy  to  see  and  hear 

thee 
And  breathe  within  thy  shadow  a  new 

air, 
I  do  not   think   of  thee — I  am   too  near 

thee. 

XXX 

I  see  thine  image  through   my  tears  to- 

night, 
And    yet    to-day    I   saw   thee   smiling. 

How- 
Refer  the  cause? — Beloved,  is  it  thou 
Or  I.  who  makes  me  sad  ?    The  acolyte 
Amid  the  chanted  joy  and  thankful  rite 
May   so   fall   flat,    with    pale   insensate 

brow. 
On  the  altar-stair.     I  hear  thy  voice  and 

vow, 
Perplexed,    uncertain,   since    thou    art 

out  of  sight, 
As  he,  in  his  swooning  ears,   the  choir's 

Amen. 
Beloved,  dost  thou  love  ?  or  did  I  see  all 
The   glory  as   I   dreamed,   and   fainted 

when 
Too  vehement  light  dilated  my  ideal. 
For   my   soul's   eyes?     Will    that   light 

come  again. 
As  now  these   tears   come — falling   hot 

and  real? 


Thou  comest !  all  is  said  without  a  word. 
I  sit  beneath  thy  looks  as  children  do 
In  the  noon-sun,  with  sends  that  tremble 

through 
Their  happy  eyelids  from  an  unaverred 
Yet   prodigal    inward    joy.     Behold,     I 

erred 
In  that  last  doubt  !  and  yet  I  cannot  rue 
The  sin  most,  but  the  occasion — that  we 

two 
Should    for  a   moment   stand   unminis- 

tered 
By  a  mutual  presence.     Ah,  keep  near 

and  (dose, 
Thou    dovelike    help!    and,    when    my 

fears  would  rise. 
With  thy   broad    heart   serenely   inter- 
pose : 
Brood  down  with  thy  divine  sufficiencies 


5^2 


BRITISH    POETS 


T  thoughts    which     tremble  when 

bereft  of  those, 
Like   callow   birds    left    desert    to    the 

skies. 

XXXII 

The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine 

oath 
To  love    me,    I  looked   forward   to   the 

moon 
To  slacken  all  those  bonds  which  seemed 

too  soon 
And    quickly    tied    to    make   a   lasting 

troth. 
Quick-loving    hearts,   I    thought,    may 

quickly  loathe  ; 
And.  looking  on   myself,  I  seemed   not 

one 
For  such  man's  love  ; — more  like  an  out- 

of-tune 
Worn    viol,    a    good    singer    would    be 

wroth 
To    spoil    his    song    with,   and    which, 

snatched  in  haste, 
Is  laid   down   at   the   first   ill-sounding 

note. 
I  did  not  wrong  myself  so,  but  I  placed 
A  wrong  on  thee.     For   perfect  strains 

may  float 
'Neath  master-hands,  from  instruments 

defaced. — 
And  great  souls,  at  one  stroke,  may  do 

and  doat. 

XXXIII 

Yes,  call  me  by  my  pet-name !  let  me 

hear 
The  name  I  used  to  run  at,  when  a  child, 
From  innocent  play,  and  leave  the  cow- 
slips piled, 
To  glance  up  in  some  face  that  proved 

me  clear 
With  the  look  of  its  ej-es.      I  miss  the 

clear 
Fond   voices   which,   being   drawn  and 

reconciled 
Into  the  music  of  Heaven's  undefined, 
Call  me  no  longer.     Silence  on  the  bier, 
While  I  call  God — call  God  ! — So  let  thy 

mouth 
Be  heir  to  those  who  are  now  exanimate. 
Gather  the  north  flowers  to  complete  the 

south, 
And  catcli  the  early  love  up  in  the  late. 
Yes,  call  me  by  that  name, — and  I,   in 

truth, 
With  the  same  heart,  will  answer  and 

not  wait. 


XXXIV 

With  the  same  heart,  I  said,  I'll  answei 

thee 
As  those,  when  thou  shalt  call  me  by  nij 

name — 
Lo,  the  vain  promise!  is  the  same,  the 

same, 
Perplexed  and  ruffled  by  life's  strategy? 
When  called  before,  I  told  how  hastily 
I  dropped  my  flowers  or  brake  off  from  a 

game, 
To  run  and  answer  with  the  smile  that 

came 
At  play  last  moment,  and  went  on  with 

me 
Through  my  obedience.     When  I  answer 

now, 
I  drop  a  grave  thought,  break  from  soli- 
tude ; 
Yet  still  my  heart  goes  to  thee — ponder 

how — 
Not  as  to  a  single  good,  but  all  my  good  I1 
l.a\   thy   hand  on  it,  best  one,  and  allow 
That  no   child's   foot   could   run  fast  as 

this  blood. 

XXXV 

If   I   leave   all  for   thee,  wilt  thou  ex- 
change 
And  be  all  to  me?    Shall  I  never  miss 
Home-talk  and  blessing  and  the  common 

kiss 
That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it 

strange, 
When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  anew  range 
Of  walls  and  floors,  another  home  than 

this? 
Nay,   wilt   thou   fill   that   place   by  me 

which  is 
Filled  by   dead  eyes  too  tender  to  know 

change? 
That's  hardest.     If  to  conquer   love,  has 

tried, 
To  conquer   grief,    tries    more,    as    all 

things  prove  ; 
For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 
Alas,  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love. 
Yet  love   me — wilt   thou  ?     Open  thine 

heart  wide, 
And  fold   within  the   wet  wings  of  thy 

clove. 

XXXVI 

When  we  met  first  and  loved,  I  did  not 

build 
Upon  the  event  with  marble.     Could  it 

mean 

1  Compare  the  Letters,  I,  361. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 


5^3 


To  last,  a  love  set  pendulous  between 
Sorrow    and    sorrow  ?      Nay,   I  rather 

thrilled, 
Distrusting  every  light  that  seemed  to 

gild 
The  onward  path,  and  feared  too verlean 
A  ringer  even.     And,    though   I    have 

grown  serene 
And  strong  since  then,  I  think  that  God 

has  willed 
A   still   renewable    fear  .  .  .  O  love,  O 

troth  .   .  . 
Lest  these  enclasped  hands  should  never 

hull. 
This  mutual  kiss  drop  down  between  us 

both 
As  an  unowned  thing,  once  the  lips  being 

cold. 
And  Love,  be  false  !  if  he,  to  keep  one 

oath, 
Must  lose  one  joy,  bv  his  life's  star  fore- 
told. 


PARDON,  oh,  pardon,  that  my  soul  should 

make, 
Of  all  that   strong  divineness  which  I 

know 
For  thine  and  thee,  an  image  only  so 
Formed  of  the  sand,  and  fit  to  shift  and 

break. 
It  is  that  distant  years  which  did  not 

take 
Thy  sovranty,  recoiling  with  a  blow, 
Have  forced  my  swimming  brain  to  un- 
dergo 
Their   doubt  and  dread,  and  blindly  to 

forsake 
Thy  purity  of  likeness  and  distort 
Thy  worthiest  love  to  a  worthless  coun- 
terfeit : 
As  if  a  shipwrecked  Pagan,  safe  in  port, 
His  guardian  sea-god  to  commemorate, 
Should  set  a  sculptured  porpoise,  gills  a- 

snort 
And  vibrant  tail,  within  the  temple-gate. 

XXXVIII 

First   time  he  kissed  me,    he  but  only 

kissed 
The  fingers   of   this   hand    wherewith   I 

write ; 
And  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and 

white, 
Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with  its 

"  Oh,  list." 
When     the     angels    speak.     A    ri 

amethyst 


I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my 
sight, 

Than  that  first  kiss.  The  second  passed 
in  height 

The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and 
half  missed, 

Half  falling  on  the  hair.  O  beyond  meed  ! 

That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which 
love's  own  crown. 

With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 

The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 

In  perfect,  purple  state  ;  since  when,  in- 
deed, 

I  have  been  proud  and  said,  "  My  love, 
my  own.-' 


Because  thou  hast  the  power  and  own'st 

the  grace 
To  look  through  and  behind  this  mask 

of  me 
( Against    which   years   have   beat   thus 

blanchingly 
With  their  rains),  and  behold  my   soul's 

true  face, 
The  dim    and    weary   witness   of   life's 

race, — 
Because  thou  hast  the  faith  and  love   to 

see, 
Through    that    same    soul's    distracting 

lethargy, 
The  patient  angel  waiting  for  a  place 
In    the    new  Heavens, — because  nor   sin 

nor  woe, 
Nor   God's  infliction,  nor  death's  neigh- 
borly id, 
Nor  all  which   others  viewing,  turn  to 

go, 
Nor  all  which  makes  me  tired  of  all,  self- 
viewed, — 
Nothing  repels  thee,  .  .  .  Dearest,  teach 

me  so 
To    pour   out   gratitude,    as   thou   dost, 

good  ! 

XI, 

Oh,  yes  !  t  hey  love  through  all  this  world 

of  ours ! 
I    will    not    gainsay    love,    called   love 

forsool  h. 
I  have   heard   love   talked    in   my  early 

youth. 
And  since,  not  so  long  back  but  that  the 

flowers 
Then  gathered,  smell  still.     Mussulmans 

and  ( '<  iaours 
Throw  kerchiefs  at  a  smile,  and  have  no 

ruth 


564 


BRITISH   POETS 


For   any    weeping.     Polyphenie's   wliite 

ti  >oth 
Slips    on     the     nut    if.    after     frequent 

showers, 

The  shell    is   over-smooth, — and   not   so 

much 
Will  turn  the  thing  called  love,  aside  to 

hate. 
Or   else    to   oblivion.     But  thou  art   not 

such 
\  lover,  my  Beloved  !  thou  canst  wait 
Through   sorrow   and  sickness,  to   bring 

sonls  to  touch, 
And  think  it  soon  when  others  cry  "Too 

late." 

XLI 

I  thank  all  who  have  loved  me  in  their 

hearts. 
With  thanks  and  love  from  mine.     Deep 

thanks  to  all 
Who  paused  a  little  near  the  prison-wall 
T"  hear  my  music  in  its  louder  parts 
Ere  they  went  onward,  each  one  to  the 

mart's 
Or  temple's  occupation,  beyond  call. 
But   thou,  who,  in   my  voice's  sink   and 

fall 
When  the  sob  took  it,  thy  divinest  Art's 
Own  instrument  didst  drop  down  at  thy 

foot 
To  hearken    what  I   said    between    my 

tears,  .  .  . 
Instruct  me  how  to  thank  thee  !     Oh,  to 

shoot 
My  soul's  full  meaning  into  future  years. 
That  they  should  lend  it  utterance,  and 

salute 
Love  that  endures,  from   Life   that   dis- 
appears ! 


"  My  future    will    not    copy    fair    my 

past " — 1 
I  wrote  that  once  ;  and   thinking  at   my 

side 
My  ministering  life-angel  justified 
The  word  by  his  appealing  look  upcast 
To  the  white  throne  of  God,  I  turned  at 

last, 
And  there,  instead,  saw  thee,  not  unallied 
To   angels  in   thy   soul  !     Then   I,   long 

tried 
By  natural  ills,  received  the  comfort  fast, 
While  budding,  at  thy  sight,  my  pilgrim's 

staff 

1  A  sonnet  of  Mrs.  Browning's,  of   1844,  begins 
with  this  line.     See  also  the  Letters,  I.  881. 


Gave   out   green  leaves    with    morning 

dews  impearled. 
I  seek  no  copy  now  of  life's  first  half : 
Leave  here  the  pages  with  long   musing 

curled, 
And  write  me  new  my  future's  epigraph, 
New  angel  mine,   unhoped  for  in  the 

world  ! 


How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the 

ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and 

height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out   of 

sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
1  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday 's 
.Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle-light. 
I  love    thee    freely,   as    men   strive  for 

Right; 
I  love  thee  purely,   as  they  turn  from 

Praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's 

faith. 
I   love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to   lose 
With   my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee   with 

the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life  ! — and,  if  God 

choose,  ' 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


Beloved,  thou  hast  brought  me  many 
flowers 

Plucked  in  the  garden,  all  the  summer 
through 

And  winter,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  grew 

In  tins  close  room,  nor  missed  the  sun 
and  showers. 

So,  in  the  like  name  of  that  love  of  ours, 

Take  back  these  thoughts  which  here  un- 
folded too, 

And  which  on  warm  and  cold  days  I 
withdrew 

From  my  heart's  ground.  Indeed,  those 
beds  and  bowers 

Be  overgrown  with  bitter  weeds  and  rue, 

And  wait  thy  weeding  ;  yet  here's  eglan- 
tine, 

Here's  ivy  ! — take  them,  as  I  used  to  do 

Thy  flowers,  and  keep  them  where  they 
shall  not  pine. 

Instruct  thine  eyes  to  keep  their  colors 
true, 

And  tell  thy  soul  their  roots  are  left  in 
mine,  11847.]  1850. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 

LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

Editions 

Poetical  Works,  17  volumes,  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  1888-94.  —  Poetical 
Works,  9  volumes,  The  Macmillan  Co.,  1894-1903.  —  *  Poetical  Works, 
12  volumes,  edited  by  Charlotte  Porter  and  Helen  A.  Clarke,  Crowell  &  Co., 
1898  (Camberwell  Edition).  —  Poetical  and  Dramatic  Works,  6  vol- 
umes, edited  by  G.  W.  Cooke,  The  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1899  (New 
Riverside  Edition).  —  Poetical  and  Dramatic  Works,  3  volumes, 
The  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1906  (New  Popular  Edition).  —  Poetical 
Works,  2  volumes,  edited  by  Augustine  Birrell,  The  Macmillan  Co.,  1896 
(Globe  Edition).  —  *  Poetical  and  Dramatic  Works,  1  volume,  edited 
by  H.  E.  Scudder,  1895  (Cambridge  Edition);  the  same,  on  Oxford  India 
paper,  1905  (Special  Cambridge  Edition).  —  Selections,  2  volumes, 
Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  1872  (Browning's  own  selection);  *  the  same,  with 
additional  poems  subsequent  to  1872,  edited  by  C.  Porter  and  H.  A. 
Clarke,  Crowell  &  Co.,  1896.  —  Select  Poems,  edited  by  Percival  Chubb, 
1905  (Longmans'  English  Classics).  —  *  Select  Poems,  edited  by  A.  J. 
George,  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  1905. 

Biography 

Orr  (Alexandra  L.),  Life  and  Letters  of  Robert  Browning,  1891;  *  new 
enlarged  edition,  edited  by  F.  G.  Kenyon,  1908.  —  *  Sharp  (Win.),  Life 
of  Browning,  1890  (Great  Writers  Series).  —  Waugh  (Arthur),  Robert 
Browning,  1900  (Westminster  Biographies).  —  *  Chesterton  (G.  K.), 
Browning,  1903  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series).  —  Douglas  (James), 
Robert  Browning,  1904  (Bookman  Biographies).  —  *  Dowden  (Edward), 
Browning,  1904  (Temple  Biographies).  —  *  Herford  (C.  H.),  Browning, 
1904  (Modern  English  Writers  Series).  —  See  also:  Forster's  Life  of  Landor; 
Hallam  Tennyson's  Life  of  Tennyson;  *  W.  W.  Story  and  his  Friends, 
edited  by  Henry  James,  1904;  *  Letters  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning, 
edited  by  F.  G.  Kenyon,  1897;  *  Letters  of  Robert  Browning  and 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Barrett,  edited  by  Roberl  Barrett  Browning,  1899; 
and  *  Robert  Browning  and  Alfred  Domett,  edited  by  F.  G.  Kenyon,  1906. 

Reminiscences  axd  Early  Criticism 

Horne  (R.  H.),  A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age,  1844.  —  Powell  (T.),  The 
Living  Authors  of  England,  1849.  —  Ossoli  (M.  F.),  Art,  Literature  and 
the  Drama.  —  Morris  (Wm.),  Review  of  Men  and  Women,  1856. — 
Hawthorne,  Italian  Note-books.  —  Bagehot  (W.),  Literary  Studies, 
Vol.  II,  1879:  Wordsworth,  Tennyson  and  Browning;  or  Pure,  Ornate 
and  Grotesque  Art  in  English  Poetrv;  from  the  National  Review,  Nov., 

565 


566  BRITISH   POETS 

1864.  —  Nettleship  (J.  T.),  Essays  on  Robert  Browning's  Poetry,  1868. 

—  *  Gosse  (E.  W.),  Robert  Browning;  Personalia,  1800.  —  Ritchie 
(Anne  Thackeray),  Records  of  Tennyson,  Ruskin,  Browning,  1802.  — 
Duffy  (C.  G.),  Conversations  with  Carlyle. —  *  Curtis  (G.  W.),  From 
the  Easy-Chair:  Browning  in  Florence.  —  Bronson  (K.),  Browning  in 
Asolo,  in  the  Century,  Vol.  37,  p.  020;  Browning  in  Venice,  in  the  Century, 
Vol.  41,  p.  572. —  Paston  (George),  B.  R.  Hay  don  and  his  Friends,  1005. 

—  Taylor  (Mrs.  Bayard),  On  Two  Continents,  1005. 

Introductions  to    Browning 

Alexander  (W.  J.),  An  Introduction  to  the  Poetry  of  Robert  Browning.  —  *  Ber- 
doe (E.),The  Browning  Cyclopaedia,  a  Guide  to  the  Study  of  the  Works  of  Robert 
Browning,  1S92. — Chicago  Browning  Society,  Browning's  Poetry,  Outline  Studies. 

—  Cooke  (Bancroft),  An  Introduction  to  Robert  Browning.  —  Cooke  (G.  W.),  A 
Guide-book  to  the  Poetic  and  Dramatic  Works  of  Robert  Browning.  —  Corson 
(Hiram),  An  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Robert  Browning's  Poetry. —  Defries 
(E.  P.),  Browning  Primer.  —  Fotheringham  (J.),  Studies  in  the  Poetry  of  Robert 
Browning.  —  Holland  (F.  M.),  Stories  from  Robert  Browning. —  Kingsland  (W.G.), 
Robert  Browning,  Chief  Poet  of  the  Age.  —  Molineux  (M.  A.),  A  Phrase-Book  from 
th  ■  Poetic  and  Dramatic  Works  of  Robert  Browning.  —  Morison  (Jean:e),  Sordollo,  an 
outline  Analysis  of  Mr.  Browning's  Poem.  —  Okr  (A.  L.),  A  Handbook  to  the  Works 
of  Robert  Browning.  —  Symons  (A.),  An  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Browning. 

(The  above  books  are  for  the  most  part  more  elementary  than  could  be  needed 
to-day  by  any  person  of  ordinary  intelligence.  Some  of  them,  however,  espec 'ally  that 
of  Berdoe,  and  in  a  less  degree  those  of  Corson,  G.  W.  Cooke,  and  Mrs.  Orr,  contain 
much  valuable  information  not  elsewhere  so  easily  obtainable.) 

Later  Criticism 

*  Beatty  (Arthur),  Browning's  Verse-Form,  its  Organic  Character, 
1806. — •*  Berdoe  (E.),  Browning's  Message  to  his  Time;  his  Religion, 
Philosophy  and  Science,  1800.  —  Birrell  (Augustine),  Essays  and 
Addresses,  1001.  —  *  Birrell  (Augustine),  Obiter  Dicta,  Vol.  I:  On  the 
Alleged  Obscurity  of  Mr.  Browning's  Poetry,  1884.  —  *  Browning  Society 
(of  London):  Browning  Studies;  Selected  Papers  of  Members  of  the 
Browning  Society,  edited  by  Edward  Berdoe,  1805.  —  *  Boston  Brown- 
ing Society:  Selected  Papers,  1807.  —  Brooke  (S.  A.),  The  Poetry  of 
Browning,  1002.  —  Burton  (R.),  Literary  Likings:  Renaissance  in  Brown- 
ing's Poetry,  1002.  —  Chapman  (J.  J.),  Emerson  and  Other  Essays,  1S08. 

-Church  (R.  W.),  Dante  and  Other  Essavs:  Sordello,  1888.  —  Darme- 
steter  (Mary  J.),  in  the  Revue  de  Paris,  Oct.,  1808:  Menage  de  Poetes. 

-  *  Dowden  (E.),  Studies  in  Literature:  Mr.  Tennyson  and  Mr.  Browning; 
Transcendental  Movement  in  Literature,  1878.  —  Dowden  (E.),  Tran- 
scripts and  Studies:  Mr.  Browning's  Sordello.  1888.  —  Everett  (C.  C), 
Essays  Theological  and  Literary,  1891.  —  Hodell  (C.  W.),  The  Old 
Yellow  Book;  photo-reproduction,  translation,  essay,  etc.,  1908.  —  Hut- 
ton  (R.  H.),  Literary  Essays,  1871,  1888. — James  (Henry),  Essays  in 
London  ai.d  Elsewhere.  —  Jenkin  (Fleming),  Papers  Literary,  Scientific, 
etc.:  The  Agamemnon  and  Trachiniae.  —  *Lawton  (W.  C),  Classical 
Element   in   Browning's   Poetry.  —  Mahie    (H.   W.),   Essays  in   Literary 


ROBERT    BROWNING  567 

Interpretation,  1892.  — More  (Paul  E.),  Shelburne  Essays,  Third  Series: 
Browning's  Popularity,  1906.  —  Morley  (John),  Studies  in  Literature: 
The  Ring  and  the  Book,  1891.  —  Pater  (Walter),  Essays  from  the  Guar- 
dian, 1901:  Robert  Browning,  1887.  —  Payne  (W.  M.),  The  Greater 
English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907.  —  Pearson  (C.  W.), 
Literary  and  Biographical  Essays,  1908. — Saintsbury  (George),  Cor- 
rected Impressions,  1S95.  —  *Santayana  (George),  Interpretations  of 
Poetry  and  Religion,  1900.  —  *Schelling  (F.  E.),  Two  Essays  on  Robert 
Browning.  —  *Stedman  (E.  C),  Victorian  Poets,  1875,  1887. — Stephen 
(Leslie),  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  Vol.  Ill:  The  Browning  Letters, 
1899.  —  *Swinburne,  Introduction  to  the  Works  of  George  Chap- 
man, pp.  xiv-xix,  1875.  —  Thomson  (James),  Biographical  and  Critical 
Studies.  —  Woodberry  (G.  E.),  Makers  of  Literature:  On  Browning's 
Death  (1890),  1900. 

Abbott  (M.  W.),  Browning  and  Meredith,  1904.  — Clarke  (Helen  A.), 
Browning's  Italy,  1908;  Browning's  England,  1909. — Cunliffe  (J.  W.), 
Publications  of  the  Modern  Language  Association,  June,  1908.  —  Dawson 
(W.  J.),  Makers  of  English  Poetry  (1890),  1906.  —  Gilder  (R.  W.),  in 
the  Century,  Oct.,  1905.  —  Gould  (E.  P.),  The  Brownings  and  America.  — 
Hor  brooke  (F.  B.),  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  1910.  — Hutton  (R.  H.), 
Brief  Literary  Criticisms,  1910.  —  Inge  (W.  R.),  Studies  of  English  Mystics, 
19  56.  —  Jones  (Henry),  Browning  as  a  Philosophical  and  Religious  Teacher, 
1891.  —  Kernahan  (Coulson),  Wise  Men  and  a  Fool:  One  Aspect  of  Brown- 
ing. —  Lockwood  (Frank  C),  in  Modern  Poets  and  Christian  Teaching, 
Vol.  Ill,  1906. — MacDonald  (George),  Imagination  and  Other  Essays: 
Browning's  Christmas  Eve  (1883),  1886.  —  Sarrazin  (G),  La  Renais- 
sance de  la  Poesie  anglaise. —  Scudder  (V.  D.),  Life  of  the  Spirit:  Brown- 
ing as  a  Humorist,  1895.  — Weatherford  (W.  D.),  Fundamental  Principles 
in  Browning's  Poetry,  1907.  —  Walker  (Hugh),  The  Literature  of  the 
Victorian  Era,  1910. 

Tributes  in  Verse 

*Landor,  Robert  Browning.  —  *Gilder  (R.  W.),  Browning's  Death.  — 
*  Carman  (Bliss),  Songs  from  Vagabondia:  The  Two  Bobbies.  —  **  Car- 
man   (Bliss),   More  Songs  from   Vagabondia:   In    a   Copy  of   Browning. 

—  Peet  (Jeanie),  Browning;  in  the  Century,  June,  1906.  —  *  van  Dyke 
(Henry),  The  White  Bees,  1909;  from  the  Atlantic,  Feb.,  1907.  — *Pound 
(Ezra),  A  Lume  spento,  1908,  and  Persons,  1909:  Mesmerism;  Fifine 
answers;  etc.  —  Lanier  (Clifford),  Apollo  and  Keats  on  Browning,  1909. 

—  *Le  Gallienne  (Richard),  New  Poems,  1910:  The  Nightjar. 

Bibliography 

Furxivall  (F.  J.),  A  Bibliography  of  Robert  Browning  from  1833  to 
L 881. —Anderson  (J.  P.),  Appendix  to  Sharp's  Life  of  Browning. — 
Nicole  and  Wise,  Literary  Anecdotes  of  the  Nineteenth  Century :  Materials 
for  a  Bibliography  of  Browning. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


SONGS  FROM  PARACELSUS 

Heap  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 

Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls, 

Smeared  with  dull  nard  an  Indian  wipes 
From  out  her  hair  :  such  balsam  falls 
Down  sea-side  mountain  pedestals, 

From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are 
fain, 

Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 

To  treasure  half  their  island-gain. 

And  strew  faint   sweetness   from   some 
f  old 

Egyptian's  fine  worm-eaten  shroud 
Which   breaks   to   dust   when  once  un- 
rolled ; 

Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 
From  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed, 
With  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung, 
Mouldering  her  lute  and  books  among, 
As  when  a  queen,  long  dead,  was  young. 


Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went, 
With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave 
To  a   speeding   wind   and  a    bounding 
wave, 

A  gallant  armament  : 
Each  bark  built  out  of  a  forest-tree 

Left  leafy  and  rough  as  first  it  grew. 
And  nailed  all  over  the  gaping  sides. 
Within  and  without,  with   black   bull- 
hides. 
Seethed  in  fat  and  suppled  in  flame, 
To  bear  the  playful  billows'  game  : 
So,  each  good  ship  was  rude  to  see, 
Rude  and  bare  to  the  outward  view, 

But  each  upbore  a  stately  tent 
Where  cedar  pales  in  scented  row 
Kept  out  the  flakes  of  the  dancing  brine, 
And  an  awning  drooped  the  mast  below, 
In  fold  on  fold  of  the  purple  fine, 


That  neither  noontide  nor  starshine 
Nor  moonlight  cold  which  makethmaa, 

Might  pierce  the  regal  tenement. 
When  the  sun  dawned,  oh,  gay  and  glad 
We  set  the  sail  and  plied  the  oar  ; 
But    when   the    night- wind    blew    like 

breath. 
For  joy  of  one  day's  voyage  more, 
We  sang  together  on  the  wide  sea. 
Like  men  at  peace  on  a  peaceful  shore  ; 
Each  sail  was  loosed  to  the  wind  so  free. 
Each  helm  made   sure   by  the   twilight 

star. 
And  in  a  sleep  as  calm  as  death, 
We,  the  voyagers  from  afar, 

Lay  stretched  along,  each  weary  crew 
In  a  circle  round  its  wondrous  tent 
Whence  gleamed  soft   light   and  curled 

rich  scent, 
And   with  light  and   perfume,   music 

too  : 
So  the    stars    wheeled   round,   and   the 

darkness  past, 
And  at  morn  we  started  beside  the  mast, 
And  still  each  ship  was  sailing  fast. 

Now,  one  morn,  land  appeared — a  speck 
Dim  trembling  betwixt  sea  and  sky  : 
"  Avoid  it,"  cried  our  pilot,  "  check 

The  shout,  restrain  the  eager  eye  !  " 
But  the  heaving  sea  was  black  behind 
For  many  a  night  and  many  a  day, 
And   land,    though   but   a    rock,    drew 

nigh  ; 
So,  we  broke  the  cedar  pales  away, 
Let  the  purple  awning  flap  in  the  wind. 
And    a   statue   bright   was  on    every 

deck  ! 
We  shouted,  every  man  of  us, 
And  steered  right  into  the  harbor  thus, 
With  pomp  and  paean  glorious. 

A  hundred  shapes  of  lucid  stone  ! 
All  day  we  built  its  shrine  for  each, 


4_e_s 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


569 


A  shrine  of  rock  for  every  one, 
Nor  paused  till  in  the  westering  sun 

We  sat  together  on  the  beaoli 
To  sing  because  our  task  was  done. 
When  lo  !  what  shouts  and  merry  songs  ! 
What  laughter  all  the  distance  stirs  ! 
A  loaded  raft  with  happy  throngs 
Of  gentle  islanders  ! 

"  Our    isles    are    just    at    hand,"    they 
cried, 

"  Like  cloudlets  faint  in   even  sleep- 
ing. 
Our  temple-gates  are  opened  wide. 

Our  olive-groves  thick  shade  are  keep- 
ing 
For  these  majestic  forms" — they  cried. 
Oli,  then  we  awoke  with  sudden  start 
From  our  deep    dream,    and    knew,   too 

late, 
How  bare  the  rock,  how  desolate, 
Which      had     received     our     preciouj 
freight 

Yet  we  called  out — "  Depart  ! 
Our  gifts,  once  given,  must  here  abide. 

Our  work  is  done  ;  we  have  no  heart 
To  mar  our  work," — we  cried.        1835. 

PORPHYRIAS  LOVER  ' 

The  i-ain  set  early  in  to-night, 

The  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake, 
It  tore  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 

And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake  : 
I  listened  with  heart  fit  to  break. 
When  glided  in  Porphyria  ;  straight 

She  shut  the  cold  out  and  the  storm. 
And   kneeled   and   made'  the    cheerless 
grate 

Blaze  up,  and  all  the  cottage  warm  ; 
Which   done,   she   rose,    and   from   her 

form 
Withdrew      the      dripping     cloak     and 
shawl. 

And  laid  her  soiled  gloves  by,  untied 
Her  hat  and  let  the  damp  hair  fall, 


1  This  is  the  earliest  of  Brown ins'screat  series 
of  dramatic  poems  in  lyric  form.  Ii  via-,  first 
printed  in  the  Monthly  Repository,  1836,  with 
Johannes  Agricola  in  Meditation;  was  then 
included  in  the  Dramatic  Lyrics  (1843);  and  is 
dow   -la^"'l  among  the  Dramatic  Romances. 

Mosl  of  Browning's  poems  are  simply  drama!  ic 
monologues,  without  stage  directions,  often 
without  even  the  nam''  of  Hi.-  speaker.  The 
reader  must  remember  that  it  is  not  Browning 
who  is  speaking  or  telling  the  story;  ami  musl 
first  notice  who  is  speaking,  and  under  what  cir- 
cumstances Once  this  is  done,  most  of  tin'  al- 
leged "  obscurity  "  of  Browning  will  be  found  to 
have  disappeared  forever. 


And,  last,  she  sat  down  by  my  side 
And    called    me.      When    no  voice  re- 
plied, 
She  put  my  arm  about  her  waist, 

And  made  her  smooth  white  shoulder 
bare 
And  all  her  yellow  hair  displaced. 

And,   stooping,    made   my   cheek    lie 
there, 
And  spread,  o'er  all,  her  yellow  hair, 
Murmuring  how  she  loved  me — she 
Too    weak,    for    all    her    heart's    en- 
deavor, 
To  set  its  struggling  passion  free 

From  pride,  and  vainer  ties  dissever, 
And  give  herself  to  me  forever. 
But  passion  sometimes  would  prevail, 
Nor    could    to-night's    gay    feast    re- 
strain 
A  sudden  thought  of  one  so  pale 

For  love  of  her.  and  all  in  vain  : 
So,    she   was   come   through    wind  and 

rain. 
Be  sure  I  looked  up  at  her  eves 

Happy  and  proud  ;  at  last  I  knew 
Porphyria  worshipped  me;  surprise 
Made    my    heart    swell,   and    still    it 
grew 
While  I  debated  what  to  do.  ^ 

That    moment    she    was    mine,    mine, 
fair, 
Perfectly  pure  and  good  :  I  found 
A  thing  to  do,  and  all  her  hair 

In  one  long  yellow  string  I  wound 
Three  times  her  little  throat  around, 
And  strangled  her.     No  pain  felt  she  ; 

I  am  quite  sure  she  felt  no  pain. 
As  a  shut  bud  that  holds  a  bee, 
I  warily  oped  her  lids  ;  again 
Laughed  the  blue  eyes  without  a  stain. 
And  I  untightened  next  the  tress 

About    her    neck  ;     her    cheek    once 
more 
Blushed    bright    beneath    my    burning 
kiss  : 
I  propped  her  head  up  as  before, 
Only,  this  time  my  shoulder  bore 
Her  head,  which  droops  upon  it  still: 

The  smiling  rosy  little  head, 
So  glad  it  has  its  utmost  will. 

That  all  it  scorned  at  once  is  fled, 
Ami  1,  its  love,  am  gained  instead  ! 
Porphyria's  love  :  she  guessed  not  how 
Her  darling  one  wish  would  be  heard. 
Ami  thus  we  sit  together  now, 

And    all    night     long    we    have    not 
stirred, 
And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word  ! 

1836. 


57° 


BRITISH    POETS 

PIPPA  PASSES 
A  DRAMA 


PERSONS 

PlPPA 

Ottima 

Sebald 

Foreign  Students 

Gottlieb 

Schramm 

INTRODUCTION 

New  Year's  Day  at  Asolo  in  the  Tre- 
yisan 

.-I  large  mean  airy  chamber.     .1  girl,  Pippa,  from 
the  silk-mills,  springing  out  of  bed. 

Day  ! 

Faster  and  more  fast. 

O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  last: 

Boils,   pure   gold,   o'er   the    cloud-cup's 

brim 
Where  spurting  and  suppressed  it  lay, 
For  not  a  froth-flake  touched  the  rim 
Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  gray 
Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away  ; 
But   forth   one   wavelet,  then   another, 

curled. 
Till   the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be   sup- 
pressed, , 
Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 
Flickered   in   bounds,  grew   gold,  then 
overflowed  the  world. 

Oh  Day,  if  I  squander  a  wavelet  of  thee, 
A  mite  of  my  twelve-hours'  treasure, 
The  least  of  thy  gazes  or  glances, 
(Be  they  grants  thou  art  bound  to  or  gifts 

above  measure) 
One  of  thy  choices  or  one  of  thy  chances, 
(Be   they   tasks   God    imposed   thee   or 

freaks  at  thy  pleasure) 
— My  Day,  if  I  squander  such  labor  or 

leisure, 
Then  shame  fall  on  Asolo,  mischief  on 

me  I 

Thy  long  blue  solemn  hours  serenely 
flowing. 

Whence  earth,  we  feel,  gets  steady  help 
and  good — 

Thy  fitful  sunshine-minutes,  coming, 
going, 

As  if  earth  turned  from  work  in  game- 
some mood — 

All  shall  be  mine  !  But  thou  must  treat 
me  not 


Jules 

Phene 

Austrian  Police 

Bluphocks 

LuiGI  and  his  mother 

Poor  Girls 

MoNSlGNORand  his  attendants 

As  prosperous  ones  are  treated,  those 

who  live 
At  hand  here,  and  enjoy  the  higher  lot, 
In  readiness  to  take  what  thou  wilt  give, 
And    free   to   let   alone   what   thou   re- 

f  usest ; 
For,  Day,  my  holiday,  if  thou  ill-usest 
Me,  who  am  only  Pippa, — old-year's  sor- 
row, 
Cast  off  last  night,  will  come  again  to- 
morrow : 
Whereas,  if  thou  prove  gentle,  I  shall 

borrow 
Sufficient  strength  of  thee  for  new-year's 

sorrow. 
All   other   men   and   women    that    tins 

earth 
Belongs  to,  wdio  all  days  alike  possess, 
Make    general    plenty   cure    particular 

dearth, 
Get  more  joy  one  way,  if  another,  less : 
Thou   art  my  single  day,  God  lends  to 

leaven 
What  were  all  earth  else,  with  a  feel  of 

heaven, — 
Sole   light   that  helps   me  through   the 

year,  thy  sun's ! 
Try  now  !     Take  Asolo's  Four  Happiest 

Ones — 
And  let  thy  morning  rain  on  that  superb 
Great  haughty  Ottima  ;  can  rain  disturb 
Her  Sebald's  homage?    All  the  while 

thy  rain 
Beats  fiercest  on  her  shrub-house  win- 
dow pane 
He   will   but   press   the   closer,  breathe 

more  warm 
Against   her    cheek  ;    how    should    she 

mind  the  storm? 
And,   morning  past,   if  mid-day  shed  a 

gloom 
O'er  Jules  and  Phene,— what  care  bride 

and  groom 
Save  for  their  dear  selves?     'T  is  their 

marriage  day ; 
And   while   they   leave   church   and  go 

home  their  way, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


571 


Hand  clasping  band,  within  each  breast 

would  be 
Sunbeams  and  pleasant  weather  spite  of 

thee. 
Then,  for  another  trial,  obscure  thy  eve 
With  mist. — will  Luigi   and  his   mother 

grieve — 
The  lady  and  her  child,  unmatched,  for- 
sooth, 
She  in  her  age,  as  Luigi  in  his  youth, 
For  true  content?     The  cheerful  town, 

warm,  close 
And  safe,  the  sooner  that  thou  art  mo- 
rose, 
Receives   them.     And  yet   once   again, 

outbreak 
In  storm  at  night   on  Monsignor,  they 

make 
Such    stir    about, — whom    they  expect 

from  Rome 
To  visit  Asolo.  his  brothers'  home, 
And  say  here  masses  proper  to  release 
A   soul   from   pain, — what   storm  dares 

hurt  his  peace  ? 
Calm    would    be    pray,    with   his    own 

thoughts  to  ward 
Thy  thunder  off,  nor  want  the  angels' 

guard. 
But   Pippa — just   one    such    mischance 

would  spoil 
Her  day  that  lightens  the  next  twelve- 
month's toil 
At  wearisome  silk-winding,  coil  on  coil! 

And  here  T  let  time  slip  for  naught  ! 
Aha,  you  foolhardy  sunbeam,  caught 
With  a  single  splash  from  my  ewer  ! 
You  that  would  mock  the   best  pursuer, 
Was  my  basin  over-deep? 
One  splash  of  water  ruins  you  asleep, 
And  up,  up,  fleet  your  brilliant  bits 
Wheeling  and  counterwheeling. 
Reeling,  broken  beyond  healing; 
Now  grow  together  on  the  ceiling  ! 
That  will  task  your  wits. 
Whoever    it    was    quenched    fire   first, 

hoped  to  see 
Morsel  after  morsel  flee 
As  merrily,  as  giddily  .  .  . 
Meantime,  what  lights  my  sunbeam  on, 
Where  settles    by   degrees    the   radiant 

cripple  ? 
Oli.  is  it  surely  blown,  my  martagon  ? 
New-blown   and    ruddy   as    St.   Agnes' 

nipple, 
Plump  as  the  flesh-bunch  on  some  Turk 

bird's  poll ! 
Be  sure  if  corals,  branching 'neath  the 

ripple  [roll 

Of  ocean,  bud  there, — fairies  watch  mi 


Such  turban-flowers  ;  I  say,  such  lamps 

disperse 
Thick  red  flame  through  that  dusk  green 

universe  ! 
I  am  queen  of  thee,  floweret ! 
And  each  fleshy  blossom 
Preserve  I  not — (safer 
Than  leaves  that  embower  it, 
Or  shells  that  embosom) 
— From  weevil  and  chafer? 
Laugh  through  my  pane  then ;  solicit 

the  bee ; 
Gibe  him,  be  sure  ;  and,  in  midst  of  thy 

glee, 
Love  thy  queen,  worship  me  ! 

— Worship  whom  else  ?    For  am  I  not, 

this  day, 
Whate'er  I  please?     What  shall  I  please 

to-day  ? 
My  morn,   noon,   eve  and   night — how 

spend  my  clay  ? 
To-morrow  I  must  be  Pippa  who  winds 

silk, 
The  whole  year  round,  to  earn  just  bread 

and  milk  : 
But,  this  one  day.  I  have  leave  to  go, 
And  play  out  my  fancy's  fullest  games  ; 
I  may  fancy  all  day — and  it  shall  be  so — 
That  I  taste  of  the  pleasures,  am  called 

by  the  names 
Of  the  Happiest  Four  in  our  Asolo  ! 

See  !  Up  the  hillside  yonder,  through  the 

morning. 
Some  one  shall  love   me.  as    the  world 

calls  love  : 
I  am  no  less  than  Ottima,  take  warning  ' 
The  gardens,  and  the  great  stone  house 

above, 
And  other  house  for  shrubs,  all  glass  in 

front. 
Are  mine  ;  where  Sebald  steals,  as  he  ia 

wont, 
To  court  me,  while  old  Luca  yet  reposes; 
And  therefore,  till  the  shrub  house  dooi 

uncloses, 
I  .  .  .  what  now  ? — give  abundant  causa 

for  prate 
\liort  me — Ottima,  I  mean — of  late. 
Too  bold,    too  confidenl    she'll  still  faca 

down 
The  spitefullest  of  talkers  in  our  town. 
I  low  we  talk  in  the  little  town  below  ! 
But   love,    love,     love — there's   bettel 

love.  I  know  ! 
This   foolish    love   was   only   day's  first 

offer: 
I  chouse  1113-  next  love  to  defy  the  scoffer 


57-' 


BRITISH   POETS 


For  do  not  our  Bride  and  Bridegroom 
sally 

Out  of  Possagno  church  at  noon? 

Their  house  looks  over  Oreana  valley: 

Why  should  not  I  he  the  hride  as  soon 

As  Qui  ma  'i    For  1  saw,  heside, 

Arrive  last  night  that  little  hride — 

Saw,  if  you  call  it  seeing  her,  one  flash 

Of  the  pale  snow-pure  cheek  and  hlack 
bright  tresses, 

Blacker  than  all  except  the  black  eye- 
lash ; 

I  wonder  she  contrives  those  lids  no 
dresses ! 

— So  strict  was  she,  the  veil 

Should  cover  close  her  pale 

Pure  cheeks — a  bride  to  look  at  and 
scarce  touch, 

Scarce  touch,  remember,  Jules  !  For  are 
not  such 

Used  to  be  tended,  flower-like,  every 
feature, 

As  if  one's  breath  would  fray  the  lily  of 
a  creature  ? 

A  soft  and  easy  life  these  ladies  lead  : 

Whiteness  in  us  were  wonderful  in- 
deed. 

Oh,  save  that  brow  its  virgin  dimness, 

Keep  that  foot  its  lady  primness, 

Let  those  ankles  never  swerve 

From  their  exquisite  reserve, 

Yet  have  to  trip  along  the  streets  like  me, 

All  but  naked  to  the  knee  ! 

How  will  she  ever  grant  her  Jules  a  bliss 

So  startling  as  her  real  first  infant  kiss? 

Oh,  no — not  envy,  this  ! 

—Not  envy,  sure  ! — for  if  you  gave  me 

Leave  to  take  or  to  refuse, 

In  earnest,  do  you  think  I'd  choose 

That  sort  of  new  love  to  enslave  me  ? 

Mine  should  have  lapped  me  round  from 
the  beginning  ; 

As  little  fear  of  losing  it  as  winning  : 

Lovers  grow  cold,  men  learn  to  hate 
their  wives, 

And  only  parents'  love  can  last  our  lives. 

At  eve  the  Son  and  Mother,  gentle  pair. 

Commune  inside  our  turret :  what  pre- 
vents 

My  being  Luigi  ?  While  that  mossy  lair 

Of  lizards  through  the  winter-time  is 
stirred 

With  each  to  each  imparting  sweet  in- 
tents 

For  this  new-vear,  as  brooding  bird  to 
bird— 

(For  I  observe  of  late,  the  evening  walk 

Of  Luigi  and  his  mother,  always  ejids 


Inside  our  ruined  turret,  where  they  talk, 
Calmer  than  lovers,  yet  more  kind  than 

friends) 
— Let  me  be  cared  about,   kept  out  of 

harm. 
And  schemed  for,  safe  in  love  as  with 

a  charm  ; 
Let  me  be  Luigi !     If  I  only  knew 
What  was  my  mother's  face — my  father, 

too! 
Nay,  if  you  come  to  that,  best  love  of  all 
Is  God's  ;  then  why  not  have  God's  love 

befall 
Myself  as,  in  the  palace  by  the  Dome. 
Monsignor? — who  to-night  will  bless  the 

home 
Of  his   dead   brother ;  and  God  bless  in 

turn 
That  heart  which  beats,  those  eyes  which 

mildly  burn 
With  love  for  all  men  !  I,   to-night  at 

least, 
Would  be  that  holy  and  beloved  priest. 

Now  wait ! — even    I    already    seem    to 

share 
In   God's  love :    what   does   New-year's 

hymn  declare? 
What  other   meaning  do   these    verses 

bear  ? 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God  : 
If  now,  as  formerly  he  trod 
Paradise,  his  prest 'nee  fills 
Our  earlh,  each  only  as  God  units 
Can   work — God's  pyuppets,    oest   and 

tvorst, 
Are  we  ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

Say    not      "a    small    event!  "     Why 

"  small  ?" 
Costs  it  more  pain  that  this,  ye  call 
A     "great    event,"     should   come   to 

pass. 
Than    that  ?      Untwine  me  from   the 

mass 
Of  deeds  which  makeup  life,  one  deed 
Poicer  shall  fall  short  in  or  exceed  ! 

And  more  of  it,  and  more  of  it  ! — oh  yes — 
I  will  pass  each,  and  see  their  happiness, 
And  envy  none — being  just  as  great,  no 

doubt, 
Useful  to  men,  and  dear  to  God  as  they  ! 
A  pretty  thing  to  care  about 
So  mightily,  this  single  holiday  ! 
But   let   the  sun   shine  !     WTherefoi-e  re- 

pine  ? 
— With  thee  to  lead  me,  O  Day  of  mine, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


573 


Down  the  grass  path  gray  with  dew, 
Under  the  pine-wood,  blind  with  boughs, 
Where  the  swallow  never  flew 
Nor  yet  cicala  dared  carouse — 
No,  dared  carouse  ! 

[She  enters  the  street. 

I.  MORNING 

Up  the  Hillside,  inside  the  Shrub-house.  Luca's 
Wifb,  Ottima,  and  Iter  Paramour,  the  German 
Sebald. 

Sebald.      [sings]      Let    the    watching 
lids  wink  ! 
Day's  ablaze  with  eyes,  think  ! 
Deep  into  the  night .  drink  .' 

Ottima.     Night:     Such  may  be   your 

Rhineland  nights,  perhaps  ; 
But   this    blood-red   beam   through   the 

shutter's  chink 
— We  call  such  light,  the  morning  :  let 

us  see  ! 
Mind  how  you  grope  your  way,  though  ! 

How  these  tall 
Naked   geraniums   straggle  !     Push   the 

lattice 
Behind  that  frame  !— Nay,  do  I  bid  you  ? 

—Sebald, 
It  shakes  the  dust  down  on  me  !     Why, 

of  course 
The  slide-bolt  catches.      Well,  are   you 

content, 
Or   must   I   find  you  something  else  to 

spoil  ? 
Kiss  and  he  friends,  my  Sebald  !     Is  't 

full  morning  ? 
01),  don't  speak  then  ! 

Seb.  Ay,  thus  it  used  to  be  ! 

Ever  your  house  was,  I  remember,  sluii 
Till    mid-day  ;    I     observed    that,   as   I 

Btrolled 
On   mornings    through    the    vale    here; 

country  girls 
Were   noisy,   washing   garments  in  the 

brook, 
Hinds  drove  the  slow  white  oxen  up  the 

hills  : 
But  no,  3'our   house   was   mule,   would 

ope  no  eye  ! 
And  wisely  :  you  were  plotting  one  thing 

there, 
Nature,  another  outside.     I  looked  up — 
Rougli  white  wood  shutters,  rusty  iron 

bars, 
Silent  as  death,  blind  in  a  flood  of  light. 
Oh,    I    remember  ! — and    the    peasants 

laughed 
And  said,  "  The  old  man  sleeps  with  the 

young  wife." 


This  house  was  his,  this  chair,  this  win- 
dow— his. 
Otti.     Ah,  the  clear  morning  !    I  can 
see  Saint  Mark's ; 
That  black  streak  is  ths  belfry.     Stop  : 

Vicenza 
Should     lie  .  .  .  there's    Padua,     plain 

enough, that  blue  ! 

Look  o'er  my  shoulder,  follow  my  finger  ! 

Seb.  Morning? 

It  seems  to  me  a  night  with  a  sun  added. 

Where's  dew,  where's  freshness?    That 

bruised  plant,  I  bruised 
In  getting  through  the  lattice  yestereve, 
Droops  as  it  did.     See,  here's  my  elbow's 

mark 
I"  the  dust  o'  the  sill. 

Otti.  Oh,  shut  the  lattice,  pray  ! 

Seb.     Let  me  lean  out.     I  cannot  scent 
blood  here. 
Foul  as  the  morn  may  be. 

There,  shut  the  world  out ! 
How  do  you  feel  now,  Ottima  ?    There, 

curse 
The  world  and  all  outside !     Let  us  throw 

off 
This  mask  :  how  do  you  bear  yom-self  ? 

Let's  out 
With  all  of  it! 
Otti.  Best  never  speak  of  it. 

Seb.     Best  speak  again  and  yet  again 
of  it, 
Till  words  cease  to  be  more  than  words. 

"  His  blood," 
For  instance — let  those  two  words  mean, 

'•His  blood" 
And   nothing   more.      Notice,   I  '11    say 
them  now.  "His  blood." 
Otti.  Assuredly  if  I  repented 

The  deed— 

Si  />.     Repent  ?      Who   should   repent, 
or  why? 
What   puts   that  in  your  head?     Did  I 

once  say 
That  I  repented  ? 

Otti.  No  ;  I  said  the  deed  .  .  . 

Seb.     "  The  deed  "  and  "  the  event  "— 
just  now  it  was 
'•Our   passion's  fruit" — the   devil   take 

such  cant! 
Say.  once  and  always,  Luca  was  a  wittol, 
1  am  his  cut-throat,  you  are  .  .  . 

Otti.  Heine's  the  wine  ; 

I    brought  it  when  we  left  the  house 

above, 
And    glasses    too — wine    of   both   sorts. 
Black?     White  then? 
Seb.      But  am   not   I   his  cut-throat? 
What  are  you  ? 


574 


BRITISH    POETS 


Otti.    There   trudges  on  his  business 

from  the  Duouio 
Benet   the   Capuchin,    with    his   brown 

hood 
And  bare  feet ;  always  in  one  place  at 

church. 
Close  under  the  stone  wall  by  the  south 

entry. 
I   used    to   take  him   for  a  brown  cold 

piece 
Of  the  wall's  self,  as  out  of  it  he  rose 
To  let  me  pass — at  first,  I  say,  I  used  : 
Now,  so  has  that  dumb  figure  fastened 

on  me, 
I  rather   should   account  the   plastered 

wall 
A  piece  of  him,  so  chilly  does  it  strike. 
This,  Sebald? 
Seb.     No,  the  white  wine — the  white 

wine  ! 
Well,  Ottima,  I  promised  no  new  year 
Should  rise  on  us  the  ancient  shameful 

way ; 
Nor  does   it  rise.     Pour   on  !     To  your 

black  eyes  ! 
Do  you   remember   last    damned   New 

Year's  day  ? 
Otti.      You     brought     those     foreign 

prints.     We  looked  at  them 
Over   the     wine  and    fruit.      I   had   to 

scheme 
To  get  him  from  the  fire.     Nothing  but 

saying 
His    own     set     wants   the    proof-mark, 

roused  him  up 
To  hunt  them  out. 

Seb.  'Faith,  he  is  not  alive 

To  fondle  you  before  my  face. 

Otti.  Do  you 

Fondle   me  then  !     Who  means  to  take 

your  life 
For  that,  my  Sebald  ? 

Seb.  Hark  you,  Ottima  ! 

One  thing  to  guard  against.     We'll  not 

make  much 
One   of   the    other — that   is,    not   make 

more 
Parade    of    warmth,   childish    officious 

coil, 
Than  yesterday :  as  if,  sweet,  I  supposed 
Proof  upon  proof  were  needed  now,  now 

first, 
To  show  I  love  you — yes,  still  love  you — 

love  you 
In  spite  of  Luca  and  what's  come  to  him 
— Sure   sign   we   had   him  ever   in   our 

thoughts, 
White  sneering  old  reproachful  face  and 

all! 


We  '11  even  quarrel,  love,  at  times,  as  if 
We  still  could  lose  eacli  other,  were  not 

tied 
By  this  :  conceive  you  ? 

Otti.  Love  ! 

Seb.  Not  tied  so  sure  ! 

Because   though   I  was  wrought   upon, 

have  struck 
His  insolence  back  into  him — am  I 
So     surely    yours  ? — therefore     forever 

yours? 
Otti".     Love,  to  be  wise,  (one  counsel 

pays  another,) 
Should  we  have — months  ago,  when  first 

we  loved, 
For  instance  that  May  morning  we  two 

stole 
Under  the  green  ascent  of  sycamores — 
If  we  had  come  upon  a  thing  like  that 
Suddenly  .  .   . 
Seb.     "A  thing" — there    again — "  a 

thing!;' 
Otti.     Then,     Venus'   body,     had    we 

come  upon 
My  husband     Luca     Gaddi's   murdered 

corpse 
Within  there,  at  his  couch-foot,  covered 

close — 
Would  you  have   pored  upon  it  ?    Why 

persist 
In  poring   now  upon  it  ?     For  't  is  here 
As  much  as  there  in  the  deserted  house  : 
You  cannot  rid  your  eyes  of  it.     For  me. 
Now  he   is    dead  I   hate   him   worse  :  I 

hate   .  .  . 
Dare  you    stay   here?     I  would  go  back 

and  hold 
His  two   dead   hands,  and  say,  "  I  hate 

you  worse, 
Luca,  than  "... 
Seb.     Off,   off — take    your  hands   off 

mine, 
T  is  the  hot  evening— off  !  oh,  morning 

is  it? 
Otti.     There's  one  thing  must  be  done  ; 

you  know  what  thing. 
Come  in  and   help   to   carry.     We  may 

sleep  [night. 

Anywhere    in   the  whole  wide  house  to- 

Seb.     What  would  come,  think  you,  if 

we  let  him  lie 
Just  as  he  is  ?     Let  him  lie  there  until 
The  angels  take  him!     He   is  turned  by 

this 
Off  from  his  face  beside,  as  you  will  see. 
Otti.     This  dusty  pane  might  serve  for 

looking-glass. 
Three,  four— four  gray  hairs  !    Is  it  sc 

you  said 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


575 


A  plait  of  hair  should  wave  across  my 

neck  ? 
No — this  way. 

Seb.      Ottima,  I  would  give  your  neck, 
Each     splendid     shoulder,     both    those 

breasts  of  yours, 
That  this  were  undone  !     Killing  !     Kill 

the  world. 
SoLuca  lives  again  ! — ay,  lives  to  sputter 
His   fulsome   dotage   on   you — yes,  and 

feign 
Surprise  that  I  return  at  eve  to  sup, 
When   all  the    morning  I  was   loitering 

here — 
Bid  me  dispatch  my  business  and  begone. 
I  would  .  .  . 
Otti.  See  ! 

Seb.         No,  I'll  finish.     Do  you  think 
I  fear  to  speak  the   bare  truth  once  for 

all? 
All  we  have  talked  of,  is,  at  bottom,  fine 
To  suffer  ;  there's  a  recompense  in  guilt ; 
One  must  be  venturous  and  fortunate  : 
What   is   one   young   for,  else  ?   In   age 

we  '11  sigh 
O'er  the  wild  reckless  wicked  days  flown 

over : 
Still,  we  have  lived  :    the  vice  was  in  its 

place. 
But  to   have   eaten  Luca's  bread,  have 

worn 
His  clothes,  have   felt   his   money  swell 

my  purse — 
Do  lovers  in  romances  sin  that  way  ? 
Why,  I  was  starving  when  I  used  to  call 
And   teach   you    music,  starving  while 

you  plucked  me 
These  flowers  to  smell ! 

Otti.  My  poor  lost  friend  ! 

Seb.  He  gave  me 

Life,  nothing   less  :  what   if  he   did  re- 
proach 
My  perfidy,  and  threaten,  and  do  more — 
Had  he  no  right?     What  was  to  wonder 

at  ? 
He  sal  by  us  a!  table  quietly  : 
Why  musi  you  lean  across  till  our  cheeks 

touched  ? 
Could  he  do  less  than  make  pretence  to 

strike  ? 
Tis  not  the   crime's  sake — I'd   commit 

ten  crimes 
Greater,  to  have    this   crime  wiped  out, 

undone  ! 
And  yon — 0  how    feel   you?     Feel   you 

for  me  ! 
Otti.     Well   then,    I   love  you   better 

now  than  ever,  [you)  — 

And   best  (look  at  me  while  I  speak  to 


Best  for  the  crime  ;  nor  do  I   grieve,  in 
truth, 

This  mask,  this  simulated  ignorance, 

This  affectation  of  simplicity, 

Falls  off  our  crime  ;  this  naked  crime  of 
ours 

May  not   now  be  looked  over :  look  it 
down  ! 

Great  ?  let  it  be   great  ;  but   the  joys  it 
brought. 

Pay  they  or  no  its   price  ?    Come  ;  they 
or  it  ! 

Speak  not !     The   past,  would   you  give 
up  the  past 

Such   as    it   is,  pleasure  and   crime  to- 
gether ? 

Give  up  that  noon  I  owned   my  love  for 
you  ? 

The   garden's  silence  :  even   the  single 
bee 

Persisting  in  his  toil,  suddenly  stopped, 

And  where  he  hid  you  only  could  sur- 
mise 

By  some  campanula  chalice  set  a-swing. 

Who  stammered — ,l  Yes,  I  love  you  ?  " 
Seb.  And'  I  drew 

Back  ;  put  far  back  your  face  with  both 
my  hands 

Lest  you  should   grow   too   full  of  me — 
your  face 

So  seemed  athirst  for  my  whole  soul  and 
body  ! 
Otti.     A  nd  when  I  ventured  to  receive 
you  here. 

Made  you  steal  hither  in  the  mornings — 
Seb.  When 

I  used  to  look  up  'neath  the  shrub-house 
here, 

Till  the  red  fire  on   its    glazed    windows 
spread 

To  a  yellow  haze  ? 

Otti.  Ah — my  si.^n  was,  the  sun 

Inflamed  the  sere  side  of   yon  chestnut- 
tree 

Nipped  by  the  first  frost. 

Seb.  You  would  always  laugh 

At  my  wet  boots :  I  had  to  stride  through 
grass 

Over  my  ankles. 

Otti.  Then  our  crowning  night  ! 

S  b.     The  July  night  ? 

Otti.  The  day  of  it  too,  Sebald  ! 

When  heaven's  pillars  seemed  o'erbowed 

with    Ilea!  , 
Its  black  blue  canopy    suffered    descend 
<  'Ins.;  <.n  ns  both,  to  weigh  down  each  to 

each, 
And  smother  up  all  life  except  our  life. 
So  lay  we  till  the  storm  came. 


57u 


BRITISH    POETS 


S(  b.  How  it  came  ! 

Otti.     Buried   in   woods   we   lay,  you 
recollect  ; 
Swift  ran  t  ho  searching  tempest  over- 
haul ; 
And  ever  and  anon  some  bright  white 

shaft 
Burned  through  the  pine-tree  roof,  here 

burned  and  there, 
As  if  God's  messenger  through  the  close 

wood  screen 
Plunged  and  replunged  his  weapon  at  a 

venture, 
Feeling  for  guilty   thee  and   me  :  then 

broke 
The  thunder  like  a  whole  sea  overhead — 
&  b.     Yes  ! 

Otti. — While  I  stretched  myself  upon 
you,  hands 
To  hands,  my  mouth  to  your  hot  mouth, 

and  shook 
AH  my  locks  loose,  and  covered  you  with 

them — 
You.  Sebald,  the  same  von! 
Seb.  Slower,  Ottima ! 

Otti.     And  ms  we  lay — 
Seb.         Less  vehemently  !     Love  me  ! 
Forgive   me !      Take    not   words,    mere 

words,  to  heart ! 
Your  breath  is  worse  than  wine.  Breathe 

slow,  speak  slow  ! 
Do  not  lean  on  me  ! 

Otti.  Sebald,  as  we  lay, 

Rising  and  falling  only  with  our  pants, 
Who  said,  "  Let  death  come  now  !     '  T  is 

right  to  die  ! 
Right  to  be  punished  !  Naught  completes 

such  bliss 
But  woe  !  "     Who  said  that  ? 

Seb.  How  did  we  ever  rise? 

Was  't  that  we  slept  ?    Why  did  it  end  ? 

Otti.  I  felt  you 

Taper  into  a  point  the  ruffled  ends 

Of   my   loose    locks   'twixt   both   'your 

humid  lips, 
My  hair  is  fallen  now  :  knot  it  again  ! 
Seb.     I  kiss  you  now,    dear  Ottima, 
now  and   now  1 
This   way?     Will  you   forgive   me — be 

once  more 
My  great  queen? 

Otti.     Bind  it  thrice   about  my  brow  ; 
Crown    me    your     queen,    your   spirit's 

arbitress, 
Magnificent  in  sin.     Say  that  ! 

Seb.  I  crown  you 

My  great  white  queen,  my  spirit's  arbi- 
tress, 
Magnificent  .  .  , 


[From    without  is  heard   the  voice  of    Pifpa 
Singing— 

T)ie  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  mom  ; 
Morning's  at  seven ; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled; 
Tlie  lark's  on  the  icing ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn: 
Ood's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world! 

[Pippa  passes. 

Seb.     God's  in  his  heaven  !    Do  you  hear 

that?     Who  spoke? 
YTou,  you  spoke  ! 

Otti.  Oh— that  little  ragged  girl ! 

She   must  have   rested  on   the  step :  we 

give  them 
But  this   one   holiday   the   whole  year 

round 
Did   you   ever  see   our   silk-mills — their 

inside  ? 
There  are  ten   silk-mills  now   belong  to 

you. 
She  stoops   to  pick    my  double  hearts- 
ease .  .  .  Sh  ! 
She  does  not  hear  :  call  you  out  louder  ! 
Seb.  Leave  me  ! 

Go,   get  your  clothes    on — dress  those 

shoulders  ! 
Otti.  Sebald  ? 

Seb.     Wipe  off  that  paint !    I  hate  you. 
Otti.  Miserable! 

Seb.     My  God,  and  she  is  emptied  of  it 

now  ! 
Outright  now  ! — how  miraculously  gone 
All  of   the   grace — had  she   not  strange 

grace  once  ? 
Why,  the  blank  cheek     hartgs     listless 

as  it  likes, 
No   purpose   holds  the   features   up  to- 
gether, 
Only  the  cloven  brow  and  puckered  chin 
Stay  in  their  places :  and  the  very  hair, 
That  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  life  in  it, 
Drops,  a  dead  web  ! 

Otti.  Speak  to  me — not  of  me  ! 

Seb. — That  round  great  full-orbed  face, 

where  not  an  angle 
Broke      the      delicious      indolence — all 

broken  ! 
Otti.     Tome — not  of  me!    Ungrateful, 

perjured  cheat  ! 
A  coward  too  :  but  ingrate's  worse  than 

all! 
Beggar — my  slave — a  fawning,  cringing 

lie! 
Leave  me  !     Betray  me  !     I  can  see  your 

drift! 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


577 


A  lie  that  walks  and  eats  and  drinks  ! 

Seb.  My  God  ! 

Those  morbid  olive   faultless  shoulder- 
blades — 
I  should  have  known  there  was  no  blood 

beneath ! 
Otti.     You  bate  me   then  ?    You  hate 

me  then  ? 
Seb.  To  think 

She  would  succeed  in  her  absurd  attempt, 
And  fascinate  by  sinning,   show  herself 
Superior — guilt  from  its   excess  superior 
To  innocence  !  Tbat  little  peasant's  voice 
Has  righted  all  again.     Though  I  be  lost, 
I  know  which  is  the  better,  never  fear, 
Of  vice  or  virtue,  purity  or  lust, 
Nature  or  trick  !  Isee  what  I  have  done, 
Entirely  now  !     Oh  I  am  proud  to  feel 
Such  torments — let  the  world  take  credit 

thence — 
I,    having   done   my   deed,    pay  too   its 

price  ! 
I  hate,    hate — curse   you  !     God's  in   his 

heaven  ! 
Otti.  —  Me  ! 

Me  !  no,   no,   Sebald,  not  yourself — kill 

me  ! 
Mine  is   the   whole   crime.     Do   but  kill 

me — then 
Yourself — then — presently — first       hear 

me  speak  ! 
I  always   meant   to   kill   myself — wait, 

you! 
Lean   on   my   breast — not   as  a   breast; 

don't  love  me 
The  more  because   you  lean  on  me,  my 

own 
Heart's    Sebald  !      There,     there,     both 

deaths  present  ly  ! 
Seb.     My  brain  is  drowned  now — quite 

drowned  :  all  I  feel 
Is  .  .  .  is,  at  swift-recurring  intervals, 
A  hurry-down  within  me,  as  of  waters 
Loosened  to  smother  up  some   ghastly 

pit  : 
There     they    go — whirls   from   a   black 

fiery  sea  ! 
Otti.     Not    me   — to  him,   O   God,   be 

merciful  ! 

Talk  h)/  the  way,  while  Pippa  is  passing  from  the 
hillside  to  Orcana.  Foreign  Students  of  pain  t- 
itui  and  sculpture,  from  Venice,  assembled 
opposite  the  house  of  Jules,  a  young  French 
statuary,  at  Passagno. 

IStStudent.  Attention!  My  own  post  is 
beneath  this  window,  bul  the  pomegranate 
clump  yonder  will  hide  three  or  four  of  you 
with  a  little  squeezing,  and  Schramm  and 
his  pipe  musl  lie  Hat  in  the  balcony.    Four, 

37 


five —  who's  a  defaulter  ?  We  want  every- 
body, for  Jules  must  not  be  suffered  to 
hurt  his  bride  when  the  jest's  found  out. 

2d  Stud.  All  here!  Only  our  poet's 
away— never  having  much  meant  to  be 
present,  moonstrike  him  !  The  airs  of  that 
fellow,  that  Giovatcchino  !  He  was  in  vio- 
lent love  with  himself,  and  had  a  fair  pros- 
pect of  thriving  in  his  suit,  so  unmolested 
was  it, — when  suddenly  a  woman  falls  in 
love  with  him,  too  ;  and  out  of  pure  jeal- 
ousy he  takes  himself  off  to  Trieste,  im- 
mortal poem  and  all  :  whereto  is  this 
prophetical  epitaph  appended  already,  hs 
Bluphocks  assures  me, — "Here  a  minn- 
moth-poem  lies,  Fouled  to  death  by  but 
Irrtiirs."  His  own  fault,  the  simpleton  ! 
Instead  of  cramp  couplets,  each  like  a  knife 
in  your  entrails,  he  should  write,  says 
Bluphocks,  both  classically  and  intelligibly. 
—JEsculapius,  an  Epic.  Catalogue  of  the 
drugs:  Ihhc's  Plaister — One  strip  <'<><>ix 
your  Up.  Phoebus'  ainilxion—Onc  bottle 
Clears  your  throttle.  Mercury's  bolus — 
One  box  Cures  .  .  . 

3d  Stud.  Subside,  my  fine  fellow  !  If  the 
marriage  was  over  by  ten  o'clock,  Jules  will 
certainly  be  here  in  a  minute  with  his  bride. 

2d  St  ml.  Good  ! — only,  so  should  the 
poet's  muse  have  been  universally  accept- 
able, says  Bluphocks,  et  canibus  nostris 
.  .  .  and  Delia  not  better  known  to  our 
literary  dogs  than  the  boy  Giovacchino  ! 

1st  SPud.  To  the  point,  now.  Where's 
Gottlieb,  the  new-comer?  Oh, — listen, Gott- 
lieb, to  what  lias  called  down  this  piece  of 
friendly  vengeance  on  Jules,  of  which  we 
now  assemble  to  witness  the  winding-up. 
We  are  all  agreed,  all  in  a  tale,  observe, 
when  Jules  shall  burst  out  on  us  in  a  fury 
by  and  by  ;  I  am  spokesman — the  verses 
that  are  to  undeceive  Jules  bear  my  name 
of  Lutwyche — but  each  professes  himself 
alike  insulted  by  this  strutting  stone- 
squarer,  who  came  along  from  Paris  to 
Munich,  and  thence  with  a  crowd  of  us  to 
Venice  and  Possagno  here,  but  proceeds  in 
a  day  or  two  alone  again — oh,  alone  indu- 
bitably !  to  Rome  and  Florence.  He,  for- 
sooth, take  up  his  portion  with  these  disso- 
lute, brutalized,  heartless  bunglers ! — so  he 
was  heard  to  call  us  all.  Now,  is  Schramm 
brutalized,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  Am  I 
heartless  ? 

Gottlieb.  Why,  somewhat  heartless;  for, 
suppose  Jules  a  coxcomb  as  much  as  you 
choose,  still,  for  tins  mere  coxcombry,  you 
will  have  brashed  off— what  do  folks  style 
it?— the  bloom  of  his  life.  It  is  too  late  to 
alter?  These  love-lettei'S,  now,  you  call 
his — I  can't  laugh  at  them. 

4th  Stud.  Because  you  never  read  the 
sham  letters  of  our  inditing  which  drew 
fori  h  these. 

Oott.  His  discovery  of  the  truth  will  be 
frightful. 


57* 


15RITISH    POETS 


4tli  Stud.  That's  the  joke.  But  you 
should  have  joined  us  at  the  beginning: 
there's  no  doubt  he  loves  the  girl— loves  a 
model  he  might  hire  by  the  hour! 

Oott.  See  here!  "lie  lias  been  accus- 
tomed," he  writes,  "to  have  Canova's 
women  about  him,  in  stone,  and  the  world's 
women  beside  him,  in  flesh;  these  being  as 
much  below,  as  those  above,  his  soul's  as- 
pirat  ion:  but  now  he  is  to  have  the  reality." 
There  you  laugh  again!  I  say,  you  wipe  off 
the  very  dew  Of   his  youth. 

1st  Stinl.  Schramm!  (Take  the  pipe  out 
of*  his  mouth,  somebody!)  Will  Jules  lose 
the  bloom  of  his  youth  ? 

ramm.  Nothing  worth  keeping  is 
ever  lost  in  this  world:  look  at  a  blossom — 
it  drops  presently,  having  done  its  service 
and  lasted  its  time;  but  fruits  succeed,  and 
where  would  be  the  blossom's  place  could  it 
continue  ?  As  well  affirm  that  your  eye  is 
no  longer  in  your  body,  because  its  earliest 
favorite,  whatever  it  may  have  first  loved 
to  look  on,  is  dead  and  done  with — as  that 
any  affection  is  lost  to  the  soul  when  its 
first  object,  whatever  happened  first  to  sat- 
isfy it,  is  superseded  in  due  course.  Keep 
but  ever  looking,  whether  with  the  body's 
eye  or  the  mind's,  and  you  will  soon  find 
something  to  look  on  !  Has  a  man  done 
wondering  at  women  ?— there  follow  men, 
dead  and  alive,  to  wonder  at.  Has  he  done 
wondering  at  men  ? — there's  God  to  wonder 
at  :  and  the  faculty  of  wonder  may  be,  at 
the  same  time,  old  and  tired  enough  with 
respect  to  its  first  object,  and  yet  young 
and  fresh  sufficiently,  so  far  as  concerns  its 
novel  one.    Thus  .  .  . 

1st  Stud.  Put  .Schramm's  pipe  into  his 
mouth  again!  There,  you  see  !  Well,  this 
Jules  ...  a  wretched  fribble — oh,  I 
watched  his  disportings  at  Possagno,  the 
other  day  !  Canova's  gallery — you  know; 
There  he  marches  first  resolvedly  past 
great  works  by  the  dozen  without  vouch- 
safing an  eye  :  all  at  once  he  stops  full  at 
the  Psiche-fandulla — cannot  pass  that  old 
acquaintance  without  a  nod  of  encourage- 
ment—" In  your  new  place,  beauty  ?  Then 
behave  yourself  as  well  here  as  at  Munich 
—I  see  you! "  Next  he  posts  himself  delib- 
erately before  the  unfinished Pietd  for  half 
an  hour  without  moving,  till  up  he  starts 
of  a  sudden,  and  thrusts  his  very  nose  into 
—I  say,  into— the  group;  by  which  gesture 
you  are  informed  that  precisely  the  sole 
point  he  had  not  fully  mastered  in  Canova's 
practice  was  a  certain  method  of  using  the 
drill  in  the  articulation  of  the  knee-joint— 
and  that,  likewise,  has  he  mastered  at 
i !  Good-by,  therefore,  to  poor  Canova 
—whose  gallery  no  longer  needs  detain  his 
successor  Jules,  the  predestinated  novel 
thinker  in  marble! 

5th  Stud.  Tell  him  about  the  women:  go 
on  to  the  women  1 


1st  Stud.  Why,  on  that  matter  he  could 
never  be  supercilious  enough.  How  should 
we  be  other  i  he  said)  than  the  poor  devils, 
you  see,  with  those  debasing  habits  we 
cherish  !  He  was  not  to  wallow  in  that 
mire,  at  least;  he  would  wait,  and  love 
only  at  the  proper  time,  and  meanwhile  put 
up  wil  h  i  he  Pslche-fanciulla.  Now,  I  hap 
pened  to  hoar  of  a  young  Greek— real 
Greek  girl  at  Malamocco  :  a  true  Islander, 
do  you  see,  with  Alciphron's  "hair  like  sea- 
moss"— Schramm  knows  !  — white  and 
quiet  as  an  apparition,  and  fourteen  years 
old  at  farthest, — a  daughter  of  Natalia,  so 
she  swears— that  hag  Natalia,  who  helps  us 
to  models  at  three  lire  "an  hour.  We  se- 
lected  tins  girl  for  the  heroine  of  our  jest. 
So,  first,  Jules  received  a  scented  letter- 
somebody  had  seen  his  Tydeus  at  the  Acad- 
emy, and  my  picture  was  nothing  to  it :  a 
profound  admirer  bade  him  persevere — 
\\  i  >uid  make  herself  known  to  him  ere  long. 
(Paolina,  my  little  friend  of  the  Fenice, 
transcribes  divinely.)  And  in  due  time,  the 
mysterious  correspondent  gave  certain 
hints  of  her  peculiar  charms — the  pale 
cheeks,  the  black  hair — whatever,  in  short, 
had  si  ruck  us  in  our  Malamocco  model;  we 
retained  her  name,  too— Phene,  which  is, 
by  interpretation,  sea-eagle.  Now,  think  of 
Jules  finding  himself  distinguished  from 
the  herd  of  us  by  such  a  creature  !  In  his 
very  first  answer  he  proposed  marrying  his 
monitress:  and  fancy  us  over  these  letters, 
two,  three  times  a  day,  to  receive  and  dis- 
patch !  I  concocted  the  main  of  it :  relations 
were  in  the  way — secrecy  must  be  observed 
in  fine,  would  he  wed  her  on  trust,  and  only 
speak  to  her  when  they  were  indissolubly 
united  ?  St — st — Here  they  come  ! 

6th  Stud.  Both  of  them!  Heaven's  love, 
speak  softly,  speak  within  yourselves! 

5th  Stud.  Look  at  the  bridgroom!  Half 
his  hair  in  storm  and  half  in  calm, — patted 
down  over  the  left  temple, — like  a  frothy 
cup  one  blows  on  to  cool  it :  and  the  same 
old  blouse  that  he  murders  the  marble  in. 

2d  Stud.  Not  a  rich  vest  like  yours,  Han- 
nibal Scratchy  ! — rich,  that  your  face  may 
the  better  set'it  off. 

(jth  Stud.  And  the  bride  !  Yes,  sure 
enough,  our  Phene!  Should  you  have 
known  her  in  her  clothes?  How  magnifi- 
cently pale. 

Gott.  She  does  not  also  take  it  for  ear- 
nest, I  hope  ? 

1st  Stud.  Oh,  Natalia's  concern,  that  is. 
We  settle  with  Natalia. 

6t?i  Stud.  She  does  not  speak— has  evi- 
dently let  out  no  word.  The  only  thing  is, 
will  she  equally  remember  the  rest  of  her 
lesson,  and  repeat  correctly  all  those  verses 
which  are  to  break  the  secret  to  Jules  ? 

Oott.   How  he  gazes  on  her!  Pity — pity! 

1st  Stud.  They  go  in;  now,  silence! 
You  three, — not  nearer  the  window,  mind, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


579 


thau   that   pomegranate;   just  where  the 
girl,  who  a  few  minutes  ago  passed  us 
singing,  is  seated. 

II.  NOON 

Over  Orcana.  The  house  of  Jcles,  who  crosses 
its  threshold  with  Phene:  she  is  silent,  on 
which  Jules  begins — 

Do  not  die,  Phene  !     I  am  yours  now, 

you 
Are   mine  now;  -let  fate  reach   me  how 

she  likes, 
If   you'll   not  die:   so,  never   die!     Sit 

here — 
My    work-room's   single   seat.      I   over- 
lean 
This  length  of  hair  and  lustrous  front ; 

they  turn 
Like   an    entire   flower  upward  :    eyes, 

lip>,  last 
Your  cl i in — no,  last  your  throat  turns: 

't  is  their  scent 
Pulls  down   my  face   upon   you.     Nay, 

look  ever 
This  one  way  till  I  change,  grow  you — 

I  could 
Change  into  you,  beloved  ! 

You  l>y  me, 
And  I  by- you;  this  is  your  hand  in  mine, 
And   side    by    side  we   sit :   all  's   true. 

Thank  God  ! 
I  have  spoken  :  speak  you  ! 

O  my  life  to  conic  ! 
My  Tydeus  must  be  carved  that  's  there 

in  clay  : 
Yet  how  be  carved,  with  3-011  about  the 

room  ? 
Where  must  I  place  you?     When  I  think 

i  hat  once 
This    room-full    of     rough    block-work 

seemed  my  hea\  en 
Without  you  !     Shall  I  ever  work  again, 
Get  fairly  into  my  old  ways  again, 
Bid  each  conception  stand  while,  trait 

by  trait. 
My    hand    transfers    its    lineaments   to 

stone  '; 
Will    my  mere    fancies  live   near  you, 

their  truth— 
The   live   truth,    passing  and  repassing 

me, 
Sitting  beside  me? 

Now  speak  ! 

Only  first. 
See,  all  your  letters!     Was  't  not  well 

contrived  ? 
Their  hiding-place  is  Psyche's  robe;  she 

keeps 


Your  letters  next  her  skin  :  which  drops 

out  foremost  ? 
Ah, — this  that  swam  down  like  a  first 

moonbeam 
Into  my  world  ! 

Again  those  eyes  complete 
Their    melancholy   survey,' sweet    and 

slow, 
Of  all   my  room   holds ;  to  return   and 

rest 
On  me,  with  pity,  yet  some  wonder  too : 
As   if   God    bade   some   spirit   plague  a 

world,  '  [prise 

And  this  were  the  one  moment  of  sur- 
And  sorrow  while  she  took  her  station, 

pausing 
O'er  what  she  sees,  finds  good,  and  must 

destroy ! 
What  gaze  you  at?    Those?    Books,  I 

told  you  of ; 
Let  your  first  word  to  me  rejoice  them, 

too : 
This  minion,  a  Coluthus,  writ  in  red, 
Bistre  and  azure  by  Bessarion's  scribe- 
Read  this  line  .  .  .  no,  shame — Homer's 

be  the  Greek 
First  breathed  me  from  the  lips  of  my 

Greek  girl  ! 
This  Odyssey  in  coarse  black  vivid  type 
With  faded  yellow  blossoms  'twixt  page 

ami  page, 
To  mark  great  places  with  due  gratitude  ; 
••  He  said,  and  on  Antinous  directed 
A   bitter  shaft "...  a  flower  blots  out 

the  rest  ! 
Again  upon  your  search?    My  statues. 

then  ! 
— Ah,  do  not  mind  that — better  that  will 

look 
"When  cast  in  bronze — an  Alrnaign  Kai- 
ser, that, 
Swart-green  and  gold,  with  truncheon 

based  on  hip. 
This,  rather,  turn  to  !     What,  unrecog- 
nized ? 
I  thought  you  would  have  seen  that  here 

you  sit 
As  I  imagined  you, — Hippolyta, 
Naked  upon  her  bright  Numidian  horse. 
Recall  you  this  then?    "Carve  in  bold 

relief  " — 
So  you  commanded — "carve,  against  I 

come, 
A  Greek,  in  Athens,  as  our  fashion  was, 
Feasting,  bay-filleted  and  thunder-free, 
Who    rises    'neath    the   lifted    myrtle* 

branch. 
'  Praise   those   who  slew  Hipparchus  i 

cry  the  guests, 


58o 


BRITISH    POETS 


1  While  o'er  thy  head  the  singer's  myrtle 

waves 
As  erst  above  our  champion  :  stand  up, 

all!'" 

See,   I    have    labored    to    express  your 

thought. 
Quite   round,   a   cluster  of  mere  hands 

and  arms 
(Thrust  in  all  senses,  all    ways,  from  all 

sides, 
Only  consenting  at  the  branch's  end 
They  strain  toward)  serves  for  frame' to 

a  sole  face. 
The  Praiser's,   in  the  centre  :  who  with 

e\  es 

Sightless,  so  bend  they  back  to  light  in- 
side 
His  brain  where  visionary  forms  throng 

up, 
Sings,  minding  not  that  palpitating  arch 
Of  hands  and  arms,  nor  the  quick    drip 

of  wine 
From  the  drenched  leaves  overhead,  nor 

crowns  cast  off, 
Violet  and  parsley  crowns   to   trample 

on — 
Sings,  pausing  as  the  patron-ghosts  ap- 
prove, 
Devoutly  their  unconquerable  hymn. 
But  you  must  say  a  "  well  "to  that — say 

"  well  !  " 
Because    you    gaze  —  am    I    fantastic, 

sweet? 
Gaze  like  my  very  life's-stuff,  marble — 

marbly 
Even  to  the  silence  !  Why.  before  I  found 
The  real  flesh  Phene,  I  inured  myself 
To   see,    throughout    all    nature,    varied 

stuff 
For   better   nature's  birth  by  means  of 

art : 
Willi  me,  each   substance  tended  to  one 

form 
Of  beaut}' — to  the  human  archetype. 
On  every  side  occurred  suggestive  germs 
Of  that — the  tree,  the   flower — or   take 

the  fruit, — 
Some  rosy  shape,  continuing  the  peach, 
Curved   beewise  o'er  its  bough  ;  as  rosy 

limbs, 
Depending,  nestled  in  the  leaves;  and 

just 
From  a  cleft  rose- peach  the  whole  Dryad 

sprang. 
But  of  the  stuffs  one  can  be  master  of, 
How  I  divined  their  capabilities  ! 
From  the  soft-rinded  smoothening  facile 

chalk  [brace, 

That  yields  your  outline  to  the  air's  em- 


Half-softened  by  a  halo's  pearly  gloom  ; 
Down  to   the   crisp   imperious  steel,  so 

sure 
To  cut  its  one  confided  thought  clean  out 
Of  all   the    world.  But   marble  ! — neath 

my  tools 
More  pliable  than  jelly — as  it  were 
Some  clear  primordial  creature  dug  from 

depths 
In  the  earth's  heart,  where  itself  breeds 

itself, 
And  whence  all  baser  substance  may  be 

worked  , 
Refine  it  off  to  air,  you  may, — condense 

it 
Down    to  the  diamond  ; — is  not    metal 

there, 
When  o'er  the  sudden  speck  my  chisel 

trips  ? 
— Not  flesh,  as  flake  off  flake  I  scale,  ap- 
proach, 
Lay  bare   those  bluish   veins   of  blood 

asleep  ? 
Lurks   flame    m    no    strange   windings 

where,  surprised 
By  the   swift  implement  sent  home  at 

once, 
Flushes  and  glowings  radiate  and  hover 
About  its  track  ? 

Phene?  what — why  is  this? 
That  whitening  cheek,  those  still  dilat- 
ing eyes ! 
Ah,  you  will  die — I  knew  that  you  would 

die! 

Phene  begins,  on  his  having  long  remained 
silent. 

Phene.     Now  the   end's  coming;  to  be 

sure,  it  must 
Have  ended  sometime  !  Tush,  why  need 

1   speak 
Their  foolish  speech  ?     I  cannot  bring  tc 

mind 
One  half  of  it,  beside  ;  and  do  not  care 
For  old  Natalia  now,  nor  any  of  them. 
Oh,  you — what  are  you? — if  I  do  not  try 
To    say    the   words  Natalia  made    me 

learn,  [self 

To  please  your  friends, — it  is  to  keep  my- 
Where  your  voice   lifted   me,  by  letting 

that 
Proceed  :    but   can  it  ?     Even  you,  per- 
haps. 
<  'a  n  not  take  up,  now  you  have  once  let 

fall. 
The    music's  life,   and   me   along   with 

that— 
No,  or  you  would  ;     We  '11  stay,  then, 

as  we  are  : 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


58i 


Above  the  world. 

You  creature  with  the  eyes  ! 
If  I  could  look  forever  up  to  them, 
As  now  you  let  me, — 1  believe,  all  sin, 
All   memory  of    wrong  done,  suffering 

borne, 
Would  drop  down,  low  and  lower,  to  the 

earth 
Whence  all  that 's  low  comes,  and  there 

touch  and  stay 
— Never  to  overtake  the  rest  of  me. 
All  that,  unspotted,  reaches  up  to  yon. 
Drawn   by   those   eyes!     What    rises  is 

myself, 
Not  me  the  shame   and    suffering  ;  but 

they  sink, 
&.re  left,  I  rise  above   them.     Keep  me 

so, 
ibove  the  world  ! 

But  you  sink,  for  your  eyes 
kre  altering — altered!     Stay — "I    love 

you,  love  '".... 
f  could  prevent  it  if  I  understood  : 
More  of  your  words  to  me  :  was  't  in  the 

tone 
Or  the  words,  your  power  ? 

Or  stay — I  will  repeat 
Their    speech,    if   that    contents    you  ! 

Only  change 
No  moi'e,  and  I  shall  find  it  presently 
Far  back   here,   in    the    brain  yourself 

filled  up. 
Natalia  threatened  me  that  harm  should 

follow 
Unless  I  spoke  their  lesson  to  the  end. 
But  harm  to  me,   I  thought  she  meant, 

not  you. 
Your    friends. — Natalia  said  they  were 

your  friends 
And    meant    you     well,  —  because,    I 

doubted  it, 
Observing    (what   was  very   strange  to 

see) 
On  every  face,  so  different  in  all  else, 
The  same  smile  girls  like  me  are  used  to 

bear, 
Bui  never  men,  men  cannot  stoop  so  low; 
Yet  your  friends,  speaking  of  you,  used 

that  smile, 
That   hateful   smirk   of   boundless  self- 
conceit 
Which  seems  to  take  possession  of  the 

world 
And  make  of  God  a  tame  confederate, 
Purveyor   to    their    appetites you 

know  ! 
But   still  Natalia  said   they    were  your 

friends,  [the  more, 

And  they  assented  though  they    smiled 


And  all  came  round  me, — that  thin  Eng- 
lishman 

With  light  lank  hair  seemed  leader  of 
the  rest ; 

He  held  a  paper — "What  we  want," 
said  he, 

Ending  some  explanation  to  his  friends — 

"  Is  something  slow,  involved  and  mys- 
tical. 

To  hold  Jules  long  in  doubt,  yet  take  his 
taste 

And  lure  him  on  until,  at  innermost 

Where  he  seeks  sweetness'  soul,  he  may 
find— this ! 

— As  in  the  apple's  core,  the  noisome  fly: 

For  insectson  the  rind  are  seen  at  oi  ce, 

And  brushed  aside  as  soon,  but  this  is 
found 

Only  when  on  the  lips  or  loathing 
tongue." 

And  so  he  read  what  I  have  got  by  heart : 

I  '11  speak  it. — "  Do  not  die,  love  !  I  am 
yours  " . . . . 

No — is  not  that,  or  like  that,  part  of 
words 

Yourself  began  by  speaking?  Strange  to 
lose 

What  cost  such  pains  to  learn  !  Is  this 
more  right  ? 

lam  a  painter  n-ho  cannot  paint ; 

In  in)/  hfc.  a  devil  rather  than  .saint; 

In  my  brain,  as  poor  a  creature  too : 

No  end  to  all  I  cannot  do! 

Yet  do  one  thing  at  least  I  can — 

Love  a  man  or  hate  a  man 

Supremely:  thus  my  lore  began. 

TJirough  Da'  Valley  of  Love  I  went, 

In  thelovingest  *i>t>t  to  abide, 

And  just  on  the  verge  where  I  pitched  mg 

tent . 

I found  Hate  dwelling  beside. 

[Let  the  B>"idegroomaskwhat  thepainter 

meant. 
Of  his  Bride,  of  the  peerless  Bride  .') 
And  further,  I  traversed  Hate's  grove. 
In  the  hatefullest  nook  to  dwell ; 
Bui    I",    irln  re    I  flung    myself  prone, 

couched  fja-e 
Where  fh<'  shadow  threefold  fell. 
(The   meaning — those  black-  bride,s-eye» 

above, 
Xal  a  painter's  lip  should  tell .') 

"  And  here,"  said  he,   "Jules  probably 

will  ask, 
•  You  have  black  eves,   Love, — you  are, 

sure  enough,  [deed 

My  peerless  bride, — then  do  you  tell  in« 


<82 


BRITISH   POETS 


What  needs   some  explanation!     What 

means  t  his  ?  '  " 
p— And  I  am  to  go  on,  without  a  word — 

So,  I  grew  wise  in  Love  and  Hate. 
From  simplt  that  1  was  of  late 
Once,  when  Iloved,  1  would  enlace 
Breast,   eyelids,  hands,  feet,  form  and 

face 
Of  her  Iloved,  in  one  embrace— 
.  is  if  hi/  mere  love  I  could  love  immense- 
ly ! 
Once,  when  I  hated,  I  would  plunge 
My  sword,  and  wipe  with  the  first  lunge 
My  foe's  whole  life  out  likea  sponge — 
,  Ls  if  by  mere  hate  I  could  hate  intensely ! 
But   now  I  am  /riser,   know  better  the 

fashion 
How  passion  seeks  aid  from  its  opposite 

jjassion : 
Ami  if  I  see  cause   to  love  more,   hate 

more 
Tlnii)  ever  man  loved,  ever  hated  before — 
And  seek  in  the  Valley  of  Love 
The  nest,  or  the  nook  in  Hate's  Grove 
Where  my  snul  man  surely  reaeh 
The  essence,  naught  less,  of  each, 
The  Hate  of  all  Hates,  the  Love 
Of  all  Laves,  in  the  Valley  or  Grove, — 
I  find  them  the  very  warders 
Each  of  the  other's  borders. 
When  I  love  most.  Love  is  disguised 
In  Hate;  and  when  Hate  is  surprised 
In  Love,  then  I  hate  most :  ask 
Hair   Love   smiles  through  Hate's  iron 

casque. 
Hate  grins  through  Love's  rose-braided 

mask. — 
And  loir,  having  hated  thee, 
T sought  long  ami  painfully 
To  reaeh  thy  heart,  nor  prick 
The  skin  but  pierce  to  the  quick — 
Auk    this,   my  Jules,   and  be  answered 

straight 
By  thy  bride — how  the  painter  Lutivyche 

can  hate  ! 

Jules  interposes. 

Lutwyche !    Who     else  ?    But     all    of 

tliem.  no  doubt. 
Hated  me  :  they  at  Venice — presently 
Their  turn,  however !     You  I  shall  not 

meet : 
If  I  dreamed,  saying   this   would    wake 

me. 

Keep 
What's  here,  the  gold — we  cannot  meet 

again, 


Consider,  and  the  money  was  but  meant 
For  two  years' travel,  which  is  over  now. 
All  chance  or  hope  or  care  or  need  of  it, 
This — and  what  comes  from  selling  these,, 

my  casts 
And   books  and  medals,    except  .  .   .  let 

them  go 
Together,  so  the  produce  keeps  you  safe 
Out  of  Natalia's  clutches  !     If  by  chance 
(For all's  chance  here)  I  should  survive 

the  gang 
At  Venice,  root  out  all  fifteen  of  them, 
We  might  meet  somewhere,   since   the 

world  is  wide. 

From  without  is  heard  the  voice  o/Pippa,  sing- 
ing— 

Give  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me  ! 

When— where — 

How — can  this  arm  establish  her  above 

me, 
If  fortune  fixed  her  as  my  lady  there, 
There  already,  to  <  ternally  reprove  me  f 
("  Hist!"— -said  Kate  the  Queen; 
But  '•  Oh  ! "   cried  the  maiden,  binding 

her  tresses, 
"  'T  is  on  hi  a  page  that  carols  unseen. 
Crumbling  your  hounds  their  messes  I  ") 

7s  she  wronged  ? — To  the  rescue  of  her 

honor, 
My  heart  ! 
ls  she  poor  ? — WJiat  costs  it  to  be  styled 

a  don  or ? 
Merely  an  earth  to  cleave,  a  sea  to  part. 
But   that  fortune   should  have  thrust 

all  this  upon  her  ! 
("Nay,  list !  " — bade  Kate  the.  Queen  ; 
And  still  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her 

tresses, 
"  T  is  only  apage  that  carols  unseen, 
Fitting  your  hawks  their  jrssis .'  ") 


Pippa  jmsses. 


Jules  resumes. 


What  name  was  that  the  little  girl  sang 
forth? 

Kate?  The  Cornaro,  doubtless,  who  re- 
nounced 

The  crown  of  Cyprus  to  be  lady  here 

At  Asolo,  where  still  her  memory  stays. 

And  peasants  sing  how  once  a  certain 
page 

Pined  for  the  grace  of  her  so  far   above 

His  power  of  doing  good  to,  "  Kate  the 
Queen — 

She  never  could  be  wronged,  be  poor," 
he  sighed, 

"  Need  him  to  help  her  1 " 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


583 


Yes.  a  bitter  tiling 

To  see  our  lady  above  all  need  of  us  ; 

Yet  so  we  look  ere  we  will  love  :  not  I, 

But    the    world   looks   so.     If   whoever 
loves 

Must  be.  in  some  sort,    god   or   worship- 
per, 

The  blessing  or  the  blest  one,  queen  or 
page. 

\\  hy  should  we  always  choose  the  page  s 
part  ? 

Here   is   a   woman    with  utter   need   of 
me, — 

I  find  myself  queen  here,  it  seems  ! 

How  strange ! 

Look  at  the  woman  here  with   the   new 
soul. 

Like  my  own  Psyche, — fresh    upon    bel- 
li ps 

Alit.  the  visionary  butterfly. 

Waiting  my    word  to   enter   and   make 
bright. 

Or  flutter  off  and  leave  all  blank  as  first. 

This  body  had  no  soul  before,  hut  slept 

Or  stirred,  was    beauteous    or  ungainly, 
free 

From  taint  or  foul  with  stain,  as  out  ward 
things 

Fastened  their  image  on  its  passiveness  : 

Now  it  will  wake,  feel,  live — or  die  again  ! 

Shall  to  produce   form  out   of-unshaped 
stuff 

Be  Art — and  further,  to  evoke  a  soul 

From  form  be  nothing?  This  new  soul  is 
mine  ! 

Now,  to  kill  Lutwyche.  what  would  that 

do  ? — save 
A   wretched   dauber,  men    will  hoot  to 

death 
Without  me,  from    their   hooting.     Oh, 

to  hear 
God's  voice  plain  as  I  heard  it  first,  be- 
fore 
They  broke  in    with  their   laughter  !     I 

heard  them 
Henceforth,  not  God. 

To   Ancona — Greece — some  isle! 
1  wanted  silence  only  ;  there  is  clay 
Everywhere.     One  may  do  whate'erone 

likes 
In  Art.  :   tin;  only  thing  is,  to  make  snre 
That  one  does  like  it — which  takes  pains 

to  know. 
Scatter  all  this,  my  Phene— this   mad 

dream  ! 
Who,  what  is  Lutwyche.  what  Natalia's 

friends,  [my  own, 

What  the  whole  world  except  our  love— 


<  Iwn  Phene?  But  I  told  you,  did  I  not. 
Ere  night  we  travel  for  your  land — some 

isle 
With  the  sea's  silence  on  it?  Stand  aside- 
I  do  but  break  these  paltry  models  up 
To  begin  Art  afresh.     Meet  Lutwyc  ie 

I—  ['him: 

And  save  him   from  my  statue  meeting 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  the  far  seas  ! 
Like   a   god   going    through    his   world. 

there  stands 
One  mountain  for  a  moment  in  the  dusk. 
Whole    brotherhoods   of    cedars   on    i  is 

brow  : 
And  you  are  ever  by  me  while  I  gaze 
— Are  in  my  arms   as  now — as   now — as 

now  ! 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  the  far  seas  ! 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  far-off  seas  ! 

Talk  by  the  way, while  Pippa  is  passing  from  Or 
tana  to  the  Turret.  Two  or  three  of  tlie  Aus- 
trian Police  loitering  with  Bluphocks,  an 
English  vagabond,  just  in  view  of  the  Turret. 

Bluphocks.  So,  that  is  your  Pippa,  the 
little  girl  who  passed  us  singing  ?  Well, 
your  Bishop's  Intendant's  money  shall  he 
honestly  earned: — now,  don't  make  me 
that  sour  face  because  I  bring  the  Bishop's 
name  into  the  business ;  we  know  lie  can 
have  nothing  to  do  with  such  horrors:  we 
know  that  he  is  a  saint  and  all  that  a  bishop 
should  be,  who  is  a  great  man  beside.  Oh 
were  but  every  worm  a  maggot,  Every  fly 
a  grig,  Every  bough  a  Christinas  fagot, 
tune  a  jig!  In  fact,  I  have  abjured 
all  religions  ;  but  the  last  I  inclined  to  was 
the  Armenian  :  for  I  have  travelled,  do  you 
see,  and  at  Koenigsberg,  Prussia  Improper 
(so  styled  because  there's  a  sort  of  bleak 
hungry  sun  there),  you  might  remark,  over 
a  venerable  house-porch,  a  certain  Chaldee 
inscription  ;  and  brief  as  it  is,  a  mere 
glance  at  it  used  absolutely  to  change  the 
mood  of  every  bearded  passenger.  In  they 
turned,  one  and  all  ;  the  young  and  light- 
some, with  no  irreverent  pause,  the  aged 
and  decrepit,  with  a  sensible  alacrity: 
'twas  the  Grand  Rabbi's  abode,  in  short. 
Struck  with  curiosity.  I  lost  no  time  in 
learning  Syriac — ( these  are  vowels,  you  dogs 
— follow  my  stick's  end  in  the  mud  —  ('<  Inr- 
1  nt.  Darii,  FeHo!)  and  one  morning  pre- 
i  myself,  spelling-book  in  hand,  a,  b, 
0,— I  picked  it  out  letter  by  letter,  and  what 
was  the  purport  of  this  miraculous  posy? 
Some  cherished  legend  of  the  past,  you'll 
■  How  Moses  hocuspocussed  Egypt's 

Li', ill    With    thl    mill   loCUSt,"— OT   "linn-    to 

Jonah  sounded  harshish,  Qet  thee  m>  and 
go  in  Tarshish"— or  "How  the  angel 
'an  1  ting  Balaam,  Straight  hixuxs  r<  turned 
a  salaam."  In  nowise'  » Shackabrach— 
Boach — somebody  or  other— Isaach,  lie- 


584 


BRITISH   POETS 


c<  i-ver,  Pur-chaser  and  Ex-chan-ger  of — 
Stolen  Goods!"  So  talk  to  me  of  the  re- 
ligion of  a  bishop!  1  have  renounced  all 
bishops  save  Bishop  Beveridge  ! — mean  to 
live  so— and  die  .4s  so?ne  Greek  dog-sage 
dead  and  merry,  Hellward  bound  in 
CharoiVs  wherry,  With  food  for  hath 
worlds,  under  and  upper,  t,upine-seedand 
Hecate's  supper,  And  never  an  obolus.  .  . 
itli  >ugh  thanks  to  yon.  or  this  Intendant — 
through  you.  or  this  Bishop  through  his  In- 
tendant— 1  possess  a  burning  pocket-full  of 
zwanzigcrs)  .  .  .To  pay  the  Stygian  Ferry! 
1st  Policeman.  There  is  the  girl,  then  ; 
goand  deserve  them  the  moment  you  have 
pointed  out  to  us  Signor  Luigi  and  his 
mother.  [To  the  rest. J  I  have  been  notio- 
ing  a  house  yonder,  this  long  while:  not  a 
shutter  unclosed  since  morning  ! 

■l<l  I '<>1.  Old  Luca  Gaddi's,  that  owns  the 
silk-mills  here  :  he  dozes  by  the  hour,  wakes 
up,  siu'hs  deeply,  says  lie  'should  like  to  be 
Prince  Metternich,  and  then  dozes  again, 
after  having  bidden  young  Sebald,  the 
foreigner,  sot  his  wife  to  playing  draughts. 
Never  molest  such  a  household,  they  mean 
well. 

Blup.  Only,  cannot  you  tell  me  some- 
thing of  this  little  Pippa,  I  must  have  to  do 
with  ?  One  could  make  something  of  that 
name.  Pippa — that  is,  short  for  Felippa— 
rhyming  to  Panurge  consults  Hertrip- 
pa — Believest  thov  King  Agrippa?  Some- 
thing might  be  done  with  that  name. 

2d  Pal.  Put  into  rhyme  that  your  head 
and  a  ripe  muskmelon  would  not  be  dear 
at  half  a  zwanziger !  Leave  this  fooling, 
and  look  out ;  the  afternoon's  over  or  nearly 
so. 

3d  Pnl.  Where  in  this  passport  of  Signor 
Luigi  does  our  Principal  instruct  you  to 
watch  him  so  narrowly?  There?  What's 
tin-re  beside  a  simple  signature  ?  (That 
English  fool's  busy  watching.) 

2d  Pol.  Flourish  all  round— "  Put  all 
possible  obstacles  in  his  way;"  oblong  dot 
at  the  end — "Detain  him  till  further  advices 
reach  you  ;"  scratch  at  bottom — "  Send  him 
back  on  pretence  of  some  informality  in  the 
above;"  ink-spirt  on  right  hand  side  (which 
is  the  case  here) — "  Arrest  him  at  once." 
Why  and  wherefore,  I  don't  concern  myself, 
but  my  instructions  amount  to  this  :  if 
Signor  Luigi  leaves  home  to-ni2;ht  for 
Vienna — well  and  good,  the  passport  de- 
posed with  us  for  our  visa  is  really  for  his 
own  use,  they  have  misinformed  the  Office, 
and  he  means  well  ;  but  let  him  stay  over 
tonight — there  has  been  the  pretence  we 
iect,  the  accounts  of  his  corresponding 
and  holding  intelligence  with  the  Carbonari 
are  correct,  we  arrest  him  at  once,  to-mor- 
row comes  Venice,  and  presently  Spielberg. 
Bluphocks  makes  the  signal,  sure  enough  ! 
That  is  he.  entering  the  turret  with  his 
mother,  no  doubt. 


III.  EVENING 

Inside  the  Turret  on  the  Hill  above  Asolo.     Luigi 
and  his  Mother  entering. 

Mother.     If   there   blew    wind,   you'd 
hear  a  long  sigh,  easing 
The  utmost  heaviness  of  music's  heart. 

Luigi.     Here  in  the  archway? 

Mother.  Oil  no,  no — in  farther, 

Where  the  echo  is  made,  on  the  ridge. 

Luigi.  Here  surely,  then. 

How  plain  the  tap  of  my  heel  as  I  leaped 


up 


The 


■ry 


Hark — "  Lucius     Junius  !  " 

ghost  of  a  voice 
Whose  body  is  caught  and  kept  by  .  .  . 

what  are  those? 
Mere  withered  wallflowers,  waving  over- 
head ? 
They  seem   an    elvish   group  with  thin 

bleached  hair 
That  lean  out  of  their  topmost  fortress — 

look 
And  listen,  mountain  men,  to  what  we 

say, 
Hand  under  chin  of  eacli  grave  earthy 

face. 
Up  and  show  faces  all  of  you  ! — "  All  of 

you !  " 
That  's  the  king  dwarf  with  the  scarlet 

comb  ;  old  Franz, 
Comedown  and  moot  your  fate?    Hark — 

"  Meet  your  fate  !  " 
Mother.     Let   him   not    meet    it,   my 

Luigi — do  not 
Go  to  his  City  !     Putting  crime  aside, 
Half  of  these  ills  of  Italy  are  feigned  : 
Your  Pellicos  and  writers  for  effect, 
Write  for  effect. 

Luigi.     Hush  !      Say  A  writes,  and  B. 
Mother.     These  A's  and  B's  write  for 

effect.  I  say. 
Then,  evil  is  in   its  nature  loud,  while 

good 
Is  silent  ;  you  hear  each  petty  injury, 
None  of  his  virtues  ;  lie  is  old  beside, 
Quiet   and    kind,    and    densely    stupid. 

Why 
Do  A  and  B  kill  not  him  themselves  ? 

Luigi.  They  teach 

Others  to  kill  him — me — and,  if  I  fail, 
Others  to  succeed  ;  now,  if  A  tried  and 

failed, 
I  could  not  teach  that  :  mine  's  the  lesser 

task. 
Mother,  they  visit  night  by  night  .  .  . 

Mother.  — You,  Luigi  ? 

Ah,  will  you  let  me  tell  you  what  you 

are  ? 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


585 


Luigi.     Why  not  ?    Oh,  the  one  thing 

you  fear  to  hint, 
You  may  assure  yourself  I  say  and  say 
Ever  to  myself  !      At  times — nay,  even 

as  now 
We   sit — I  think    my  "mind   is   touch"d, 

suspect 
All  is  not  sound  :  but    is   not   knowing 

that, 
What  constitutes  one  sane  or  otherwise  ? 
I  know  I  am  thus — so,  all  is  right  again. 
I  laugh  at  myself  as  through  the  town  I 

walk, 
And  see  men  merry  as  if  no  Italy 
Were  suffering  ;  then  I  ponder — ■"  I  am 

rich, 
Young,  healthy  ;    why  should  this  fact 

trouble  me, 
More  than  it  troubles  these?"    Bat  it 

does  trouble. 
No,  trouble  's  a  bad  word  :  for  as  I  walk 
Tin-re's  springing  and  melody  and  giddi- 
ness, 
And   old  quaint  turns  and  passages  of 

my  youth, 
Dreams  long  forgotten,  little   in   them- 
selves, 
Return  to  me — whatever  may  amuse  me  : 
And  earth  seems  in  a  truce  with  me,  and 

heaven 
Accords   with    me,    all   things  suspend 

their  strife. 
The  very  cicala  laughs  "  There  goes  he, 

and  there  ! 
Feast   him.  the  time  is  short;  he  is  on 

his  way 
For  the  world's  sake  :  feast  him  this  once, 

our  friend  !  " 
And  in  return  for  all  this.  I  ran  trip 
Cheerfully  up  the  scaffold-steps.     I  go 
This  evening,  mother  ! 

Mother.  Bui  mistrust  yourself— 

Mistrust   the   judgment   you  pronounce 

on  him  ! 
Luigi.     Oh.  there  I  feel — am  sure  that 

I  am  right  ! 
Mother.    Mistrust  your  judgment  then, 

of  the  mere  means 
To   this   wild   enterprise:   say,  you  are 

right  — 
How  should  one  in  your  state  e'er  bring 

to  pass 
What  would  require  a  cool  head,  a  cool 

heart, 
And  a  calm  hand?    You  never  will  es- 
cape. 
Luigi.     Escape?    To  even  wish  that, 

would  spoil  all. 
The  dying  is  best  part  of  it.     Too  much 


Have   I   enjoyed   these   fifteen  years  of 

mine, 
To  leave  myself  excuse  for  longer  life  : 
Was  not  life  pressed  down,  running  o'er 

with  joy, 
That    I    might    finish   with   it   ere   my 

fellows 
Who,  sparelier  feasted,  make  a  longer 

stay? 
I  was  put  at  the  board-head,  helped  to 

all 
At  first ;  I  rise  up  happy  and  content. 
God  must  be  glad  one  loves  his  world  so 

much. 
I  can  give  news  of  earth  to  all  the  dead 
Who   ask  me: — last  year's  sunsets,  and 

great  stars 
Which  had  a  right  to  come  first  and  see 

ebb 
The   crimson   wave   that  drifts  the  sun 

away — ■ 
Those  crescent  moons  with  notched  and 

burning  rims 
That  strengthened  into  sharp  fire,  and 

there  stood, 
Impatient  of  the  azure — and  that  day 
In  March,  a  double  rainbow  stopped  the 

storm — 
May's  warm  slow  yellow  moonlit  summer 

nights — 
Gone  are  they,  but  I  have  them  in  my 

soul ! 
Mother.     (He  will  not  go  !) 
Luigi.    You  smile  at  me?   'T  is  true, — 
Voluptuousness,  grotesqueness.  ghastli- 

ness, 
Environ  my  devotedness  as  quaintly 
As    round    about    some    antique    altar 

wreathe 
The    rose    festoons,    goats'    horns,    and 

oxen's  skulls. 
Mother.  See  now  :  you  reach  the  city, 

you  must  cross 
His  threshold — how  ? 

Luigi.  Oh,  that's  if  we  conspired  ! 

Then  would   come   pains   in   plenty,    as 

you  guess — 
But  guess  not  how  the  qualities  most  fit 
For  such  an  office,  qualities  I  have, 
Would  little   stead   me,    otherwise   em- 
ployed. 
Yet  prove  of  rarest  merit  only  here. 
Every  one  knows  for  what  his  excellence 
Will  serve,  but  no  oneeverwill  consider 
For  what  his  worst  defect  might  serve  : 

and  yet 
Have  you  not  seen  me  range  our  coppice 

yonder 
In  search  of  a  distorted  ash? — I  find 


586 


BRITISH     POETS 


The  wry  spoilt  branch  a  natural  perfecl 
bow. 

Fancy    the  thrice-sage,    thrice-precau- 

t ioned  man 
Arriving  at  the  palace  on  ray  errand  ! 
No,  no  !  i  have  a  handsome  dress  packed 

up- 
White  satin  here,   to  setoff  my   black 

hair  ; 
In  I  shall   march — for   you   may   watch 

your  life  out 
Behind  thick  walls,    make  friends  there 

to  betray  you  : 
More   than  one   man  spoils   everything. 

March  straight — 
Only,  no  clumsy  knife  to  fumble  for. 
Take   the     great   gate,    and    walk    (not 

saunter)  on 
Through  guards  and   guards — I  have  re- 
hearsed it  all 
Inside  the  turret  here  a  hundred  times. 
Don't  ask  the  way  of  whom  you   meet, 

observe ! 
But  where  they  cluster  thiokliest  is  the 

door 
Of  doors  ;   they'll  let  you  pass — they'll 

never  blab 
Each  to   the   other,    he   knows  not    the 

favorite, 
Whence   he   is   bound     and   what's   his 

business  now. 
Walk  in — straight  up  to  him  ;  you  have 

no  knife  : 
Be  prompt,  how  should  he  scream  ?  Then 

out  with  you  ! 
Italy,  Italy,  my  Italy  ! 
You're  free,  you're   free!     Oh  mother,  I 

could  dream 
They   got  about  me — Andrea   from  his 

exile, 
Pier  from  his   dungeon,   Gualtier   from 

his  grave  ! 
Mother.  Well,  you  shall  go.  Yet  seems 

this  patriotism 
The  easiest  virtue  for  a  selfish  man 
To  acquire  :  he  loves  himself — and  next, 

the  world — 
If  he   must   love  beyond, — but   naught 

between  :  [way 

As  a  short-sighted  man  sees  naught  mid- 
His  body  and  the  sun  above.     But  you 
Are  my  adored  Luigi,  ever  obedient 
To  my  least  wish,  and  running  o'er  with 

love  : 
I  could  not  call  you  cruel  or  unkind. 
Once  more,  your  ground  for  killing  him  ! 

— then  go! 
Luigi.  Now  do   you  try   me,  or   make 

Sport  of  me  ? 


How  first  the  Austrians   got  these  prov- 
inces .  .   . 
(If  that  is  all.  I'll  satisfy  you  soon) 
—  Never  by  conquest  but  by  cunning,  foi 
That  treat)'   whereby  .  *.   . 
Mothi  r. '  Well  ! 

Luigi.  (Sure,  lie's  arrived, 

The  tell-tale  cuckoo  :   spring's  his  confi- 
dant. 
And  he  lets  out  her  April  purposes  !) 
Or  .   .  .  better   go   at   once   to   modern 

time. 
He  has  .  .  .  they  have  .  .  .in  fact,  I  un- 
derstand 
But  can't  restate  the   matter  :  that's  my 

boast  : 
Others  could  reason  it   out  to  you,   and 

prove 
Things  they  have  made  me  feel. 

Mother.  Why  go  to-night? 

Morn's  for  adventure.     Jupiter  is  now 
A   morning-star.     I   cannot     hear   you, 
Luigi  ! 
Luigi.  "  I  am  the  bright  and  morning- 
star,"  saith  God — 
And  "  to  such  an  one  I  give  the  morning- 
star." 
The  gift  of   the   morning-star!    Have   I 

God's  gift 
Of  the  morning-star  ? 

Mot  Iter.  Chiara  will  love  to  see 

That  Jupiter  an  evening-star  next  June. 

Luigi.    True,  mother.     Well  for  those 

who  live  through  June  ! 

Great   noontides,     thunder-storms,     all 

glaring  pomps 
That  triumph  at  the  heels  of  June  the 

god 
Leading  .his   revel    through   our     leafy 

world. 
Yes.  Chiara  will  be  here. 

Mother.  In  June  :  remember. 

Yourself  appointed   that  month  for   her 

coming. 

Luigi.  Was  that  low  noise  the  echo  ? 

Mother.  The  night  wind. 

She  must  be  grown — with  her  blue  eyes 

upturned 
As  if  life  were  one   long  and  sweet   sur- 
prise : 
In  June  she  comes. 

Luigi.  We  were  to  see  together 

The  Titian  at  Treviso.     There,  again  ! 
[From  without  is  heard  the  voice  of  Pippa 
singing — 

A  Icing  lived  long  ago, 

hi  the  morning  of  the  world, 

II  lien  earth  ivas  niglier  heaven  than  noxo  l 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


587 


And  the  king's  locks  curled. 

Disparting  o'er  a  forehead  full 

As  the  milk-white  space   'tivixt  horn  and 

horn  * 
Of  some  sacrificial  bull — 
Only  calm  as  a  babe  new-born: 
For  he  teas  got  to  a  sleepy  mood, 
So  safe  from  all  decrepitude, 
Age  with  its  bane,  so  sure  gone  by, 
( the  gods  so  loved  him  irh  Ue  lie  dreamed) 
That,  having  lived  thus  long,  there  seemed 
Xo  need  the  king  should  ever  die. 

Luigi.  No  need  that  sort  of  king  should 
ever  die ! 

Among  the  rocks  his  city  teas  : 
Before  his  palace,  in  the  sun, 
He  sat  to  see  his  people  pass, 
Ami  judge  them  every  one 
From  its  threshold  of  smooth  stone. 
They  haled  him  maun  a  valley-thief 
(•might  in  the  sheep-pens,  robber-chief 
Swarthy  awl  shameless,  beggar-cheat^ 
Spy-prowler,  or  rough  pirate  found 
On  the  sea-sand  left  aground  ; 
And  sometimes  clung  about  his  feet. 
With  bleeding  lip  and  burning  cheek, 
A  woman,  bitterest  wrong  to  speak 
Of  one  with  sullen  thickset  brows: 
And  sometimes  from  the  prison-house 
The    angry     priests     a    p  Ue    wretch 

brought. 
Wfio  through  some  chink  had  pushed 

ami  pressed 
On  knees  and  elbows,  belly  and  breast, 
Worm-like  into  /In-  temple, —  caught 
He  was  by  the  very  go  I. 
Who  ever  in  the  darkness  strode 
Backward  and  forward,  keeping  watch 
O'er  his  brazen  bowls,    such    rogues   to 

catch! 
These,  all  and  every  our. 
The  king  judged,  sitting  in  the  sun. 

Luigi.     That  king  should  still    judge, 
sitting  in  the  sun  ! 

His  councillors,  on  left  and  right, 
Looked  anxious  up.     but  no  surprise 
Disturbed  the  king's  old  smiling  eyes 
Where    the   very  bine  had  turned   to 

white. 
T  is  said,  a  Python  scared  one  day 
The  breathless  city,  till  he  came. 

With  for!:;/  tongue  and  r;/,s   on   flame, 
When   the  Old  king  sat  to  judge  a  lira  y  ; 

But  when  he  sou-  tlie  sioeepy  hair 
ciet  with  a  crown  ofb  rries  rare 
Which  the  god  will  hardly  giveto  wear 


To    the    maiden    who  singeth,   dancing 

hi  1  re 
In   the    altar-smoke    by    the    pine-torch 

li  glits. 
At  his  wondrous  forest  rites, — 
Seeing  tin's  he  did  not  dare 
Approach,  that  threshold  in  the  sun, 
Assault  the  old  king  smiling  there. 
Such    grace   had   kings   when  the  world 

began  I 

Pippa  passes? 

Luigi.     And   such   grace   have    they, 
now  that  the  world  ends  ! 
The  Python  at  the  city,  on  the   throne. 
And  brave  men,  God  would  crown   for 

slaying  him, 
Lurk   in   by-corners     lest   they  fall   his 

prey. 
Are  crowns  yet  to   be  won   in   this  bite 

time 
Which  weakness  makes  me  hesitate   to 

reach  ? 
'T  is  God's  voice  calls  :  how  could  I  stay  ? 

Farewell  ! 

Talk  by  the.  way,  while  Pippa  is  passing  from  the 
Turret  to  the  Bishop's  Brother's  House,  close. 
to  the  Duomo  S.  Maria.  Poor  Girls  sitting  on 
the  steps. 

1st  Girl.    There    goes    a    swallow  to 
Venice — the  stout  seafarer! 
Seeing  those  birds  fly,   makes  one  wish 

for  wings. 
Let  us  all  wish  ;  you,  wish  first ! 

2d  Girl.  I?     This  sunset 

To  fini-h. 

3d  Girl.      That      old  —  somebody    I 

know. 

Grayer  and  older  than  ray  grandfather, 

To  give  me  the  same  treat  he  gave  last 

week — 
Feeding    me    on     his     knee    with    fig- 

peckers, 
Lampreys  and   red  Breganze-wine,  and 

mumbling 
The  while  some  folly  about  how  well  I 

fai'e, 
Let  sit  and  eat  my  supper  quietly  : 
Since  had  he  not  himself  been  late  this 

morning 
Detained    at — never  mind  where, — had 

lie  not  .  .  . 
"  Eh.  baggage,  had  I  not !  " — 
2d  Girl.  How  she  can  lie  I 

3d  Girl.     Look  there— by  the  nails! 
2d  Girl.     What   makes    your    fingers 

red  ? 
3d  Girl.     Dipping  them    into  wine  to 
write  bad  words  with 


c83 


BRITISH    POETS 


On  the  bright  table:  how  lie  laughed! 

1st  Girl.  My  turn. 

Spring  *s  oome  and  summer  's  coming. 

I  would  wear 
A  Long  loose  gown,  down  to  the  feet  and 

hand--. 
With  plaits  here,  close  about  the  throat, 

all  day  ; 
And  all  night  lie,  the   cool   long   nights 

in  bed  ; 
And  have  new  milk  to  drink,  apples  to 

eat. 

Deuza ns  a nd  junetings, leather-coats  .  .  . 

ah,  1  should  saj  . 
This  is  away  in  the  fields— miles  ! 

3d  Girl.  Say  at  once 

You  'd  be  at  home  :  she  'd  always  be  at 

home  ! 
Now  comes  the  story  of  the  farm  among 
The    cherry    orchards,   and   how   April 

snowed 
White   blossoms  on    her    as    she    ran. 

Why,  fool, 
They  've   rubbed   the   chalk-mark  out, 

how  tall  you  were, 
Twisted   your   starling's    neck,   broken 

his  cage. 
Made  a  dung  hill  of  your  garden  ! 

1st  Girl.  They  destroy 

My  garden   since   I   left   them  ?    well — 

perhaps 
I  would  have   done   so :  so   I  hope  they 

have  ! 
A   fig-tree   curled   out    of    our   cottage 

wall  ; 
They  called  it   mine,  I   have   fox-gotten 

why. 
tt  must  have  been  there  long  ere  I  was 

born : 
Cric—  eric— I  think   I  hear    the   wasps 

o'erhead 
Pricking  the  papers  strung  to  flutter 

there 
And  keep  off  birds  in  fruit-time— coarse 

long  papers, 
And   the   wasps   eat  them,  prick  them 

through  and  through. 
3d  Girl. — How  her   mouth  twitches  ! 

Where  was  I? — before 
She  broke  in   with  her  wishes  and  long 

gowns 
And  wasps — would  I  be  such  a  fool ! — 

Oh,  here  ! 
This  is  my  way  :  I  answer  every  one 
Who  asks  me   why  I  make  so  much  of 

him — 
(If  you   say  "  you  love  him" —  straight 

"  he  '11  not  be  gulled  !  ") 
"  He  that  seduced  me  when  I  was  a  girl 


Thus  high — had  eyes  like  yours,  or  hair 

like  yours. 
Brown,  red,   white," — as   the    case    may 

be  :  that  pleases. 
See  how   that    beetle    burnishes   in    the 

path  ! 
There  sparkles  he  along  the  dust  :  and 

there— 
Your  journey  to  that  maize  tuft  spoiled 

at  least ! 
1st  Girl.     When    I  was  young,   they 

said  if  you  killed  one 
Of  those  sunshiny  beetles,  that  his  friend 
Up  there,  would  shine  no  more  that  day 

nor  next. 
2d  Girl.     When  you  were  young?  nor 

are  you  young,  that  's  true. 
How  your  plump  arms,  that,  were,  have 

dropped  a  way  ! 
Why,   I   can   span   them.     Cecco   beats 

you  still  ? 
No   matter,  so  you   keep   your   curious 

hair.  [hair 

I  wish  they   'd  find  a  way   to  dye  our 
Your  color — ■  any  lighter  tint,  indeed 
Than  black  :   the  men  say  they  are  sick 

of  black, 
Black  eyes,  black  hair  ! 

\th  Girl.      Sick  of  yours,  like  enough. 
Do  you  pretend  you  ever  tasted  lam- 
preys 
And  ortolans?     Giovita,  of  the  palace. 
Engaged  (but  there's  no  trusting  him) 

to  slice  me 
Polenta  with  a  knife  that  had  cut  up 
An  ortolan. 
2d  Girl.     WThy,   there !      Is    not   that 

Pippa 
We  are  to  talk  to,  under  .the  window, — 

quick  !  — 
Where  the  lights  are  ? 

1st  Girl.     That  she?     No,  or  she  would 

sing, 
For  the  Intendant  said  .  .  . 

3d  Girl.  Oh,  you  sing  first  ! 

Then,  if  she  listens  and  comes  close  .  .  . 

I'll  tell  you.— 
Sing  that  song  the  young  English  noble 

made, 
Who  took  you  for  the  purest  of  the  pure. 
And  meant  to  leave  the  world  for  you— 

what  fun  ! 
2d  Girl.     [Sings.] 

You  11  love  me  yet ! — and  I  can  tarry 
Your  love's  protracted  growing'. 

June  reci red  that  bunch  of  flowers  you 
carry. 
From  seeds  of  April's  sowing. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


589 


I  plant  a  heartfiill  now:  some  seed 

At  least  is  sure  to  strike, 
And  yield— what  you  'llnot  pi  nek  indeed, 

Not  love,  but,  may  be,  like. 

Yon  '11  look  at  least  on  love's  remains, 

A  grave's  one  violet :    ■ 
Your  look  f—thatpaysa  thousand  pains. 

What 's  death  ?     You  '11  love  me  yet! 

3d  Girl.  [To  Pippa  who  approaches.] 
Oh,  you  may  come  closer— we  shall  not  eat 
vou  !  Why,  you  seem  the  very  person  that 
the  great  rich  handsome  Englishman  has 

fallen  so  violently  in  love  with.     I  '11  tell 
you  all  about  it. 

IV.   NIGHT 

Inside  the  Palace  by   the  Duomo.    Monsignor, 
dis)iiissing  his  Attendants. 

Monsignor.  Thanks,  friends,  many 
thanks  !  I  chiefly  desire  life  now,  that  I 
may  recompense  every  one  of  you.  Most  I 
know  something  of  already.  W  hat,  a  re- 
past prepared  ?  Benedicto  benedicatur .  .  . 
ugh,  ugh  !  Where  was  I  ?  *  >h,  as  y<  iu  were 
remarking,  Ugo,  the  weather  is  mild,  very 
unlike  winter-weather  :  but  lama  Sicilian, 
vou  know,  and  shiver  in  your  Julys  here. 
To  be  sure,  when  't  was  full  summer  at 
Messina,  as  we  priests  used  to  cross  111  pro- 
cession the  great  square  on  Assumption 
Day,  you  might  see  our  thickest  yellow 
tapers  twist  suddenly  in  two,  each  like  a 
falling  star,  or  sink  down  on  themselves  in 
a  gore  of  wax.  But  go,  my  friends,  but  g<  1  ! 
[To  the  Intendant.]  Not  you,  Ugo  !  [The 
othersleave  the  apartment.]  I  have  long 
wanted  to  converse  with  you,  Ugo. 
Intendant.  Uguccio— 
Mon.  .  .  .  'guccio  Stefam,  man  !  of  As- 
co'li,  Fermoand  Fossombruno  ;— what  I  do 
need  instructing  about,  are  these  accounts 
of  your  administration  of  my  poor  brother's 
affairs.  Ugh  !  I  shall  never  get  through  a 
third  part  of  your  accounts  ;  take  some  of 
these  dainties  before  we  attempt  it,  how- 
ever. Are  vou  bashful  10  that  degree? 
For  me,  a  crusl  and  water  suffice. 

Inten.  Do  you  choose  this  especial  night 
to  question 

Mori.  This  night,  Ugo.  You  have  man- 
a  red  my  late  brother's  affairs  since  the 
death  of  our  elder  brother  :  fourteen  years 
an  1  a,  month,  all  but  three  days,  on  the 
Third  of  December,  I  find  him  .  .  . 

Inten.  If  you  have  so  intimate  an  ac- 
quaintance with  your  brother's  affairs,  you 
will  he  tender  of  t  timing  so  far  back  :  they 
will  hardly  bear  looking  into,  so  far  back. 
Won.  Ay,  ay,  ugh,  ugh,— nothing  bul 
disappointments  here  below!  I  remarked 
a  considerable  payment  made  to  yourself 


on  this  Third  of  December.     Talk  of  disap- 
pointments !    There   was  a  young  fellow 
here,  Jules,  a  foreign  sculptor  I  did  my  u1  - 
most  to  advance,  that  the  Church  might  be 
a  gainer  by  us  both  :  he  was  going  on  hope 
fully  enough,  and  of  a  sudden  he  notifies  to 
me  some  marvellous  change  that  has  hap- 
pened in  his  notions  of  Art.     Here's   his 
letter,— "He  never  had  a  clearly  conceived 
Ideal   within   his  brain   till   to-day.      Yet 
since  his  hand  could  manage  a  chisel,  he  has 
practised  expressing  other  men's   Ideals  : 
and.  in  the  very  perfection  he  has  attained 
to.  he  foresees  an  ultimate  failure  :  his  un- 
conscious hand  will  pursue  its  prescribed 
course  of  old  years,  and  will  reproduce  with 
a  fatal  expertness the  ancient  types,  let  the 
novel  one  appear  never  so  palpably  to  his 
spirit.    There  is  but  one  method  of  escape  : 
confiding  the  virgin  type  to  as  chaste  a 
hand,  he  will  turn  painter  instead  of  sculp- 
tor, and  paint,  not  carve,  its  characteris- 
tics,"— strike  out.  I  dare  say.  a  school  like 
Correggio  :  how  think  you,  Ugo  ? 
Inten.    Is  Correggio  a  painter  ? 
Mori.     Foolish  Jules  !  and  yet.  after  all, 
whv  foolish  ?    He  may— probably  will— fail 
egregiously ;  but   if  there  should  arise  a 
new  painter,  will  it  not  be  in  some  such 
way,  by  a  poet  now,  or  a  musician  (spirits 
who  have  concei\  ed  and  perfected  an  Ideal 
through  some  other  channel  >.  transferring 
it  to  this,  and  escaping  our  conventional 
roads  by  pure  ignorance  of  them  ;  eh,  Ugo  ? 
If  vou  have  no  appetite,  talk  at  least,  Ugo? 
tnten.     Sir,   I  can  submit  no  longer  to 
this  course  of  yours.     First,  you  select  the 
group  of  which  I  formed  one,— next  yon 
thin    it   gradually,— always  retaining   me 
with  vour  smile,— and  so  do  you  proceed 
till  you  have  fairly  got  me  alone  with  you 
between  four  stone  walls.     And  now  then  ? 
Let  this  farce,  this  chatter  end  now  :  what 
is  it  you  want  with  me  ? 
Mon.     Ugo  ! 

Inten.  From  the  instant  you  arrived,  I 
felt  your  smile  on  me  as  you  questioned  me 
about  this  and  the  other  article  in  those 
papers— why  your  brother  should  have 
given  me  this  villa,  that  podt  re,—  and  your 
nod  at  the  end  meant, — what  ? 

Mon.  Possibly  that  I  wished  for  no  loud 
talk  here.  If  once  you  set  me  coughing, 
Ugo!— 

/,,/,  „.  i  have  your  brother's  hand  and 
seal  to  all  I  possess:  now  ask  me  what  for  ! 
what  service  1  did  him— ask  me  ! 

Mnn.  I  would  better  not:  1  should  rip 
up  old  disgraces,  let  out  my  poor  brother's 
weaknesses.  By  the  way,  Maffeo  of  Forli, 
eh,  I  forgol  to  ob  erve,  is  your  true 
name,)  was  the  interdid  ever  taken  off  you 
for  robbing  that  church  at  Cesena  ? 

Tnten.  No,  nor  needs  be  :  for  when  I 
murdered  your  brother's  friend,  Pasquale, 
for  him  .  .  . 


^9° 


BRITISH    POETS 


Mon.  Ah,  he  employed  you  in  that  busi- 
ness, did  he  ?  Well,  I  must  let  you  keep, 
as  you  say,  this  villa  and  that  podere,  for 
fear  the  world  should  find  out  my  relations 
were  of  so  indifferent  a  stamp?  Maffeo, 
my  family  is  the  oldest  in  Messina,  and 
century  after  century  have  my  progenitors 
gone  on  polluting  themselves  with  every 
wickedness  under  heaven  :  my  own  father 
.  .  .  rest  his  soul !— I  have,  I  know,  a  chapel 
to  support  that  it  may  rest  :  my  dear  two 
«lead  brothers  were, — what  you  know  toler- 
ably well  ;  I,  the  youngest,  might  have 
rivalled  them  in  vice,  it*  not  in  wealth:  but 
from  my  boyhood  I  came  out  from  among 
them,  and  so  am  not  partaker  of  their 
plagues.  My  glory  springs  from  another 
source;  or  if  from  this,  by  contrast  only, — 
for  I,  the  bishop,  am  the  brother  of  your 
employers,  Ugo.  I  hope  to  repair  some  of 
their  wrong,  however;  so  far  as  my  brother's 
ill-gotten  treasure  reverts  to  me,  I  can  stop 
the  consequences  of  his  crime:  and  not  one 
sul < In  shall  escape  me.  Maffeo,  the  sword 
we  quiet  men  spurn  away,  you  shrewd 
knaves  pick  up  and  commit  murders  with; 
what  opportunities  the  virtuous  forego, 
the  villanous  seize.  Because,  to  pleasure 
myself  apart  from  other  considerations,  my 
food  would  be  millet-cake,  my  dress  sack- 
cloth, and  my  couch  straw,— am  I  there- 
fore to  let  you,  the  off-scouring  of  the  earth, 
seduce  the  poor  and  ignorant  by  appro- 
priating a  pomp  these  will  be  sure  to  think 
lessens  the  abominations  so  unaccountably 
and  exclusively  associated  with  it?  Must  I 
let  villas  and  poderi  go  to  you,  a  murderer 
and  thief,  that  you  may  beget  by  means  of 
them  other  murderers  and  thieves?  No— 
if  my  cough  would  but  allow  me  to  speak  ! 

Inten.  What  am  I  to  expect  ?  You  are 
going  to  punish  me  ? 

Mon.  Must  punish  you,  Maffeo.  I  can- 
not afford  to  cast  away  a  chance.  I  have 
whole  centuries  of  sin  to  redeem,  and  only 
a  month  or  two  of  life  to  do  it  in.  How 
should  I  dare  to  say  .  .  . 

Inten.     "Forgive  us  our  trespasses"? 

Mon.  My  friend,  it  is  because' I  avow 
myself  a  very  worm,  sinful  beyond  mea- 
sure, that  I  reject  a  line  of  conduct  you 
would  applaud  perhaps.  Shall  I  proceed, 
as  it  were,  a-pardoning  ? — I  ?— who  have  no 
symptom  of  reason  to  assume  that  aught 
less  than  my  strenuousest  efforts  will  keep 
myself  out  of  mortal  sin,  much  less  keep 
others  our..  No  :  I  do  trespass,  but  will  not 
double  that  by  allowing  you  to  trespass. 

Inten.  And  suppose  the  villas  are  not 
your  brother's  to  give,  nor  yours  to  take  ? 
Oh,  you  are  hasty  enough  just  now  ! 

Mon.  1,  2 — No  3  ! — ay,  can  you  read  the 
substance  of  a  letter,  No  3,  I  have  received 
from  Rome  ?  It  is  precisely  on  the  ground 
there  mentioned,  of  the  suspicion  I  have 
that  a  certain  child  of  my  late  eld  it  brother, 


who  would  have  succeeded  to  his  estates, 
was  murdered  in  infancy  by  you,  Maffeo, 
at  the  instigation  of  my  late  younger 
brother — that  the  Pontiff  enjoins  on  me  not 
merely  the  bringing  that  Maffeo  to  condign 
punishment,  but  the  taking  all  pains,  as 
guardian  of  the  infant's  heritage  for  the 
Church,  to  recover  it  parcel  by  parcel,  how- 
soever, whensoever,  and  wheresoever. 
While  you  are  now  gnawing  those  fingers, 
the  police  are  engaged  in  sealing  up  your 
papers,  Maffeo,  and  the  mere  raising  my 
voice  brings  my  people  from  the  next  room 
to  dispose  of  yourself.  But  I  want  you  to 
confess  quietly,  and  save  me  raising  my 
voice.  Why,  man,  do  I  not  know  the  old 
story  ?  The  heir  between  the  succeeding 
heir,  and  this  heir's  ruffianly  instrument, 
and  their  complot's  effect,  and  the  life  of 
fear  and  bribes  and  ominous  smiling  si- 
lence ?  Did  you  throttle  or  stab  my  brother's 
infant  ?    Come  now  ! 

Inten.  So  old  a  story,  and  tell  it  no  bet- 
ter ?  When  did  such  an  instrument  ever 
produce  such  an  effect  ?  Either  the  child 
smiles  in  his  face  ;  or,  most  likely,  he  is  not 
foi  >1  enough  to  put  himself  in  the  employer's 
power  so  thoroughly:  the  child  is  always 
ready  to  produce— as  you  say — howsoever, 
wheresover,  and  whensoever. 

Mon.    Liar  ! 

Inten.  Strike  me  ?  Ah,  so  might  a  father 
chastise  !  I  shall  sleep  soundly  to-night  at 
least,  though  the  gallows  await  me  to-mor- 
row ;  for  what  a  life  did  I  lead  !  Carlo  of 
Cesena  reminds  me  of  his  connivance, 
every  time  I  pay  his  annuity  ;  which  hap- 
pens commonly  thrice  a  year.  If  I  remon- 
strate, he  will  confess  all  to  the  good  bishop 
—you  ! 

Mon.  I  see  through  the  trick,  caitiff  !  I 
would  you  spoke  truth  for  once.  All  shall 
be  sifted,  however — seven  times  sifted. 

Inten.  And  how  my  absurd  riches  en- 
cumbered me  !  I  dared  not  lay  claim  to 
above  half  of  my  possessions.  Let  me  but 
once  unbosom  myself,  glorify  Heaven,  and 
die  ! 

Sir,  you  are  no  brutal  dastardly  idiot  like 
your  brother  I  frightened  to  death  :  let  us 
understand  one  another.  Sir,  I  will  make 
away  with  her  for  you— the  girl — here  close 
at  hand  ;  not  the  stupid  obvious  kind  of 
killing  ;  do  not  speak— know  nothing  of  her 
nor  of  me  !  I  see  her  every  day— saw  her 
this  morning  :  of  course  there  is  to  be  no 
killing  ;  but  at  Rome  the  courtesans  perish 
off  every  three  years,  and  I  can  entice  her 
thither — have  indeed  begun  operations  al- 
ready. There  is  a  certain  lusty  blue-eyed 
florid-complexioned  English  knave,  I  and 
i  lie  Police  employ  occasionally.  You  as- 
sent, I  perceive— no,  that's  not  it — assent 
I  do  not  say — but  you  will  let  me  convert 
my  present  havings  and  holdings  into  cash, 
and  give  me  time  to  cross  the  Alps  ?    'T  is 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


59* 


but  a  little  black-eyed  pretty  singing  Fe- 
lippa,  gay  silk-winding  girl.  I  have  kept 
ker  out  of  harm's  way  up  to  this  present  : 
for  I  always  intended  to  make  your  life  a 
plague  to  you  with  her.  T  is  as  well  settled 
once  and  forever.  Some  women  I  have 
procured  will  pass  Bluphocks.  my  hand- 
some scoundrel,  off  for  somebody ;  and 
once  Pippa  entangled  ! — you  conceive  ? 
Through  her  singing  ?    Is  it  a  bargain  ? 

[From  without    is    heard  the    voice    of  Pippa 
singing- 
Overhead  the  tree-tops  meet, 
Flowers  and  grass  spring  'neath  one's 

feet ; 
Tliere  axis  naught  above  me,  naught 

below. 
My  childhood  had  not  learned  to  know : 
For,  what  are  the  voices  of  birds 
— Ah,  and  of  beasts,  but   words,  our 

words. 
Only  so  much  more  sure!  ? 
The  knowledge  of  that  with  my  life  be- 
gun. 
But  I  had  so  near  made  out  the  sun. 
And  counted  your  stars,  the  seven  euiel 

one. 
Like  the  fingers  of  my  hand  : 
Nay,  I  could,  all  but  understand 
IMierefore  through  heeiven  the  white 

moon  ranges; 
And  just  when  out  of  her  soft  fifty 

changes 
No   unfamiliar  face   might  overdook 

me — 
Sudelenly  God  took  me. 

[Pippa  passes. 

Mem.  [Springing  up.]  My  people— one 
and  all— within  there  '.  Gay  this  villain— 
tie  him  hand  and  foot  !  He  dares  ...  I 
know  not  half  he  dares — but  remove  him— 
quick!  Miserere  met,  Domine  I  Quick, 
I  say  ! 

Pippa's  Cliamber  again.    She  enters  it. 

The  bee  with  his  comb, 

The  mouse  at  her  dray, 

The  grub  in  his  tomb, 

While  winter  away  : 

But   the   fire-fly   and   hedge-shrew  and 

lob-worm.  I  pray, 
How  fare  they? 
Ha,   ha,  thanks  for  your  counsel,  my 

Zanze  ! 
"  Feast    upon    lampreys,     quaff     Bre- 

ganze" — 
The  summer  of  life  so  easy  to  spend, 
And   care   for   to-morrow  so  soon   put 

away! 


But  winter  hastens  at  summer's  end, 
And    fire-fly,    hedge-shrew,     lob-worm, 

I  pray. 
How  fare  they  ? 
No  bidding  me  then  to  .  .  .  what  did 

Zanze  say  ? 
•"Pare   your   nails   pearlwise,  get   your 

small  feet  shoes 
More  like"  .  .  .   (what  said  she?) — "and 

less  like  canoes  !  " 
How    pert  that  girl  was ! — would  I    be 

those  pert 
Impudent  staring  women  !     It  had  done 

me, 
However,  surely  no  such  mighty  hurt 
To  learn  his  name  who  passed   that  jest 

upon  me : 
No  foreigner,  that  I  can  recollect, 
Came,  as  she  says,  a  month  since,  to  in- 
spect 
Our  silk-mills — none  with  blue  eyes  and 

thick  rings 
Of  raw-silk-colored   hair,  at  all  events. 
Well,  if  old  Luca  keep  his  good  intents, 
We  shall  do  better,  see  what  next  year 

brings  ! 
I  may  buy  shoes,  my  Zanze,  not  appear 
More   destitute  than  you  perhaps  next 

year  ! 
Bluph  .  .  .  something  !     I   had  caught 

the  uncouth  name 
But    for    Monsiguor"s    people's    sudden 

clatter 
Above    us — bound    to    spoil    such    idle 

chatter 
As  ours  :  it  were  indeed  a  serious  matter 
If  silly  talk  like  ours  should  put  to  shame 
The  pious  man.  the  man  devoid  of  blame, 
The  .  .  .  ah  but — ah  but.  all  the  same, 
No  mere  mortal  has  a  right 
To  carry  that  exalted  air  ; 
Best  people  are  not  angels  quite: 
While — not  the  worst  of  people's   doings 

scare  [spare  I 

The  devil  ;  so  there's  that  proud  look   to 

Which    is   mere   counsel    to    myself, 

mind  !  for 
I  have  just  been  the  holy  Monsignor  : 
And    I    was    you,    too,    Luigi's    gentle 

mother, 
And  you  too,  Luigi ! — how   that  Luigi 

started 
Out  of  the  turret — doubtlessly  departed 
On  some  good  errand  or  another. 
For  lie  passed  just  now   in   a   traveller's 

trim. 
And  the  sullen  company  that  prowled 
About  his  path.  I  noticed,  scowled 
As  if  they  had  lost  a  prey  in  him, 


59; 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  1  was  Jules  the  sculptor's  bride 

And  I  whs  Ultima  beside, 

Ami  now  what  am  1  ? — tired    of  fooling. 

Day  for  folly,  nighl  for  schooling ! 

New  year's  day  is  over  and  spent, 

111  or  well,  I  must  be  content. 

Kvmi  my  lily's  asleep.  1  vow: 
"Wake  up — here's  a  friend   I've   plucked 

you! 
Call  this  flower  a  heart's-ease  now  ! 
Something  rare,  let  me  instruct  you, 
Is  this,  with  petals  triply  swollen. 
Three  times  spotted,  thrice  the  pollen  ; 
While  the  leaves  and  parts  that  witness 
Old  proportions  ami  their  fitness. 
Here  remain  unchanged,  unmoved  now  ; 
Call  this  pampered  thing  improved  now  ! 
Suppose  there's  a  king  of  the  flowers 
Ami  a  girl-show  held  in  his  bowers — 
"  Look  ye,  buds,  tins  growth  of  ours," 
Says  he,  "  Zanze  from  the  Brenta, 
I  have  made  her  gorge  polenta 
Till  both  cheeks  are  near  as  bouncing 
As  her  .  .  .  name  there's  no  pronounc- 
ing !  _ 
See  this  heightened  color  too, 
For  she  swilled  Breganze  wine 
Till  her  nose  turned  deep  carmine  ;' 
'T  was  hut  white  when  wild  she  grew. 
And  only  by  this  Zanze 's  eyes 
Of  which  we  could  not  change  the  size, 
The  magnitude  of  all  achieved 
Otherwise,  may  be  perceived." 

Oh  what  a  drear  dark  close  to   my  poor 
day ! 

How  could  that  red  sun   drop  in  that 
black  cloud  ? 

AhPippa,  morning's  rule  is  moved  away, 

Dispensed    with.,  inever  more  to  be   al- 
lowed ! 

Day's    turn    is   over,   now    arrives    the 
night's. 

Oh  lark,  be  day's  apostle 

To  mavis,  merle  and  throstle, 

Bid  them  their  betters  jostle 

From  day  and  its  delights  ! 

But  at   night,   brother   owlet,  over  the 
woods, 

Toll  the  worid  to  thy  chantry  ; 

Sing  to  the  bats'  sleek  sisterhoods 

Full  complines  with  gallantry  : 

Then,  owls  and  bats, 

Cowls  and  twats, 

Monks  and  nuns,  in  a  cloister's  moods, 

Adjourn  to  t  he  oak-stump  pantry  ! 

[After  she  has  begun  1"  n  idress  herself. 

Now,   one  thing  I  should  like   to  really 
know : 


How   near   I   ever   might   approach   all 

these 
I  only  fancied  being,  this  long  day  : 
— Approach,  I  mean,  so  as  to  touch  them 

so 
As  to  .  .  .  in  some  way  .  .  .  move  them — 

if  you  please. 
Do  good  or  evil  to  them  some  slight  way. 
For  instance,  if  I  wind 
Silk  to  morrow,  my  silk  may  bind 

[Sitting  on  the  bedside. 
And  border  Ottima's  cloak's  hem. 
Ah   me,  and    my  important   part  with 

them. 
This    morning's    hymn     half    promised 

when  I  rose  ! 
True  in  some  sense  or  other,  I  suppose. 

[.4s  she  lies  down. 

God  bless  me  !  I  can  pray  no  more  to- 
night. 

No  doubt,  some  way  or  other,  hymns  say 
right. 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God — 
With  God,  tt'hose puppets,  best  and  worst, 
Are  we  ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

[She  sleeps. 

1841. 
CAVALIER  TUNES 

I.    MARCHING   ALONG 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding    the    crop-headed    Parliament 

swing  : 
And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest 

folk  droop. 
Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Greatdiearted  gentlemen,   singing  this 

song. 

God  for  King  Charles !    Pym  and  such 

carles 
To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em    their 

treasonous  paries ! 
Cavaliers,  up  !     Lips  from  the  cup, 
Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor 

sup 
Till  you  're— 
Chorus. — Marching  along,   fifty-score 
strong, 
Greatdiearted      gentlemen, 
singing  this  song. 

Hampden    to  hell,   and   his    obsequies' 

knell. 
Serve    Hazelrig,    Fiennes,    and    young 

Harry  as  well  I 


ROBERT    BROWN  I  AG 


593 


England,  good  cheer  !     Rupert  is  near  ! 
Kentish  ami  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here. 
Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score 
strong. 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  sing- 
ing tins  song? 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles  !     Pym  and 

his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent 

carles  ! 
Hold    by    the   right,    you   double    your 

might  ; 
So,   onward   to   Nottingham,    fresh  for 
the  fight. 
Chorus. — March  we  along,  fifty-score 
strong. 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  sing- 
ing this  song  ! 

II.   GIVE  A  ROUSE 

King  Charles,  and  who  '11  do  him  right 

now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who  's  ripe  for  fight 

now  '; 
Give   a  rouse  :  here  's,  in  hell's  despite 

now. 
King  Charles  ! 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since  ? 

Who  raised  inethe  house  that  sank  once  ? 

Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 

Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 

CHORUS. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do 

him  right  now  ? 

King   Charles,  and  who  's  ripe 

for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here  's,    in  hell's 

despite  now, 
King  Charles  ! 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  sMe  that  begot  him? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him? 
Chorus. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do 
him  right  now  ? 
King   Charles,  and  who  's  ripe 

for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here  's,  in  hell's 

despite  now, 
King  Charles  ! 

III.  BOOT   AND  SADDLE 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse  and  away  1 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hoi  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray. 
Chorus.— Boot,  saddle,  to   horse  and 
away  I 
38 


Ride  past  the   suburbs,  asleep   as  you'd 

say  ; 
Man}-  's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and 

pray 
"God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up 
the  lay— 
Chorus. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and 
away  !  " 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 
Flouts   Castle   Brancepeth   the    Round 

heads'  array  : 
Who  laughs,  "  Good  fellows  ere  this,  by 
my  fay. 
CHORUS.— Boot,  saddle,  to   horse,  and 
away ! " 

Who?    My  wife  Gertrude  ;  that,  honest 

and  gay, 
Laughs  when   you  talk  of  surrendering, 

"  Nay  ! 
I*ve   better   counsellors;    what   counsel 
they  ? 
Cho.— Boot,     saddle,    to    horse,  and 
away  !  "  1842. 

THROUGH  THE  METIDJA  TO   ABD- 
EL-KADR 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

With  a  full  heart  for  my  guide, 

So  its  tide  rocks  m}r  side, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

That,  as  I  were  double-eyed. 

He,  in  whom  our  Tribes  confide, 

Is  descried,  ways  untried, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride 

To  our  Chief  and  his  Allied, 

Who  dares  chide  my  heart's  pride 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ? 

Or  are  witnesses  denied — 

Through  the  desert  waste  and  wide 

Do  I  glide  unespied 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride? 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

When  an  inner  voice  has  cried, 

The  sands  slide,  nor  abide 

(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 

O'er  each  visioned  homicide 

That  came  vaunting  (has  he  lied?) 

To  reside — where  he  died, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Ne'er  has  spur  my  swift  horse  plied, 

Yet  his  hide,  streaked  and  pied, 


594 


BRITISH   POETS 


As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Shows  where  sweal  has  sprung  and  dried, 

— Zebra-footed,  ostrieh-thighed — 
How  lias  vied  stride  with  stride 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ! 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

Could  I  loose  what  Fate  has  tied, 

Ere  I  pried,  she  should  hide 

(As  I  ride,  as  1  ride) 

All  that's  meant  me — satisfied 

When  the  Prophet  and  the  Bride 

Stop  veins  I'd  have  subside 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride !  1842. 

CRISTINA 

:.HE  should  never  have  looked  at  me 

If  she  meant  I  should  not  love  her  ! 
There  are  plenty  .  .  .  men  you  call  such, 

I  suppose  .  .  .  she  may  discover 
All  her  soul  to,  if  she  pleases, 

And  yet    leave    much  as  she  found 
them  : 
But  I'm  not  so,  and  she  knew  it 

When   she   fixed  me,  glancing  round 
them. 

What?    To  fix  me  thus  meant  nothing? 

But  I  can't  tell"(there  's  my  weakness) 
What  her  look  said  ! — no  vile  cant,  sure, 

About  "  need  to  strew  the  bleakness 
Of  some  lone  shore  with  its  pearl-seed, 

That    the    sea    feels" — no  "strange 
yearning 
That  such  souls  have,  most  to  lavish 

Where  there's  chance  of  least  return- 


Oh,  we're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows! 

But  not  quite  so  sunk  that  moments, 
Sure  though  seldom,  are  denied  us, 

When  the  spirit's  true  endowments 
Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones, 

And  apprise  it  if  pursuing 
Or  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way, 

To  its  triumph  or  undoing. 

There  are  flashes  struck  from  midnights, 

There  are  fire-flames  noondays  kindle, 
Whereby  piled  up  honors  perish, 

Whereby  swoilen  ambitions  dwindle, 
While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse, 

Which  for  once  had  play  unstifled, 
Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  lifetime, 

That  away  the  rest  have  trifled. 

Doubt  you  if,  in  some  such  moment, 

As  she  fixed  me,  she  felt  clearly, 
Ages  past  the  soul  existed, 


Here  an  age  't  is  resting  merely, 
And  hence  fleets  again  for  ages, 

While  the  true  end,  sole  and  single, 
It  stops  here  for  is,  tins  love-way, 

With  some  other  soul  to  mingle? 

Else  it  loses  what  it  lived  for, 

And  eternally  must  lose  it ; 
Better  ends  may  be  in  prospect, 

Deeper  blisses  (if  you  choose  it). 
But  this  life's  end  and  this  love-bliss 

Have    been     lost    here.      Doubt    you 
whether 
This  she  felt  as,  looking  at  me, 

Mine  and  her  souls  rushed  together? 

Oh,  observe  !    Of  course,  next  moment, 

The  world's  honors  in  derision, 
Trampled  out  the  light  forever  : 

Never  fear  but  there's  provision 
Of  the  devil's  to  quench  knowledge 

Lest  we  walk  the  earth  in  rapture ! 
— Making  those  who  catch  God's  secret 

Just  so  much  more  prize  their  capture  ! 

Such  am  I :  the  secret 's  mine  now  ! 

She  has  lost  me,  I  have  gained  her  ; 
Her  soul's  mine  :  and  thus,  grown  per- 
fect, 

I  shall  pass  my  life's  remainder, 
Life  will  just  hold  out  the  proving 

Both  our  powers,  alone  and  blended  : 
And  then  come  the  next  life  quickly  ! 

This  world's  use  will  have  been  ended. 

1842. 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 

You  know,   we  French  stormed  Ratis- 
bon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall. 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," — ■ 
Out    'twixt    the    battery-smokes    there 
flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping  ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 
And  held  himself  erect 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


595 


By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  : 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,    by  God's 
grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal  's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  !  "  The  chief's  eye  flashed  ; 
his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  ; 
"You're  wounded!"     "  Nay,"  the  sol- 
dier's pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
"  I  'm  killed,  Sire  !  "     And  his  chief  be- 
side, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead."  1842. 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the 

wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,   now:    Fra  Pan- 

dolf's  hands 
Worked    busily   a   day,  and    there  she 

stands. 
Will 't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  ?  I 

said 
"Fra    Pandolf"    by   design,  for  never 

read 
Strangers   like  you  that  pictured  coun- 
tenance. 
The    depth  and    passion    of  its  earnest 

glance, 
But  to  myself  they   turned   (since  none 

puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And   seemed  as  they   would  ask  me,   if 

they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there  ;  so,  not 

the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't 

was  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that 

spot 


Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek  :  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "  Her  man- 
tle laps 
Over   my  lady's    wrist    too    much,"    or 

•"  Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along   her  throat :  " 

such  stuff 
Was  courtesy,   she  thought,  and  cause 

enough 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.  She  had 
A    heart — -how  shall    I  say  ? — too   soon 

made  glad. 
Too  easily  impressed  :  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  every- 
where. 
Sir,   't  was  all  one !    My   favor  at  her 

breast, 
The    dropping   of    the    daylight  in  the 

West, 
The    bough  of  cherries  some   officious 

fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white 

mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and 

each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approv- 
ing speech, 
Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — 

good  !  but  thanked 
Somehow — I  know  not  how — as   if  she 

ranked 
My    gift    of    a     nine-hundi-ed-years-old 

n  arae 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who  'd  stoop  to 

blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?    Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech — (whicli  I  have  not) — to  make 

your  will 
Quite  clear   to  such  an  one,  and  say, 

"  Just  this 
Or  that  in   you  disgusts  me ;   here  you 

miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark  " — and  if  she 

let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so.  nor  plainly  set 
Her  wits  to  yours,   forsooth,  and  made 

excuse, 
— E'en    then  would  be   some  stooping  ; 

and  I  cl loose 
Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no 

doubt, 
Whene'er  1  passed  her  ;  but  who  passed 

without 
Much    the   same  smile?    This  grew  ;  I 

gave  commands  ; 
Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.  There 

she  stands  ['11  meet 

As  if  alive     Will  't  please  you  rise?  We 


5V° 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  company  below,  then.    I  repeat, 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munifi- 
cence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 
Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed  ; 
rhough   ins    fair    daughter's  self,  as  I 

avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.    Nay.  we '11  go 
Together  down,  sir.      Notice    Neptune, 

though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity. 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze 
for  me  !  1842. 

IN  A  GONDOLA 
He  sings 

I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart 

In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears 
part ; 
The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer   to   Venice'  streets  to   leave  one 
space 
Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its 
dwelling  place. 

She  speaks 

Say  after  me.  and  try  to  say 
My  very  words,  as  if  each  word 
Came  from  you  of  your  own  accord, 
In  your  own  voice,  in  your  own  way  : 
"  This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 
Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 
She  bids  me  wear;  which"  (say  again) 
"  I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 
A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 
Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 
And  yet   once   more   say  ...  no  word 

more ! 
Since  words  are  only  words.     Give  o'er  ! 

Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same, 

Familiarly  by  my  pet  name, 

Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  you  call, 

And  me  reply  to,  would  proclaim 

At  once  our  secret  to  them  all. 

Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame, — 

Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 

T  wixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 

Curtained  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds  ! 

What's  left  but — all  of  me  to  take? 

I  am  the  Three's:  prevent  them,  slake 

Your  thirst !    T  is  said,  the  Arab  sage, 

In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 

x'heir  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce 

And  leave  but  ashes  :  so,  sweet  mage. 


Leave  them  my  ashes  when  thy  use 
Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage! 

He  sings 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

What's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast? 

Gray  Zanobi  's  just  a-wooing 
To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride: 

Past  we  glide  ! 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

Why's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast  ? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  cne  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried  : 

Past  we  glide ! 

She  sings 

The  moth's  kiss,  first ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up  ;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now  ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

He  sings 

What  are  we  two  ? 

I  am  a  Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther    than   friends 

can  pursue. 
To  a  feast  of  our  tribe  ; 
Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 
The  devil  "that   blasts   them  unless   he 

imbibe 
Thy  .  .  .  Scatter    the    vision    forever  ! 

And  now. 
As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  ! 

Say  again,  what  we  are? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

I  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies  bar 

My  plumes  their  full  play 

Till  a  ruddier  ray 

Than   my  pale  one  announce  there  is 

withering  away 
Some  .  .  .  Scatter    the    vision   forever ! 

And  now, 
As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  ! 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


537 


He  muses 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest? 
The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast? 
To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves, 
Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows  just 
Eluding  water-lily  leaves. 
An    inch   from   Death's  black    ringers, 

thrust 
To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must  ; 
Which  life  were  best  on  Summer  eves? 

He  sjieaks,  musing 

Lie  back  ;  could   thought  of  mine   im- 
prove you  ? 
From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 
A  wing;  from  this,  another  wing  ; 
Wings,  not   legs   and   feet,  shall   move 

you  ! 
Snow  white  must  they  spring,  to  blend 
With  your  flesh,  but  t  intend 
They  shall  deepen  to  the  end, 
Broader,  into  burning  gold, 
Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold 
Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 
To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo.  they  meet 
As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 
Defiance  from  you  to  the  world  ! 

Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real  ! 
And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart ! 
Thanks  !     Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art  ! 

Still  he  7nuses 

What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at  last 
Thy  serenader?     While  there  's  cast 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 
Gian  pinions  me.  Himself  has  past 
His  stylet  through  my  back  ;  I  reel ; 
And  ...  is  it  thou  1  feel? 

They  trail  me,  these  three  godless  knaves, 
Past  every  church  that  saints  and  saves, 
Nor  stop  till,  where  the  cold  sea  raves 
By  Lido's  wet  accursed  graves. 
They  scoop  mine,  roll  me  to  its  brink, 
And  ...  on  thy  breast  I  sink  ! 

She  replies,  musing. 

Dip  your  arm  o'er  the  boat-side,  elbow- 
deep. 

As  I  do  :  thus  :  were  death  so  unlike 
sleep, 

Caught  this  way  ?  Death  's  to  fear  from 
flame  or  steel, 

Or  poison  doubtless  ;  but  from  water — 
feel  ! 


Go  find  the  bottom!     Would  you  stay 
me?    Therel  [grass 

Now  pluck  a  gri  al  blade  of  that  ribbon- 
To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel  was, 
I    flung  away  :  since   you   have  praised 

my  hair, 
'T  is  proper  to  be  choice  in  what  I  wear. 

lie  speaks 

Row  home?  must  we  row  home?     Too 

surely 
Know  I  where  its  front  's  demurely 
Over  the  Giudecca  piled  ; 
Window  just  with  window  mating, 
Door  on  door  exactly  waiting, 
All  's  the  set  face  of  a  child  : 
But  behind  it,  where  's  a  trace 
Of  the  staidness  and  reserve, 
And  formal  lines  without  a  curve, 
In  the  same  child's  playing-face? 
No  two  windows  look  one  way 
O'er  the  small  sea-water  thread 
Below  them.     Ah,  the  autumn  day 
I.  passing,  saw  you  overhead  ! 
First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew, 
Then  a  sweet  cry.  and  last  came  you  - 
To  catch  your  lory  that  must  needs 
Escape  jiist  then,  of  all  times  then, 
To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds, 
And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 
I  scarce  could  breathe  to  see  you  reach 
So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony 
To  catch  him  ere  he  climbed  too  high 
A  hove  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach, 
That  quick   the  round  smooth   cord  of 

gold, 
This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  unrolled, 
Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 
The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old, 
When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness' sake 
To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 
Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain 
Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain 
As  if  the  wounded  lotus-blossoms 
Had  marked  their  thief  to  know  again  ! 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 
Than  mine  I    What  should  your  cham- 
ber do  ? 
— With  all  its  rarities  that  ache 
in  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 
At  night-time  and  'their  life-renew  , 
Suspended  just  to  pleasure  \  ou 
Who  brought  against  their  will  together 
These    objects,'  and,    while    day     lasts. 

weave 
Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 
That   dumb  they  look:  your   harp,  be- 
lieve, 


59* 


BRITISH    POETS 


With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 
Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself 
Breathes  slumberously,  as  if  some  elf 

Went  in  and  out  the  chords,  his  wings 

Blake  murmur  wheresoe'er  the}'  graze, 

As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 

Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on 

And  on,  to  sow  God's  plagues,  have  gone 

Through  guilty  glorious  Babylon. 

And     while   such     murmurs   flow,   the 

nymph 
Bends  o'er  the  harp-top  from  her  shell 
As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph 
Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 
And    how    your  statues'   hearts     must 

swell ! 
And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 
To  see  each  other,  friend  with  friend  ! 
Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise, 
You'd  find  Schidone's  eager  Duke 
Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 
To  that  prim  saint  by  Haste-thee-Luke  ! 
And,  deeper  into  her  rock  den, 
Bold  Castelfranco's  Magdalen 
You'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 
Of  that  robed  counsel-keeping  Ser — 
As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 
And  is  not.  rather,  gravely  bent 
On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys 
Are  these,  his  progeny  invent, 
What  litter  now  the  board  employs 
Whereon  he  signed  a  document 
That  got  him  murdered  !     Each  enjoys 
Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break 
The  sport  up,  so,  indeed  must  make 
More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 

<S/je  speaks 

To-morrow,  if  a  harp-string,  say, 
Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  back 
That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets, 
Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 
My  Zanze  !     If  the  ribbon's  black, 
The  Three  are  watching :  keep  away  ! 

Your  gondola — let  Zorzi  wreathe 

A  mesh  of  water-weeds  about 

Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 

Had  struck  some  quay  or  bridge-foot 

stair ! 
That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 
As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 

There's  Zanze's   vigilant  taper  ;  safe  are 
we.  [me  ? 

Only   one   minute   more  to-night    with 
Resume  your  past  self  of  a  month  ago  ! 
Be  you  the  bashful  gallant,  I  will  be 


The   lady  with  the   colder  breast   than 

snow. 
Now  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  touch 

my  hand 
More  than  I  touch  yours  when  I  step  to 

land, 
And  say,  "  All  thanks,  Siora  !  " — 

Heart  to  heart 
And  lips   to  lips  !     Yet   once   more,  ere 

we  part, 
Clasp  me   and  make   me   thine,  as  mine 

thou  art ! 

[He  is  surprised,  and  stabbed. 
It  was  ordained  to  be  so,  sweet ! — and 

best 
Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,   upon 

thy  breast. 
Still  kiss  me  !     Care  not  for  the  cowards  ! 

Care 
Only  to  put  aside  thv  beauteous  hair 
My   blood  will    hurt'!     The   Three,  I  do 

not  scorn 
To  death,  because  they  never  lived  :  but  I 
Have   lived   indeed,    and   so — (yet   one 

more  kiss) — can  die  !  1842. 

THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN 

A  child's  story 

(Written  for,  and  inscribed  to,  W.  M. 
the  Younger.)  x 


Hamelin  Town  's  in  Brunswick, 

By  famous  Hanover  city  ; 
The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 
Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side  ; 
A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied  ; 

But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 
To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
From  vermin,  was  a  pity. 

II 

Rats! 
They  fought  the  dogs  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cooks' 
own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats 

By  drowning  their  speaking 

With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

1  The  son  of  William  Macready,  the  famous 
actor. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


599 


At  last  the  people  in  a  body- 
To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking : 
"  'T  is  clear,"  cried  they,  "  our  Mayor  's 
a  noddy  ; 
And  as  for  our  Corporation — shocking 
To   think   we    buy    gowns    lined    with 

ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What  's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin  ! 
You  hope,  because  you  're  old  and  obese, 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease  ? 
Rouse  up,  sirs  !    Give  your  brains  a  rack- 
ing 
To  find  the  remedy  we  're  lacking, 
Or,  sure  as  fate,  we  '11  send  you  pack- 
ing !  " 
At  tliis  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 


An  hour  they  sat  in  council  ; 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence  : 
"  For  a  guilder  I  'd  my  ermine  gown 

sell, 
I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence  ! 
It  's  eas}r  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain— 
I  'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 
I  've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
Oil  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap  !  " 
Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber-door  but  a  gentle  tap  ? 
"  Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mavor,  "what's 

that  ?  " 
(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 
Looking  little  though  wondrous  fat ; 
Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a  too-long-opened  oyster, 
Save  when   at   noon   his   paunch   grew 

mutinous 
For  a  plate  of  turtle  green  and  glutinous) 
"  Only  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat  ? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat !  " 


"  Come  in  !  " — the  Mayor  cried,  looking 

bigger : 
And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure  ! 
His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 
Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red, 
And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin, 
With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin, 
And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin, 
No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin. 
But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in  ; 
There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin  : 
And  nobody  could  enough  admire 


The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire. 

Quoth  one  :  ''It  's  as  my  great-grand- 
sire. 

Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom's 
tone. 

Had  walked  this  way  from  his  painted 
tombstone  !  " 


He  advanced  to  the  council-table  : 
And,    "  Please  your  honors,"   said  he, 

"  I  'in  able, 
By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 
All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 
That  creep  or  swim  or  fly  or  run, 
After  me  so  as  you  never  saw  ! 
And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 
On  creatures  that  do  people  harm, 
The  mole  and  toad  and  newt  and  viper  ; 
And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper." 
(And  here  the3r  noticed  round  his  neck 
A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 
To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  self-same 

check  ; 
And  at  the  scarf's  end  hung  a  pipe  ; 
And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever 

straying 
As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 
Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 
Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 
"  Yet, '  said  he,  "  poor  piper  as  I  am, 
In  Tartaiy  I  freed  the  Cham, 
Last   June,    from   his   huge    swarms  of 

gnats ; 
I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 
Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats : 
And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders, 
If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats 
Will  you  give  mea  thousand  guilders  ?  " 
'"One?  fifty   thousand!" — was   the   ex- 
clamation 
Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corpora- 
tion. 


Into  the  street  the  Piper  stepped, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while  ; 
Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 
And    green    and    blue    his    sharp    eyes 

t  winkled. 
Like     a    candle-flame     where     salt    is 

sprinkled  : 
And    ere    three   shrill    notes    the    pipe 

uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered  ; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling  ; 


6oo 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  the  grumbling  grew  to   a  mighty 

rumbling  ; 
And    "in   of  the   houses   the   rats  came 

tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny 

rats. 

Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny 

rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins. 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advanc- 
ing. 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished  ! 
—Save  one  who.  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he,  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary  : 
Which  was,  "  At  the  first  shrill  notes  of 

the  pipe. 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe  : 
And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards, 
And   a   leaving    ajar    of    conserve-cup- 
boards. 
And  a  drawing  the   corks  of  train-oil- 
flasks. 
And   a   breaking   the   hoops  of   butter- 
casks  : 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)   called  out,     '  Oh  rat?,  re- 
joice ! 
The  world   is   grown  to  one   vast  dry- 
saltery ! 
So   munch   on,    crunch    on,   take    your 

nuncheon, 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,   luncheon  !  ' 
And  ju->t  as  a  bulky  sugar  puncheon, 
All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 
Just  as  methought  it  said,  '  Come,  bore 

me  ! ' 
— I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 


You   should   have  heard  the    Haraelin 

people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they   rocked  the 

steeple. 
"  Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long 

poles,  [holes  J 

Poke  out   the   nests    and    block    up  the 


Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats!'* — when  suddenly,  up  the 

lace 

Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place, 
With  a.  '•  Fust,  if  you  please,  my  thou 
sand  guilders !  " 


A  thousand  guilders  !    The  Mayor  looked 

blue  ; 
So  did  the  Corporation  too. 
For  council  dinners  made  rare  havoc 
With     Claret,     Moselle,    Vin-de-Grave, 

Hock  ; 
And  half  the  money  would  replenish 
Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 
To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 
With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow  ! 
"  Beside,"    quoth     the     Mayor    with    a 

knowing  wink, 
"Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's 

brink  ; 
We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 
And  what  's  dead   can't  come  to  life,  I 

think. 
So,  friend,  we  're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 
From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something 

for  drink, 
And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your 

poke  ; 
But  as  for  the   guilders,  what    we  spoke 
Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in 

joke. 
Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty. 
A  thousand  guilders  !  Come,take  fifty  !  " 


The  Piper's  face  fell,  and  he  c*,:ed, 

"  No  trifling  !     I  can't  wait,  beside  ! 

I  've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 

Bagdad,  and  accept  the  prime 

Of   the   Head-Cook's    pottage,   all   he  's 

rich  in. 
For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitchen, 
Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor  : 
Witli  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver, 
With  you,  don't  think  I'll  bate  a  stiver  ! 
And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 
May  find  me  pipe  after  another  fashion." 


"  How  ?  "  cried  the  Mayor,    "  d'ye  think 

I  brook 
Being  worse  treated  than  a  Cook? 
Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 
With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald? 
You  threaten  us.  fellow  V   Do  your  worst, 
Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst  ! " 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


601 


XII 

Once  more  he  stepped  into  the  street, 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his   long   pipe  of   smooth   straight 

cane  ; 
And  ere   he   blew   three  notes    (such 

sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling   that  seemed  like  a 

bustling 
Of   merry   crowds    justling  at   pitching 

and  hustling  ; 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes 

clattering. 
Little  hands  clapping  and  little  tongues 

chattering, 
Anil,  like   fowls  in    a   farm-yard  when 

barley  is  scattering. 
Out  came  the  children  running. 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls. 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls. 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and 

laughter. 


The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council 

stood 
As  if  they  were   changed  into  blocks  of 

wood, 
Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 
To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by, 
— Could  only  follow  with  the  eye 
That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 
But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 
And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat, 
As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 
To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 
Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daugh- 
ters ! 
However,  he  turned  from  South  to  West, 
And   to   Koppelberg   Hill  his  steps   ad- 
dressed, 
And  after  him  the  children  pressed  ; 
Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 
"  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top  ! 
He's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 
And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop  !  " 
When.lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain- 
side, 
A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide. 
As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly   hollowed  ; 
And  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  children 

followed. 
And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last. 
The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 


Did  I  say  all  ?     No  !     One  was  lame, 
And  could  not   dance  the    whole  of  the 

way  ; 
And  in  after  years  if  you  would  .blame 
His  sadness,  he  was  vised  to  say, — 
"  It  's  dull   in  our  town  since  my  play 

mates  left  ! 
I  can't  forget  that  I'm  bereft 
Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 
Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me. 
For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 
Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 
Where   waters   gushed    and   fruit-trees 

grew 
And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 
And  everything  was  strange  and  new  ; 
The  sparrows  were  brighter   than   pea- 
cocks here, 
And  their  dogs  outran  our   fallow  deer, 
And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings. 
And   horses    were     born     with   eagles' 

wings ; 
And  just  as  I  became  assured 
My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 
The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still, 
And  found  myself  outside  the  hill, 
Left  alone  against  my  will, 
To  go  now  limping  as  before, 
And  never  hear  of  that  country  more  !  " 


Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin  ! 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher's  pate 

A  text  which  says  that  heaven's  gate 

Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in  ! 
The   Mayor  sent   East,  West,  North  and 

South, 
To  offer  the  Piper,  by  word  of  mouth, 

Wherever  it  was  men's  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content, 
If  he'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But   when    they    saw  't  was  a  lost   en- 
deavor, 
And  Piper   and   dancers  were  gone  for- 
ever, 
They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 

Should  think  their  records  dated  duly 
If.  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  year, 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear. 
"  And  so  lout;  after  what  happened  here 

On  the  Twenty-second  of  July. 
Thirteen  hundred  and  seventy-six  :  " 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children's  last  retreat, 
They  called  it.  the  Pied  Piper's  Street— 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  fort  lie  fut  ure  to  lose  his  labor. 


6o2 


BRITISH    POETS 


Nor  suffered  they  hostelry  or  tavern 
To    shock     with     mirth    a    street   so 
solemn  ; 

But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 
They  wrote  t lie  story  on  a  column. 
And  on  the  great  church-window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away, 
And  there  ii  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there  's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  who  ascribe* 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such  stress, 
To   their   fathers   and    mothers   having 

risen 
Out  of  some  subterraneous  prison 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned 
Long  time  ago  in  a  mighty  band 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land, 
But  how  or  why,  they  don't  understand. 

XV 

So,  Willy,  let  me  and  you  be  wTipers 
Of  scores  out  with  all  men — especially 

pipers  ! 
And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from  rats 

or  from  mice, 
If   we've   promised  them  aught,  let  us 

keep  our  promise  !  1842. 

RUDEL  TO  THE  LADY  OF  TRIPOLI 

I  know  a  Mount,  the  gracious  Sun  per- 
ceives 
First,  when  he  visits,  last,  too,  when  he 

leaves 
The  world  ;  and,  vainly  favored,  it  repays 
The  day-long  glory  of  his  steadfast  gaze 
By  no  change  of  its  large  calm  front  of 

snow. 
And  underneath  the  Mount,  a  Flower  I 

know, 
He  cannot  have  perceived,  that  changes 

ever 
At  his  approach;  and,  in  the  lost  en- 
deavor 
To  live  his  life,  has  parted,  one  by  one, 
With  all  a  flower's  true  graces,  for  the 

grace 
Of  being  but  a  foolish  mimic  sun, 
With   ray-like  florets  round  a  disk-like 

face. 
Men  nobly  call  by  many  a  name  the 

Mount 
As  over  many  a  land  of  theirs  its  large 
Calm  front  of  snow  like  a  triumphal 
targe 


Is  reared,  and  still  with  old  names,  fresh 

names  vie, 
Each    to    its    proper    praise    and    own 

account : 
Men    call    the    Flower    the   Sunflower, 

sportively. 

II 

Oh,  Angel  of  the  East,  one,  one  gold  look 
Across  the  waters  to  this  twilight  nook, 
— The   far    sad   waters,   Angel,   to   this 
nook  ! 

Ill 

Dear  Pilgrim,  art  thou  for  the  East  in- 
deed ? 
Go  ! — saying  ever  as  thou  dost  proceed, 
That   I.    French   Rudel,  choose   for  my 

device 
A  sunflower  outspread  like  a  sacrifice 
Before  its  idol.    See  !    These  inexpert 
And   hurried   fingers   could   not  fail  to 

hurt 
The  woven  picture  ;  't  is  a  woman's  skill 
Indeed  ;  but  nothing  baffled  me,  so,  ill 
Or  well,  the  work  is  finished.     Say,  men 

feed 
On  songs  I  sing,  and  therefore  bask  the 

■  bees 
On  my  flower's  breast  as  on  a  platform 

broad  : 
But  as  the  flower's  concern  is  not  for 

these 
But  solely  for  the  sun,  so  men  applaud 
In  vain  this  Rudel,  he  not  looking  here 
But  to  the  East— the  East !     Go,  say  this, 

Pilgrim  dear  !  1842. 

THERE'S  A  WOMAN  LIKE  A  DEW- 
DROP 

[from  a  blot  in  the  scutcheon] 

There  's  a  woman  like  a  dewdrop,  she  's 
so  purer  than  the  purest ; 

And  her  noble  heart 's  the  noblest,  yes, 
and  her  sure  faith  's  the  surest : 

And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  humid,  like 
the  depth  on  depth  of  lustre 

Hid  i'  the  harebell,  while  her  tresses,  sun* 
nier  than  the  wild-grape  cluster, 

Gush  in  golden-tinted  plenty  down  her 
neck's  rose-misted  marble : 

Then  her  voice's  music  .  .  .  call  it  the 
well's  bubbling,  the  bird's  warble  ! 

And  this  woman  says,  "  My  days  were 
sunless  and  my  nights  were  moon- 
less, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


603 


Parched  the  pleasant  April  herbage,  and 
the  lark's  heart's  outbreak  tune- 
less, 

If  you  loved  me  not !  "  And  I  who — (all, 
for  words  of  flame  !)  adore  her. 

Who  am  mad  to  lay  my  spirit  prostrate 
palpably  before  her — 

I  may  enter  at  her  portal  soon,  as  now 
her  lattice  takes  me, 

And  by  noontide  as  by  midnight  make 
her  mine,  as  hers  she  makes 
me !  1843. 

THE  LOST  LEADER1 

JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  be- 
reft us, 
Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote  ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,    doled   him 
out  silver. 
So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  al- 
lowed : 
How  all  our   copper  had  gone  for  his 
service  ! 
Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had 
been  proud  ! 

1  Browning  admitted  that  in  writing  this  poem 
he  had  Wordsworth  in  mind,  but  insisted  that  he 
did  not  mean  it  as  an  exact  portrait  of  Words- 
worth. Browning's  mature  judgment  on  the 
matter  is  best  expressed  in  his  own  words:  "I 
did  in  my  hasty  youth  presume  to  use  the  great 
and  venerated  personality  of  Wordsworth  as  a 
sort  of  painter's  model ;  one  from  which  this  or 
the  other  particular  feature  may  be  selected 
and  turned  to  account;  had  I  intended  more, 
above  all  such  a  boldness  as  portraying;  the  en- 
tire man.  I  should  not  have  talked  about  'hand- 
fuls  of  silver  and  bits  of  ribbon.'  These  aever 
influenced  the  change  of  politics  in  the  great 
poet,  whose  defection,  nevertheless,  accom- 
panied as  it  was  by  a  regular  face-about  of  his 
special  party,  was  to  my  juvenile  apprehension, 
and  even  mature  consideration,  an  event  to  de- 
plore." See  also  Mrs.  Orr's  Browning  (Life  and 
Letters),  1, 191.    Compare  Shelley's  early  Sonnet 

TO  WORDSWORTH 

Poet  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wept  to  know 
That  things  depart  which  never  may  return  : 
Childhood  and  youth,  friendship  and  love's    first 

glow, 
Have  fled  like  sweet   dreams,   leaving  thee   to 

mourn. 
These  common  woes  I  feel.    One  loss  is  mine 
Which  thou  too  feel'st,  yet  I  alone  deplore. 
Thou  wert  as  a  lone  star,  whose  liL'lit  did  shine 
On  some  frail  bark  in  winter's  midnight  roar: 
Thou  hast  like  to  a  rock-built  refuge  stood 
Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude  : 
In  honored  poverty  thy  voice  did  weave 
Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty, — 
Deserting  these,  thou  leaves!  me  to  grieve. 
Thus  having  been,  that  thou  shouldsl  cease   to 

be.  1815.    1816. 


We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him, 
honored  him, 
Lived   in    his  mild    and   magnificent 
eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught    his 
clear  accents, 
Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to 
die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,   Milton  was  for 
us, 
Burns,  Shelley,  were   with   us, — they 
watch  from  their  graves  ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the   van   and   the 
freemen, 
— He  alone  sinks  to  the   rear  and  the 
slaves ! 
We      shall      march      prospering, —  not 
through  his  presence  ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us, — not  from   his 
lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his 
quiescence, 
Still  bidding  crouch   whom   the   rest 
bade  aspire : 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost 
soul  more, 
One    task   more    declined,   one   more 
footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devils'-triumph  and  sorrow  for 
angels, 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  in- 
sult to  God  ! 
Life's  night  begins  :  let  him  never  come 
back  to  us  ! 
There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and 
pain. 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer 
of  twilight, 
Never  glad  confident  morning  again  ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — 
strike  gallantly. 
Menace  our  heart  ere   we   master   his 
own  ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge 
and  wait  us, 
Pardoned  in  heaven,  the   first   by   the 
throne  !  1845. 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD 
NEWS  FROM  G  HENT  TO  AIX  1 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and 

he  ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped 

all  three ; 

1  This  galloping  ballad,  which  has  no  historical 
foundation,  was  written  at  sea,  off  Cape  St. 
Vincent.     See  Mrs.  Orr's  Browning,  I,  144-45. 


604 


BRITISH    POETS 


"Good  speed  !"  cried  llie  watch,  as  the 
gatebolts  undrew  ; 

"Speed  !  "  echoed  t lie  wall  to  us  gallop- 
ing through  : 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank 
to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped 
abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other  ;  we  kept  the 

great  pace 
Neck    by  neck,   stride  by  stride,   never 

changing  our  place  ; 
I  turned    in    nay   saddle    and    made  its 

girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the 

pique  right, 
Rebuckled     the     cheek-strap,     chained 

slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'T  was  moonset  at  starting  ;    but  while 

we  drew  near 
Lokeren,   the  cocks  crew  and  twilight 

dawned  clear  ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out 

to  see  ; 
At  Diiffeld,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as 

could  be ; 
And   from   Mecheln  church-steeple    we 

heard  the  half-chime, 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "  Yet  there 

is  time  !  " 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the 

sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black 

every  one,  [ing  past. 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  gallop- 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at 

last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting 

away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland 

its  spray  : 

And  his  low  head  and   crest,   just  one 

sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out 

on  his  track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever 

that  glance 
O'er   its    white   edge    at    me,   his    own 

master,  askance  ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which 

aye  and  anon  [ing  on. 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  gallop- 
By  Hasselt,   Dirck  groaned  ;    and   cried 

Joris,  "  Stay  spur  ! 


Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault  's 

not  in  her. 
We  '11  remember  at  Aix  " — for  one  heard 

the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and 

staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the 

flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered 

and  sank. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in 

the  sky  ;  [laugh, 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright 

stubble  like  chaff  ; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang 

white. 
And  "G-allop,''  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is 

in  sight !  " 

"  How  they  '11  greet  us  1  " — and  all  in  a 
moment  his  roan 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as 
a  stone  ; 

And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the 
whole  weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix 
from  her  fate, 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to 
the  brim. 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye- 
sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  hol- 
ster let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt 
and  all,  [his  ear, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse 
without  peer  ; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang, 
any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped 
and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is — friends  flocking 
round 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees 
on  the  ground  ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Rol- 
and of  mine, 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last 
measure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common 
consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought 
good  news  from  Ghent. 

1838.     1845. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


605 


EARTH'S  IMMORTALITIES 


See,  as  the  prettiest  graves  will  do   in 

time, 
Our  poet's  wants    the  freshness  of  its 

prime  ; 
Spite  of  the  sexton's  browsing  horse,  the 

sods 
Have  struggled  through  its  binding  osier 

rods  ; 
Headstone  and  half-sunk  footstone  lean 

awry, 
Wanting  the  brick-work  promised   by- 

and-by ; 
How  the  minute  gray  lichens,  plate  o'er 

plate. 
Have  softened  down  the  crisp-cut  name 

and  date  ! 

LOVE 


So,  the  year  's  done  with  ! 

(Love  me  forever!) 
All  March  begun  with, 

April's  endeavor  ; 
May-wreaths  that  bound  me 

June  needs  must  sever  ; 
Now  snows  fall  round  me, 

Quenching  June's  fever — 

(Love  me  forever  ! ) 


1845. 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT 


The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land  : 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low  ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach  ; 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears  , 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys 

and  fears, 
Than  the  two  heartsbeating  each  to  each  ! 

1845. 

PARTING  AT  MORNING 

ROUND  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea. 
And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's 

rim  : 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 

1845. 


SONG 

Nay  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her, 
Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress? 

Holds  earth  aught — speak   truth — above 
her? 
Aught  like  tliis  tress,  see,  and  this  tress, 

And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all, 

So  fair,  see,' ere  I  let  it  fall? 

Because  you  spend  your  lives  in  praising  ; 
To.  praise,  you  search  the  wide   world 
over  : 
Then  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 
If  earth  holds    aught — speak    truth — 
above  her  ? 
Above  this  tress,  and  this.  I  touch 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much  ! 

1845. 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM    ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 
Now  that  April 's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 
That   the  lowest  boughs  and  the   brush- 
wood sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf. 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard 

bough 
In  England — now  ! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 

And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the 
swallows  ! 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in 
the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the 
clover 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent 
spray's  edge — 

That  's  the  wise  thrush  :  he  sings  each 
song  twice  over. 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  re- 
capture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with 
hoary  dew. 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes 
anew 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's 
dower 

— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon- 
flower  1  "  1845. 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  THE  SEA 

Nobly,  nobly  ( Jape  Saint  Vincent  to  the 

Northwest  died  uwav  ; 


6o6 


BRITISH   POETS 


Sunset  ran.  one  glorious  blood-red,  reek- 
ins;-  into  Cadiz  May  : 

Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in 
fare  Trafalgar  lay  ; 

In  the  dimmest  Northeast  distance 
da  wiicd  Gibraltar  grand  and  gray  ; 

"  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me  : 
how  can  I  help  England?" — say, 

Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to 

God  to  praise  and  pray, 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent 

over  Africa.  1838.  1845. 

TIME'S  REVENGES 

I  've  a  Friend,  over  the  sea  ; 

I  like  him,  but  he  loves  me. 

It  all  grew  out  of  the  books  I  write  ; 

They  find  such  favor  in  his  sight 

Thai  he  slaughters  you  with  savage  looks 

Because  you  don't  admire  my  books. 

He  does  himself  though, — and  if  some 

vein 
Were   to   snap   to-night   in  this   heavy 

brain, 
To-morrow  month,  if  I  lived  to  try, 
Round  should  I  just  turn  quietly, 
Or  out  of  the  bedclothes  stretch  my  hand 
Till  I  found  him,  come  from  his  foreign 

land 
To  be  my  nurse  in  tins  poor  place. 
And  make  my  broth  and  wash  my  face 
And  light  my  fire  and,  all  the  while. 
Bear  with  his  old  good-humored  smile 
That  I  told  him  "  Better  have  keptaway 
Than  come  and  kill  me.  night  and  day. 
With,     worse   than    fever    throbs    and 

shoots, 
The  creaking  of  his  clumsy  boots." 
lam  as  sure  that  this  he  would  do, 
As  that  Saint  Paul's  is  striking  two. 
And  I  think  I  rather  .  .  woe  is  me  ! 

—Yes,  rather  should  see  him  than  not 

see, 
If  lifting  a  hand  could  seat  him  there 
Before  me  in  the  empty  chair 
To-night,  when  my  head  aches  indeed, 
And  I  can  neither  think  nor  read, 
Nor  make  these  purple  fingers  hold 
The  pen  ;  this  garret's  freezing  cold  ! 

And  I've  a  Lady — there  he  wakes, 
The  laughing  fiend  and  prince  of  snakes 
Within  me,  at  her  name,  to  pray 
Fate  send  some  creature  in  the  way 
Of  my  love  for  her,  to  be  down-torn, 
Upthrust  and  outward-borne. 


So  I  might  prove  myself  that  sea 
Of  passion  which  I  needs  must  be! 
(Jail  my  thoughts  false  and  my    fancies 

(piaint 
And  my  style  infirm  and  its  figures  faint, 
All  the  clitics  say    and  more  blame  yet, 
And  not  one  angry  word  you  get. 
But,  please  you,  wonder  I  would  put 
My  cheek  beneath  that  lady's  foot 
Rather  than  trample  under  mine 
The  laurels  of  the  Florentine, 
And  you  shall  see  how  the  devil  spends 
A  fire  God  gave  for  other  ends  ! 
I  tell  you,  I  ride  up  and  down 
This  garret,    crowned   with   love's  best 

crown, 
And  feasted    with   love's  perfect  feast, 
To  think  I  kill  for  her,  at  least, 
Body  and  soul  and  peace  and  fame, 
Alike  youth's  end  and  manhood's  aim, 
— So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 
Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in 
With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her, 
The  lips,  the  little  chin,  the  stir 
Of  shadow  round  her  mouth  ;  and  she 
—  I  '11  tell  you— calmly  would  decree 
That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire, 
If  that  would  compass  her  desire 
And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 
To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night. 

There   may   be   heaven  ;  there  must  be 

hell  ; 
Meantime,  there    is  our    earth    here — 

well !  1845. 

THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND 

That  second  time  they  hunted  me 
From  hill  to  plain,  from  shore  to  sea, 
And  Austria,  hounding  far  and  wide 
Her  blood-hounds  through  the  country- 
side, 
Breathed  hot  and  instant  on  my  trace, — 
1  made  six  days  a  hiding-place 
Of  that  dry  green  old  aqueduct 
Where  I  and  Charles,  when  boys,  have 

plucked 
The  fire-flies  from  the  roof  above, 
Bright  creeping  through  the  moss  they 

love  : 
— How  long  it  seems  since  Charles  was 

lost! 
Six  days  the  soldiers  crossed  and  crossed 
The  country  in  my  very  sight  ; 
And  when  that  peril  ceased  at  night, 
The  sky  broke  out  in  red  dismay 
With  signal  fires  ;  well,  there  I  lay 
Close  covered  o'er  in  my  recess, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


607 


Up  to  the  neck  in  ferns  and  cress, 
Thinking  on  Metternich  our  friend, 
And  Charles's  miserable  end, 
And  much  beside,  two  days  ;  the  third, 
Hunger  o'ercame  me  when  I  heard 
The  peasants  from  the  village  go 
To  work  among  the  maize  ;  you  know, 
With  us  in  Lombardy,   they  bring 
Provisions  packed  on  mules,  a  string 
With  little  bells  that  cheer  their  task, 
And  casks,  and  boughs  on  every  cask 
To  keep  the  sun's  heat  from  the  wine  ; 
These  I  let  pass  in  jingling  line, 
And,  close  on  them,  dear  noisy  crew, 
The  peasants  from  the  village,  too  ; 
For  at  the  very  rear  would  troop 
Their  wives  and  sisters  in  a  group 
To    help,    I    knew.      When    these    had 

passed, 
I  threw  my  glove  to  strike  the  last, 
Taking  the  chance  :  she  did  not  start, 
Much  less  cry  out,  but  stooped  apart, 
One  instant  rapidly  glanced  round, 
And  saw  me  beckon  from  the  ground  ; 
A  wild  busli  grows  and  hides  my  crypt  : 
She    picked    my    glove     up    while    she 

stripped 
A  branch  off,  then  rejoined  the  rest 
With  that ;  my  glove  lay  in  her  breast. 
Then  I  drew  breath  :  they  disappeared  : 
It  was  for  Italy  I  feared. 

An  hour,  and  she  returned  alone 
Exactly  where  my  glove  was  thrown. 
Meanwhile  came  many  thoughts  ;  on  me 
Rested  the  hopes  of  Italy  ; 
I  had  devised  a  certain  tale 
Which,  when  't  was  told  her,  could  not 

fail 
Persuade  a  peasant  of  its  truth  ; 
I  meant  to  call  a  freak  of  youth 
This  hiding,  and  give  hopes  of  pay, 
And  no  temptation  to  betray. 
But  when  I  saw  that  woman's  face, 
Its  calm  simplicity  of  grace, 
Our  Italy's  own  attitude 
In  which  she  walked  thus  far,  and  stood, 
Planting  each  naked  foot  so  firm, 
To  crush  the  snake  and  spare  the  worm — 
At  first  sight  of  her  eyes.  I  said. 
"  I  am  that  man  upon  whose  head 
They  fix  the  price,  because  J  hate 
The  Austrians  over  us  :  the  State 
Will  give  you  gold — oh,  gold  so  much  ! — 
If  you  betray  me  to  their  clutch, 
And  be  your  death,  for  aught  I  know, 
If  once  they  find  you  saved  their  foe. 
Now,  you  must  bring  me  fool  and  drink, 
And  also  paper,  pen  and  ink, 


And  carry  safe  what  I  shall  write 

To  Padua,  which  you'll  reach  at  night 

Before  the  duomo  shuts  ;  go  in, 

And  wait  till  Tenebra?  begin  ; 

Walk  to  the  third  confessional. 

Between  the  pillar  and  the  wall. 

And   kneeling  whisper,    Whence   conies 

peace  ? 
Say  it  a  second  time,  then  cease; 
And  if  the  voice  inside  returns, 
From  Christ  and  Freedom ;  what  concerns 
The  cause  of  Peace  ? — for  answer,  slip 
My  letter  where  you  placed  your  lip  ; 
Then  come  back  happy  we  have  done 
Our  mother  service — I.  the  son, 
As  you  the  daughter  of  our  land  ! " 

Three   mornings   more,   she  took    her 
stand 
In  the  same  place,  with  the  same  eyes : 
I  was  no  surer  of  sunrise 
Than  of  her  coming.     We  conferred 
Of  her  own  prospects,  and  I  heard 
She  had  a  lover — stout  and  tall, 
She  said — then  let  her  eyelids  fall, 
"  He  could  do  much" — as  if  some  doubt 
Entered  her  heart, — then,  passing  out, 
"  She  could  not  speak  for  others,  who 
Had  other  thoughts  ;  herself  she  knew- :  " 
And  so  she  brought  me  drink  and  food. 
After  four  days,  the  scouts  pursued 
Another  path  ;  at  last  arrived 
The  help  my  Paduan  friends  contrived 
To  furnish  me  :  she  brought  the  news. 
For  the  first  time  I  could  not  choose 
But  kiss  her  hand,  and  lay  my  own 
Upon  her  liead— "This  faith  was  shown 
To  Italy,  our  mother  ;  she 
Uses  my  hand  and  blesses  thee." 
She  followed  down  to  the  sea-shore  ; 
I  left  and  never  saw  her  more. 

How  very  long  since  I  have  thought 
Concerning — much     less     wished    for— 

aught 
Beside  the  good  of  Italy, 
For  which  1  live  and  mean  to  die! 
1  never  was  in  love  :  and  since 
Charles    proved    false,    what   shall  now 

cdii \  ince 
My  inmost  heart  I  have  a  friend? 
However,  if  I  pleased  to  spend 
Real  wishes  on  myself — say.  three — 
I  know  at  least  what  one  should  be. 
I  would  grasp  Metternich  until 
I  felt  his  red  wet  throal  distil 
In  blood  through  these  two  hands.     And 

next 
— Nor  much  for  that  am  I  perplexed — 


6o8 


BRITISH   POETS 


Charles,  perjured  traitor,  for  his  part, 

should  die  slow  of  a  broken  heart 

I  iider  liis  new  employers.     Last 

— All.  there,  what  should  I  wish?    For 

fast 
Do  I  grow  old  and  out  of  strength. 
If  1  resolved  to  seek  at  length 
My  father's  house  again,  how  soared 
They  all  would  look,  and  unprepared  !' 
My  brothers  live  in  Austria's  pay 
—  I  lisowned  me  long  ago,  men  say  ; 
And  all  my  early  mates  who  used 
To  praise  me  so — perhaps  induced 
More  than  one  early  step  of  mine — 
Are  turning  wise  :  while  some  opine 
"  Freedom  grows  licence/'  some  suspect 
"  Haste  breeds  delay,"  and  recollect 
They  always  said,  such  premature 
Beginnings  never  could  endure  ! 
So.  with  a  sullen  "  All's  for  best," 
The  land  seems  settling  to  its  rest. 
I  think  then,  I  should  wish  to  stand 
This  evening  in  that  dear,  lost  land, 
Over  the  sea  the  thousand  miles, 
And  know  if  yet  that  woman  smiles 
With  the  calm  smile  ;  some  little  farm 
She  lives  in  there,  no  doubt :  what  harm 
If  I  sat  on  the  door-side  bench, 
And,  while  her  spindle  made  a  trench 
Fantastically  in  the  dust, 
Inquired  of  all  her  fortunes — just 
Her  children's  ages  and  their  names, 
And  what  may  be  the  husband's  aims 
For  each  of  them.     I'd  talk  this  out, 
And  sit  there,  for  an  hour  about, 
Then  kiss  her  hand  once  more,  and  lay 
Mine  on  her  head,  and  go  my  way. 

So  much  for  idle  wishing — how 
It   steals   the   time  !     To  business   now. 

1845. 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS 

FLORENCE,    15— 

I  could  have  painted  pictures  like  that 
youth's 
Ye   praise  so.     How   my  soul   springs 
up !     No  bar 
Stayed  me — ah,  thought  which  saddens 
while  it  soothes  ! 
— Never   did  fate    forbid   me,  star   by 
star. 
To  outburst  on  your  night  with  all  my 
gift 
Of  fires  from  God  :  nor  would  my  flesh 
have  shrunk 
From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eves  up- 
lift 


And  wide  to  heaven,  or,  straight  like 
thunder,  sunk 
To  the  centre,  of  an  instant ;  or  around 
Turned  calmly  and  inquisitive,  to  scan 
The  license  and   the  limit,    space  and 
bound, 
Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in  man. 
And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all  I 
saw, 
Over  the  canvas   could  my  hand  have 
flung, 
Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion's  law, 
Each  passion  clear   proclaimed  with- 
out a  tongue  ; 
Whether  Hope  rose  at   once  in  all  the 
blood, 
A-tiptoe  for  the  blessing  of  embrace, 
Or  Rapture  drooped   the  eyes,  as  wlun 
her  brood 
Pull  down  the  nesting  dove's  heart  to 
its  place  ; 
Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead  up, 
And   locked   the   mouth  fast,   like  a 
castle  braved, — 
O  human  faces,  hath  it  spilt,  my  cup  ? 
What  did  ye  give   me  that  I  have  not 
saved  ? 
Nor  will  I  say  I  have  not  dreamed  (how 
well !) 
Of  going — I,  in  each  new  picture, — 
forth, 
As,  making  new  hearts  beat  and  bosoms 
swell, 
To  Pope  or  Kaiser,  East,  West,  South, 
or  North, 
Bound   for  the  calmly    satisfied  great 
State, 
Or  glad  aspiring  little  burgh,  it  went, 
Flowers  cast   upon  the   car  which    bore 
the  freight, 
Through  old  streets  named  afresh  from 
the  event, 
Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned  age 
should  greet 
My  face,  and   youth,  the  star  not  yet 
distinct 
Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my  feet ! — 
Oh,  thus  to  live,  I  and  my  picture, 
linked 
With   love   about,   and  praise,   till  life 
should  end. 
And  then  not  go  to  heaven,  but  linger 
here, 
Here  on    my  earth,  earth's  every  man 
my  friend, — 
The   thought  grew   frightful, *t  was  so 
wildly  dear  ! 
But  a  voice   changed  it.     Glimpses   of 
such  sights 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


6og 


Have     scared    me,     like     the     revels 
through  a  door 
Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its 
rites  ! 
This  world    seemed    not   the  world  it 
was  before  : 
Mixed    with   my  loving    trusting   ones, 
there  trooped 
.  .  .  Who  summoned  those   cold  faces 
that  begun 
To  press  on  me  and  judge  me?    Though 
I  stooped 
Shrinking,    as    from    the    soldiery    a 
nun, 
They  drew  me  forth,  and  spite  of  me.  .  . 
enough ! 
These  buy  and  sell  our  pictures,  take 
and  give, 
Count  them  for  garniture  and  household- 
stuff. 
And  where  they  live  needs  must  our 
pictures  live 
And    see    their    faces,    listen    to    their 
prate, 
Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness, 
Discussed  of, — "This  I  love,  or  this  I 
hate, 
This   likes  me  more,  and  this  affects 
me  less  ! " 
Wherefore   I  chose   my   portion.     If   at 
whiles 
My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I  paint 
These  endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles 
With   the   same   series,  Virgin,    Babe 
and  Saint, 
With   the    same  cold    calm  beautiful 
regard, — 
At  least  no   merchant   traffics   in  my 
heart ; 
The    sanctuary's  gloom    at    least  shall 
ward 
Vain  tongues  from  where  my  pictures 
stand  apart : 
Only   prayer  breaks   the   silence  of  the 
shrine 
While,  blackening  in  the  daily  candle- 
smoke, 
Diey    moulder   on      the    damp     wall's 
travertine, 
'Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never 
woke, 
lo,   die  my    pictures  1    surelv,   gently 
die! 
O  youth,  men  praise  so, — holds  their 
f  7c:se  its  worth  ? 
Blown   harshly,   keeps  the    trump    its 
golden  cry  ? 
Tastes  sweet    the   water    with  such 
specks  of  earth?  1845. 

39 


THE     BISHOP    ORDERS    HIS    TOMB 
AT  SAINT  PRAXED'S  CHURCH. 

ROME,  15— 

Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity  ! 
Draw  round  my   bed  :  is  Anselm  keep- 
ing back? 
Nephews — sons    mine  ...    ah     God,   I 

know  not  !     Well — 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother 

once. 
Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was  ! 
What  's  done    is   done,  and   she  is  dead 

beside, 
Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since. 
And  as  she   died  so  must  we  die  our- 
selves. 
And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world 

's  a  dream. 
Life,  how  and  what  is  it  ?  As  here  I  lie 
In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night, 

I  ask 
"  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"    Peace,  peace 

seems  all. 
Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for 

peace  ; 
And  so,   about   this   tomb    of    mine.     I 

fought 
With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche, 

ye  know  : 
— Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my 

care  ; 
Shrewd  was  that  snatch   from   out   the 

corner  South 
He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse 

the  same  ! 
Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but 

thence 
One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle-side, 
And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent 

seats, 
And  up  into  the  very  dome  where  live 
The   angels,   and   a   sunbeam  's   sure  to 

lurk  : 
And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 
And 'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 
With    those   nine   columns   round   me, 

t  wo  and  two, 
The  odd  one  at   my   feet  where  Anselm 

stands  : 
Peach-blossom  marble   all,  the  rare,  the 

ripe 
As  fresh-poured   red  wine  of  a  mighty 

pulse 
— Old    Gandolf    with   his   paltry   onion- 
stone,  [peach, 
Put  me  where  I  m  y  look  at  him  !    True 


(   i  Q 


BRITISH    POETS 


»       .m.]   flaw  Less  :   how    l   earned   the 

pi  i 
Draw  close;   that    conflagration   of  my 

church 
-   \\  hat   then?    So  much  was  Baved  if 

aught  w  ere  missed  ! 
M\  sons,  ye  would   not    be  iuj  death? 

The  w  line  grape  \  iin>\  ard  where  the  oil- 
press  stood, 

Drop  watei  gently  till  the  Biirface  sink, 
if  ye  find  .  .  ,  Ah  Go  I,  l  know 
not,  1  :  .  .  . 

Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft, 

And  corded  Up  in  ;i  tighl  olive  trail. 

Some  lump,  all  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 

is  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 
Blue  as  a  vein  o'erthe  Madonna's  I 

all  have  ]  bequeathed  you,  villas, 

all, 
Thai  bravo  Prascati  villa  with  its  bath, 
So.  let  ill"  blue  lump  poise  between  mj 

kn 
Like  God  the  Father's  globe  i  o  both  his 

hands 
Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Cliurch  so  gay, 
For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and 

burst  ! 
Swift    as  a   weaver's  shuttle   fleet    our 

\  cars  : 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and   where  is 

'  he? 

Did  1     sa\      basalt     for    niv    slab,    sons  ? 

Black 

"1'  was  ever  antique-black  1  meant  !  How- 
else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come 
beneal  li ': 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me. 

Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  oi\  and 

perchance 
Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so. 
The  Saviourai  his  sermon  on  the  mount. 
Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 
Ready  to  twitch    the  Nymph's  last  gar- 

ment  otf. 
Anil  Moses  with   the  tables  .  .  .  but  I 

know 

Ye  mark  me  not  !  What  dothej  whisper 

thee, 
Child  <<(  my  bowels,  A.nselm?    Ah,  ye 

hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  1  gasp 
Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy    tra- 
vertine 
Which    Gandolf      from      his      tomb-top 

chuckles  at  ! 

\e    love    me     all    of    jasper, 
then  !* 


T  is  jasper  ye  stand   pledged  to,  lest  l 

1  e 
!Mv     bath    must     needs    bo    left      behind, 
alas! 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a    pistachio 

nut . 

There  's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the 
world 

And    have  1    not     Saint     Tiaxed's   ear    to 
pra\ 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  maim 
scripts, 

And    mistresses   with   great  smooth  mar 

hlv    limb 

That  's  it  ye  carve  mj  epitaph  aright, 

I  noire     Latin,     nicked     phrase.     Tully's 

e      el  V     W  Old. 

and)   ware   like  Gandolfs  Beoond 

liln 
TllUy,    m\    masters?     Vlpian   serves    his 
need  ! 

And  then  how]   shall  lie   through  cen- 
turies, 

And  hear  t  he  bless.d  mutter  of  the  mass. 
And   see  Cod    made    and    eaten    all    day 
lone,'. 

\nd   feel  the  stead}  candle  flame,  and 

taste 

c>>{h\  strong  thick  stupefying  Incense- 
smoke  ! 

For  as  1  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 
1   fold  my  arms  as  if  tiuv   clasped  a 

crook, 
And  stretch  my   feet  forth  Btraightas 

stone  oan  point, 

\nd  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth, 
drop 

Into  croat     laps  and    folds  Of    soulptor's- 
w  oik  : 

And  as  von  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange 

t  houghts 
Grow,  with  a   certain  humming  in  my 

..11  s. 

About  the  life  before  1  lived  this  life. 

And   this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and 

priests. 
Saint  1  "raved  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount. 

Your  tall  pale   mother  with  her  talking 

And    new-found  agate    urns  as    fresh  as 

day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  dis- 
creet, 

Uia,  it  l  I  i's.  KB  \  T  quoth  our  friend  ? 
No  Tully,  Said  1.  I'lpian  at  the  best  ! 

Evil  and  brief  hath  boon  mv  pilgrimage. 
All/.fe/s, all, sons !  Elselgivethe  Pope 
M\  villas  1    WiU  ye  ever  eat  my  heart? 


kOlil.l    I     BROWNING 


(>\  i 


i  quick, 

They  glittei    Like     our  mothei 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impo 
frieze, 

OU t  i  ts  sta  i  h  I    I  i  1 1  1 1 1 ;, 

Wit  li  gra  pe     an<l  add  ;i  i  i  toi  a  nd  ;i  Tei  m, 
A  ml  to  the  in:  »uld  tie  a  lyns 

Tbat  in  lii ■:  si 1  uggle  throw  .  i  he  i  b 

down , 

nforl  me  on  my  entablal  ure 
Whereon  I  am  to  li'-  till  I  mil  t  a  ik 
"  \><,  I  live,  am    I  dead  ? "    There,  leave 

mi-,  there  ! 
For  \  e  havestal  itude 

'I  o  deal  ii     ye  «  i  th  it    God, 

Btom 
Oril  ttone   a  -  i  umble  !     '  !Iamm  .    q 

which  .  •-  eat  1 1  hrough 

A  nd  no  moi  e.  lapis  to  delip  hi  i  he     01  Id  ! 
Well,  go  !  I  ble  pei    i  liei  e, 

But  in 

,  like  depa  i  ir-ministra 

A  nd  leave  me  in  my  church,  i  he  church 

for  peace, 
Tbat  I  may  watch  at  lei  lure  If  held 
OM   Gandolf    at   me,    from    hi     onion- 
■ii'-, 

.11  be  '-n  vied  me    10  fair  she 

BAUL 

i 
Saii>   A  brier,  "  Al    lasl    i  hou  ai  i   come  ! 
Ere  I  tell,  ei  e  i  hou  i  peak, 

h  me  w  ell  !  "  Then   I 
bed  ii    ;i nd  did  ki    1 1 
A  nd  he  :  "  Sin  0 

foi  i  li .  counl  enanci    teni , 

i    drunken    nor  eal  en    ha  i  e    we  ; 
ooi  until  1 1 ■  'in  In    i ent 

1  "  I  know  ii<»  ol  hei   p<e< 

.  mm  ii  told , 

ffOO  I    i 

(•'■III  I  • 

of    t 

t'.-l   III. 

I  hern     i-inl    I  I  iluViln  ; 

.... 
in  clear  wntft  no 

l  fiit  kin.) 
of    1 1."    H  ner  bui 

■  ii  ■■    In  1  loi 

i    i  n 


Thou  return  vs  ith  the  joy  ful  a  surance 

the  Kin ^',  liveth  j  et, 
shall  our  lip  ■  ith  the  honey  be  bi  ight, 
with  the  w  hi  er  be  wet. 

ii  of  i  be  black  mid-tent's  silence, 
a    pace  of  three  da 

ound   hath   e  oa  ped  to  t  hy  ser« 
er  nor  ol  praise, 
To  betoken  t  hat  Saul  and  I  li    Spirit  1 

ended  i  heir  si  i  ife, 
A  nd  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  mon 
i  links  back  upon  life. 


"  Yet  now  m  y  h<  ai  t  leaps,  0  belo  fed  I 
did   ■  it  ii  his  dew 

fold    hair,  and    tho  te 
lilies    till  living  and  blue 
■  In  i,    broken  to  1     ine    i  ound    thy  harp- 
1 1  in"  ,   a  .  if  no  wild  heat 

i  aging  to  loi  t  ure  the  de  iei  t !  " 

in 

Then  I.  as  was  meei , 
down  to  the  God  of  m  •  fal  hei  i, 
and  i 'i  te  on  mj  feet, 

A  nil  run  o'er  i  he  sand  burnt  to  pov  der. 
The  tent  w  as  unlooped  ; 

I  pulled  up  i  be  :  |»<-n.i  t  ha!  obsti  ucted , 
and  undei  I    tooped  ; 

Elands  and  knees  on  tbe  slippery  grass- 
pal  ch,  .-ill  w  ii  hei  "'I  a  nd  gone, 

Thai  <•  •.  tend  t  to  1  he  second  enclosure,  I 

Till  l  fell    •  here  the  foldi  kirts  fly  open, 

Then  once  more  I  pi  aj  ed, 
A  nd  opened  t  lie  fold  tkiri    and  entered, 

and  w  as  not  a  fi  ;ii'l 

poke,   "Here   is   David,   thy     •  i 
'  "  a  ml  no  voice  replied. 
At  t  he  lii   i  I    aw  naughl  but  i  he  black- 

m      :  but  toon  I  de  ci  ied 
A  something  more  black  than  the  black- 

ne       the  vasl    i  he  upri 
Main  prop  which  su  tains  t  be  pa .•■  ilion  : 

and  slow  into  sight 
Grev  a  fig  ure  again  t  il    g  iganl  ic  and 

blacke  t  of  all. 
'I  hen  .i    unbeam,  that  burst  through  the 

tent-rool 


ct  as  I  li.'it  tent-prop,  both 
i ched  "Hi  w ide 
■  )n  the  great  cro       uppoi  t  in  the  oen« 

tre   that  goes  to  each    ide  ; 
He  i  -  in  ■  ed  nol  a  mu  cle,  i«nt  hung  then 
aughl  in  his  pangs 


6l2 


BRITISH  POETS 


Ami  waiting  his  change,  the  king-ser- 
pent all  heavily  hangs, 

Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine, 
till  deliverance  come 

With  the  spring-time. — 80  agonized  Saul, 
drear  and  stark,  blind  ami  dumb. 


Then  I  tuned    my  harp, — took  off  the 

lilies  we  twine  round  its  chords 
Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the 

noontide— those  sunbeams  like  swords! 
And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep 

know,  as,  one  after  one, 
So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till 

folding  be  done. 
They   are    white    and    untorn    by  the 

bushes,  for  lo,  they  have  fed 
Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water 

within  the  stream's  bed  ; 
And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging, 

as  star  follows  star 
Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us, — so 

blue  and  so  far  ! 


— Then  the  tune  for  which  quails  on  the 
cornland  will  each  leave  his  mate 

To  fly  after  the  player  ;  then,  what 
makes  the  crickets  elate 

Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another  ; 
and  then,  what  has  weight 

To  set  the  quick  jerboa  a-musing  out- 
side his  sand  house — 

There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder, 
half  bird  and  half  mouse  ! 

God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave 
them  our  love  and  our  fear, 

To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  chil- 
dren, one  family  here. 


Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reap- 
ers, their  wine-song,  when  hand 

Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good 
friendship,  and  great  hearts  expand 

And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's 
life. — And  then,  the  last  song 

When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his 
journey — "  Bear,  bear  him  along, 

With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead 
flowerets!     Are  balm  seeds  not  here 

To  console  us?  The  land  has  none  left 
such  as  he  on  the  bier. 

Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my 
brother  !  " — And  then,  the  glad  chant 

Of  the  marriage, — first  go  the  young 
maidens,  next,  she  whom  we  vaunt 


As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwell 
ing. — And  then,  the  great  march 

Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him 
and  buttress  an  arch 

Naught  can  break  ;  who  shall  harm  them. 
our  friends?  Then,  the  chorus  intoned 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory 
enthroned. 

But  I  stopped  here  :  for  here  in  the  dark- 
ness Saul  groaned. 

VIII 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such 
silence,  and  listened  apart  : 

And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul 
shuddered  :  and  sparkles  'gan  dart 

From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  tur- 
ban, at  once,  with  a  start, 

All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies 
courageous  at  heart. 

So  the  head  :  but  the  body  still  moved 
not,  still  hung  there  erect. 

And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing, 
pursued  it  unchecked, 

As  I  sang  : — 

IX 

"Oh,  our   manhood's   prime  vigor! 

No  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing 

nor  sinew  unbraced. 
Oh.  the  wild  joys  of  living  !  the  leaping 

from  rock  up  to  rock, 
The   strong  rending   of   boughs  from  the 

fir-tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water, 

the  hunt  of  the  bear, 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is 

couched  in  his  lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed 

over  with  gold  dust  divine, 
And    the    locust-flesh    steeped    in    the 

pitcher,  the  full  draught  of  wine, 
And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel 

where  bulrushes  tell 
That   the   water   was  wont  to  go  war- 
bling so  softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living  ! 

how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses 

forever  in  joy  ! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy 

father,  whose  sword  thou  didst  guard 
When   he  trusted  thee  forth   with   the 

armies,  for  glorious  reward  ? 
Didst  thou   see   the   thin   hands  of  thy 

mother,  held  up  as  men  sung 
The  low  song  of  the  nearly-departed,  and 

hear  her  faint  tongue 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


6l3 


Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness, 

'•  Let  one  more  attest, 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  through  a 

lifetime,  and  all  was  for  best  ?  " 
Ilien  they  sung  through  their  tears  in 

strong  triumph,  not  much,  but  the  rest. 
And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  con- 
test, the  working  whence  grew 
Such   result    as,    from    seething  grape- 
bundles,  the  spirit  strained  true  : 
And  the  friends  of   thy    boyhood — that 

boyhood  of  wonder  and  hope, 
Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future 

beyond  the  eye's  scope, — 
Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch  ;  a 

people  is  thine  ; 
And   all   gifts,   which   the   world  offers 

singly,  on  one  head  combine  ! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength, 

love  and  rage  (like  the  throe 
That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labor 

and  lets  the  gold  go) 
High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass 

it,  fame  crowning  them, — all 
Brought   to   blaze   on    the   head  of  one 

creature — King  Saul !  " 


And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit, — 
heart,  hand,  harp  and  voice, 

Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow, 
each  bidding  rejoice 

Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for 
• — as  when,  dare  I  say, 

The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service, 
strains  through  its  array, 

And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot— 
•■  Saul  !  "  cried  I.  and  stopped, 

And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow. 
Then  Saul,  who  hung  propped 

By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre. 
was  struck  by  his  name. 

Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy 
summons  goes  right  to  the  aim, 

And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  with- 
stand her,  that  held  (he  alone. 

While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and 
flowers)  on  a  broad  bust  of  stone 

A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breast- 
plate,— leaves  grasp  of  the  sheel  ? 

Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thun- 
derously down  to  his  feet. 

And  there  fronts  yon,  stark,  black,  but 
alive  yet,  your  mountain  of  old, 

With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeath- 
ing of  ages  untold- 
Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your 
battles,  each  furrow  and  scar 


Of  his  head  thrust   'twixt   you  and  the 

tempest— all  hail,  there  they  are  ! 
— Now   again   to  be  softened  with  ver- 
dure, again  hold  the  nest 
Of   the   dove,    tempt   the   goat   and   its 

young  to  the  green  on  his  crest 
For  their  food  in  the  ardors  of  summer. 

One  long  shudder  thrilled 
All   the  tent    till   the   very  air  tingled, 

then  sank  and  was  stilled 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before 

me.  released  and  aware. 
What  was   gone,   what   remained?     All 

to  traverse  'twixt  hope  and  despair. 
Death    was   past,  life   not   come  :  so  he 

waited.     Awhile  his  right  hand 
Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes  left  too 

vacant  forthwith  to  remand 
To  their  place  what  new  objects  should 

enter  :  't  was  Saul  as  before. 
I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes, 

nor  was  hurt  any  more 
Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn, 

ye  watch  from  the  shore. 
At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean — 

a  sun's  slow  decline 
Over     hills    which,    resolved    in    stern 

silence,  o'erlap  and  entwine 
Base  with    base   to   knit  strength  more 

intensely  :  so,  arm  folded  arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  sub- 
sided. 

XI 

AYhat  spell  or  what  charm, 

(For    awhile  there  was   trouble   within 
me),  what  next  should  I  urge 

To  sustain  hi«n  where  song  had  restored 
him  ? — Song  filled  to  the  verge 

His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  press- 
ing all  that  it  yields 

Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the 
beauty  :  beyond,  on  what  fields, 

Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect 
to  brighten  the  eye 

And   bring   blood  to   the  lip,  and  com- 
mend them  the  cup  they  put  by? 

lie  saith,  ''it  is  good  ;  "still  he  drinks 
not:  he  lets  me  praise  life, 

Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own 
part. 

XII 

Then  fancies  grew  life 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pas- 
ture, when  round  me  the  sheep 
Fed   in    silence— above,    the    one   eagle 

wheeled  slow  as  in  sleep  ; 
And  I  Ivy  in   mv    hollow  and  musei*  ««* 
the  world  that  might  lie 


614 


BRITISH    POETS 


'Neath    his  ken,  though    I    saw  hut  the 
strip  "twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky  : 

And    I    laughed — "Since    my    days    are 
ordained  to  be  passed  with  my  Hocks, 

Let  me  people  at  least,  with  1113-  fancies, 
the  plains  and  the  rocks, 

Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with, 
and  image  the  show 

Of   mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fash- 
ions I  hardly  shall  know  ! 

Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right 
uses,  the  courage  that  gains. 

And  the  prudence  that  keeps'what  men 
strive  for."     And  now  these  old  trains 

Of  vague  thought  came  again  ;  I  grew 
surer  ;  so,  once  more  the  string 

Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit, 
as  thus — 

XIII 

"Yea,  my  King," 
I  began — "  thou  dost   well  in  rejecting 

mere  comforts  that  spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  com- 
mon by  man  and  by  brute  : 
In  our  flesh   grows  the  branch  of  this 

life,  in  our  soul  it  bears  fruit. 
Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the 

tree, — how  its  stem  trembled  first 
Till  it   passed  the   kid's  lip,   the  stag's 

antler  ;  then  safely  outburst 
The  fan-branches  all   round  ;  and  thou 

mindest  when  these  too,  in  turn, 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed 

perfect :  yet  more  was  to  learn, 
E'en   the  good   that   comes  in  with  the 

palm-fruit.     Our  dates  shall  we  slight, 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all 

sorrow?  or  care  for  the  plight 
Of   the  palm's   self  whose  slow  growth 

produced   them  ?    Not  so  !  stem    and 

branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place, 

while  the  palm-wine  shall  stanch 
Every  wound  of  man's  spirit   in  winter. 

I  pour  thee  such  wine, 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for  I 

the  spirit  be  thine  ! 
By   the  spirit,    when  age   shall  o'ercome 

thee,  thou  still  shalt  enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when  incon- 

scious,  the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  run- 
ning !     Each  deed  thou  hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world  ! 

unt  il  e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking   down    on    the   earth,     though 

clouds    spoil    him,    though    tempests 
efface, 


Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced 

not,  must  everywhere  trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime,— 

so,  each  ray  of  thy  will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess. 

long  over,  shall  thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with 

ardor,  till  they  too  give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons,  who  in  turn, 

fill  the  South  and  the  North 
With  the   radiance  thy  deed  was   the 

germ  of.     Carouse  in  the  past ! 
But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit ;  thou 

diest  at  last : 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball, 

the  rose  at  her  height, 
So   with    man — so   his    power  and    his 

beauty  forever  take  flight. 
No  !     Again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul- 
wine  !     Look  forth  o'er  the  years  ! 
Thou  hast  done  now   with  eyes  for  the 

actual ;  begin  with  the  seer's ! 
Is  Saul  dead  ?    In  the  depth  of  the  vale 

make  his  tomb — bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four- 
square, till,  built  to  the  skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great  First  King 

slumbers  :  whose  fame  would  ye  know  ? 
Up  above  see  the  rock's    naked   face, 

where  the  record  shall  go 
In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe, — 

Such  was  Saul,  so  he  did  ; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by 

the  populace  chid, — 
For  not  half,  they'll  affirm,  is  comprised 

there  !     Which  fault  to  amend, 
In  the   grove  with   his  kind  grows  the 

cedar,  whereon  they  shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets  't  is  level  before  them) 

their  praise,  and  record 
AVith  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story, 

■ — the  stateman's  great  word 
Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  com- 
ment.    The  river  's  a-wave 
With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each 

other  when  prophet- winds  rave  : 
So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their 

due  and  their  part 
In  thy  being  !     Then,  first  of  the  mighty, 

thank  God  that  thou  art ! " 

XIV 

And  behold  while  I  sang  .  .  .  but  O 
Thou  who  didst  grant  me  that  day, 

And  before  it  not  seldom  hast  granted 
thy  help  to  essay, 

( 'any  on  and  complete  an  adventure,~« 
my  shield  and  my  sword 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


6i5 


In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  ser- 
vant, thy  word  was  my  word, — 

Still  be  with  me.  who  then  at  the  summit 
of  human  endeavor 

And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought 
could,  gazed  hopeless  as  ever 

On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me 
— till,  mighty  to  save, 

Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that 
distance — God's    throne    from    man's 


grave 


Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending — 

my  voice  to  my  heart 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what 

marvels  last  night  I  took  part, 
As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments, 

alone  with  my  sheep, 
And   still   fear   lest   the    terrible   glory 

evanish  like  sleep  ! 
For   I   wake   in  the  gray  dewy  covert, 

while  Hebron  upheaves 
The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his 

shoulder,  and  Kidron  retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine. 

xv 

I  say  then, — my  song 

While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch, 
and  ever  more  strong 

Made  a  proffer  of  good  to  console  him — 
he  slowly  resumed 

His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly. 
The  right  hand  replumed 

His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  compos- 
ure, adjusted  the  swathes 

Of  his  turban,  and  see — the  huge  sweat 
that  his  countenance  bathes, 

He  wipes  off  with  the  robe  ;  and  he  girds 
now  his  loins  as  of  yore. 

And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price, 
with  the  clasp  set  before. 

He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory, — ere 
error  had  bent 

The  broad  brow  from  the  daily  com- 
munion :  and  still,  though  much  spent 

Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front 
you,  the  same,  God  did  choose, 

To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste, 
desecrate,  never  quite  lose. 

So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop  till, 
stayed  by  the  pile 

Of  his  armor  and  war-cloak  ami  gar- 
ments, he  leaned  there  awhile, 

And  sat  out,  my  singing, — one  arm  round 
the  tent-prop,  to  raise 

His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack 
— till  I  touched  011  the  praise 

I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the 
man  patient  there  ; 


And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  for- 
ward.    Then  first  I  was  'ware 

That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just 
above  his  vast  knees 

Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side 
around  me,  like  oak  roots  which  please 

To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers. 
I  looked  up  to  know 

If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace  ; 
he  spoke  not,  but  slow 

Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till 
he  laid  it  with  care 

Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will, 
on  my  brow  :  through  my  hair 

The  large  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he 
bent  back  my  head,  with  kind  power — 

All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as 
men  do  a  flower. 

Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great 
eyes  that  scrutinized  mine — 

And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him  ! 
but  where  was  the  sign  ? 

I  yearned — "  Could  I  help  thee,  my 
father,  inventing  a  bliss, 

I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both 
the  future  and  this  ; 

I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as 
good,  ages  hence, 

As  this  moment, — had  love  but  the  war- 
rant, love's  heart  to  dispense  !  " 

XVI 

Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.  No  harp 
more — no  song  more  !  outbroke — 


"  I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  crea- 
tion :  I  saw  and  I  spoke  : 

I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose, 
received  in  my  brain 

And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  hand- 
work— returned  liim  again 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure  :  I 
spoke  as  I  saw  : 

I  nport,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work — 
all's  love,  yet  all's  law. 

Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent 
me.     Each  faculty  tasked 

To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss, 
where  adewdrop  was  asked. 

Have  I  knowledge?  confounded  it 
shrivels  at  Wisdom  laid  bare. 

Have  I  forethought  ?  how  purblind,  how 
blank  to  the  Infinite  ( 'are  ! 

Do  I  task  any  (acuity  highest,  to  image 
success? 

I  I >  1 1 1  open  my  eyes,— and  perfection, 
no  more  and  no  less, 


6i6 


BRITISH   PORTS 


In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me, 

and  God  is  seen  God 
in  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in 

the  soul  and  t  he  (did. 
And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me, 

I  ever  renew 
(With  th.it  stoop  of  the  soul   which  in 

bending  upraises  it  too) 
The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect 

to  God's  all-complete, 
As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,    I 

climb  to  his  feet. 
Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience, 

this  deity  known, 
I  shall  due  to    discover  some   province, 

some  gift  of  my  own. 
There's  a.   faculty    pleasant  to  exercise, 

hard  to  hoodwink, 
I  am  fain    to  keep  still   in  abeyance,    (I 

laugh  as  1  think) 
Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it, 

wot  ye.  I  worst 
E'en  the  Giver   in  one  gift. — Behold,   I 

could  love  if  I  durst ! 
But  I  sink  the   pretension   as  fearing   a 

man  may  o'ertake 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love  : 

I  abstain  for  love's  sake. 
— What,    my   soul  ?    see    thus    far    and 

no   farther  ?    when    doors   great   and 

small, 
Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch, 

should  the  hundredth  appall? 
I)i  the  least  things  have  faith,    yet    dis- 
trust in  the  greatest  of  all  ? 
Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's 

ultimate  gift, 
That   I   doubt    his   own  love   can   com- 
pete with  it?    Here,  the  parts  shift? 
Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  Creator, — 

the  end.  what  Began? 
"Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent   yearning 

do  all  for  this  man, 
And  dare  doubt  he   alone  shall  not   help 

him,  who  yet  alone  can  ? 
Would  it  ever  have   entered   my   mind, 

the  hare  will,  much  less  power. 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of, 

the  marvellous  dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with  ? 

to  make  such  a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and   then   such   an   earth 

for  insphering  the  whole? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my   mind  (as  my 

warm  tears  attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on, 

and  give  one  more,  the  best? 
iy,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him, 

maintain  at  the  height 


Tli is  perfection, — succeed  with  life's 
day-spring,  death's  minute  of  night  ? 

Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch 
Saul  the  mistake, 

Saul  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now 
— and  bid  him  awake 

From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  pre- 
lude, to  find  himself  set 

Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life, 
— a  new  harmony  yet 

To  be  run,  and  continued,  and  ended — 
who  knows  ? — or  endure  ! 

The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream, 
of  the  rest  to  make  sure  ; 

By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  win- 
ning intensified  bliss, 

And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose, 
by  the  struggles  in  this. 

XT  III 

"I    believe  it!     'T  is  thou,   God,   that 

givest,  't  is  I  who  receive  : 
In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my 

power  to  believe. 
All 's  one  gift :  thou  canst  grant  it  more- 
over, as  prompt  to  my  prayer 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,   as  I  open 

these  arms  to  the  air. 
From  thy  will   stream   the   worlds,   life 

and  nature,  thy  dread  Sabaoth  : 
I  will  ?  —the   mere  atoms  despise  me  ! 

Why  am  I  not  loth 
To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too? 

Why  is  it  I  dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance  ? 

What  stops  my  despair? 
This  ; — 't  is  not  what   man   Does   which 

exalts  him,  but  what  man  Would  do  ! 
See  the  King— I  would  help  him  but  can- 
not, the  wishes  fall  through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow, 

grow  poor  to  enrich, 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,    I 

would — knowing  which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.     Oh, 

speak  through  me  now  ! 
Would    I    suffer  for   him   that  I  love? 

So  wouldst  thou — so  wilt  thou! 
So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineffa- 

blest,  uttermost  crown — 
And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor 

leave  up  nor  down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in  !     It 

is  by  no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,   that   salva- 
tion joins  issue  with  death  ! 
As  thy   Love    is  discovered  almighty, 

almighty  be  proved 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


6 1 


Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for   it, 

of  being  Beloved  ! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most  ;  the 

strongest  shall  stand  the  most  weak. 
'T  is  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry 

for!  my  flesh,  that  I  seek 
In  the  Godhead  !  I  seek  and  I  find  it.     O 

Saul,  it  shall  be 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee  ; 

a  Man  like  to  me, 
Thou  shalt   love   and  be   loved   by,  for- 
ever :  a  Hand  like  this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of   new   life 

to  thee  !    See  the  Christ  stand  1  " 

XIX 

I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way 

home  in  the  night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me, 

to  left  and  to  right, 
Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen, 

the  alive,  the  aware  : 
I    repressed,    I    got    through    them   as 

hardly,  as  strngglingly  there, 
As    a    runner    beset    by    the   populace 

famished  for  news — ■ 
Life   or  death.     The   whole   earth   was 

awakened,  hell  loosed  with  her  crews  ; 
And  the  stars  of  night   beat   with  emo- 
tion, and  tingled  and  shot 
Out  in  fire  the  strong  pain  of  pent  knowl- 
edge :  but  I  fainted  not. 
For  the  Eland  still  impelled  me  at  once 

and  supported,  suppressed 
All  the  tumult,    and  quenched   it   with 

quiet,  and  holy  behest, 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and 

the  earth  sank  to  rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had 

withered  from  earth — 
Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the 

day's  tender  birth  ; 
In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the 

gray  of  the  lulls  ; 
In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath  ; 

in  the  sudden  wind-thrills  : 
In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  off, 

eacli  with  eye  sidling  still 
Though  averted  with  wonder  and  ilread  ; 

in  the  birds  stitT  and  chill 
That  rose  heavily,  as  I  approached  them, 

made  stupid  with  awe  : 
E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, — 

he  felt  the  new  law. 
The  same   stared    in   the   white   humid 

fares  upturned  by  the  flowers; 
The  same    worked    in    the  heart  of  the 

cedar  and  moved  the  vine-bowers: 


And  the  little   brooks   witnessing   mur- 
mured, persistent  and  low, 

With   their   obstinate,    all    but   hushed 
voices — "  E'en  so,  it  is  so  !  " 

1845.     1855.1 

A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD 

Let's  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Strive  nor  weep : 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 

— Only  sleep  ! 

What  so  wild  as  words  are? 

I  and  thou 
In  debate,  as  birds  are, 

Hawk  on  bough  ! 

See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak  ! 
Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek  ! 

What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee  ? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is 

Shun  the  tree — ■ 

Where  the  apple  reddens 

Never  pry — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 

Eve  and  I. 

Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm  ! 
Be  a  man  and  fold  me 

With  thine  arm  ! 

Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love  I 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love^ 

Think  thy  thought — 

Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

Both  demands, 
Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands. 

That  shall  be  to-morrow, 

Not  to-night. 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight  : 

— Must  a  little  weep,  Love, 

(Foolish  me  !) 
And  so  fall  asleep,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee.  1855. 

1  Thf»  first  part  of  the  poem,  up  to  Section  X, 
was  published  In  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics, 
1845  ;  the  complete  poem,  in  Men  and  Women, 
1855. 


6i8 


BRITISH    POETS 


EVELYN   HOPE 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book -shelf ,  this  her  bed  ; 
She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium- 
flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  tlie  glass  ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think  : 
The  shutters   are    shut,   no    light   may 

pass 
Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's 
chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she   had  scarcely  heard   my 
name  ; 
It  was  not 'her  time  to  love  ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir. 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares. — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of 
her. 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  j-ou  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 
And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged 
so  wide, 
Each   was   naught  to  each,  must  I   be 

told  ? 
We    were    fellow   mortals,   naught   be- 
side ? 

No,  indeed  !   for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And   creates    the    love    to   reward   the 
love : 
I  claim  you   still,  for  my  own   love's 
sake  ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 
Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a 
few  : 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come — at  last  it  will, 
When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what    meant  (I 
shall  say) 
In  the   lower   earth,  in   the  years  long 
still, 
That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 
Why   your   hair  was  amber,  I  shall  di- 
vine, 
And   your  mouth  of  your  own  gera- 
nium's red — 


And   what  you   would    do  with   me,  in 
line. 
In  the.  new  life  come  in  the  old  life's 
stead. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since 
then, 
Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
(Sained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 
Ransacked     the     ages,     spoiled    the 
climes ; 
Yet   one   thing,  one,   in   my   soul's   full 
scope, 
Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me  : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope  ! 
What  is  the  issue  ?    Let  us  see  ! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold; 
There  was  place  and  to   spare   for   the 
frank  young  smile, 
And   the  red  young  mouth,  and  the 
hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to 
keep : 
See,  I   shut   it   inside   the  sweet  cold 
hand ! 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep  ! 
You   will  wake,  and   remember,   and 
understand.  1855. 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS 

Where  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening 
smiles 

Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  through  the  twilight, 
stray  or  stop 
As  they  crop — 
Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and 

gay. 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since 
Held    his  court   in,  gathered   councils, 
wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

Now, — the  country  does  not  even  boast 
a  tree, 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain 
rills 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they 
run 

Into  one,) 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


6/g 


Where   the   domed   and  daring    palace 
shot  its  spires 
Up  like  fires 
O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made   of  marble,  men  might  march  on 
nor  be  pressed, 
Twelve  abreast. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of 
grass 
Never  was  ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'er- 
spreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone — 
Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy 
and  woe 
Long  ago : 
Lust  of  glory  pricked   their  hearts  up, 
dread  of  shame 
Struck  them  tame  ; 
And   that  glory   and  that  shame  alike, 
the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 

Now, — the   single   little   turret   that  re- 
mains 
On  the  plains. 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching   houseleek's  head  of 
blossom  winks 
Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in 
ancient  time 
Sprang  sublime, 
And    a    burning    ring,    all    round,   the 
chariots  traced 
As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his   minions  and 
his  dames 
Viewed  the  games. 

And  I  know,   while  thus  the  quiet-col- 
ored eve 

Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding,  all  cur  many-tinkling 
fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And   the   slopes    and    rills  in   undistin- 
guished gray 
Melt  away — 
That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow 
hair 

Waits  me  there 
In    the    turret    whence   the  charioteers 
caught  soul 
For  the  goal, 


When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks 
now,  breathless,  dumb 
Till  I  come. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide. 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples, 
all  the  grades 
Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts,- - 
and  then, 
All  the  men ! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not.  she 
will  stand, 
Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first 
embrace 
Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and 
speech 
Each  on  each. 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters 
forth 

South  and  North, 
And  the}'  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar 
high 
As  the  sky, 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full 
force — 
Gold,  of  course. 
Oh  heart !  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood 
that  burns  ! 
Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and 
sin  ! 

Shut  them  in, 
With   their   triumphs  and   their  glories 
and  the  rest ! 

Love  is  best.  1855. 

UP  AT    A  VILLA— DOWN    IN  THE 
CITY 

(AS  DISTINGUISHED  BY  AN  ITALIAN  PERSON 
OF  QUALITY) 

Had  I   but  plenty    of    money,    money 

enough  and  to  spare, 
The   house   for     me   no   doubt,  were   a 

house  in  the  city-square; 
Ah.  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads 

at  the  window  there  ! 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  some- 
thing to  hear,  at  least  ! 

Then-,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a 
perfect  feast : 

While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain 
it,  no  more  than  a  beast. 


620 


BRITISH   POETS 


Well  now,  look  at  our  villa!  stuck  like 

the  horn  of  a  bull 
Just  on  a   mountain-edge  as  bare  as  the 

creature's  skull, 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly 

a  leaf  to  pull ! 
— 1  scratch   my  own,  sometimes,  to  see 

if  the  hair's  turned  wool. 

But  the   city,  oh   the   city — the   square 

with  the  houses  !     Why, 
They  are   stone-faced,  white   as  a  curd, 

there's  something^  take  the  eye  ! 
Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single 

front  awry  ; 
You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who 

saunters,  who  hurries  by  ; 
Green  blinds,  as  a   matter   of  course,  to 

draw  when  the  sun  gets  high  ; 
And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which 

are  painted  properly. 

What  of  a  villa  ?    Though  winter  be  over 

in  March  by  rights, 
'T  is   May   perhaps   ere  the   snow  shall 

have  withered  well  off  the  heights  : 
You've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before, 

where  the  oxen  steam  and  wheeze. 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the 

faint  gray  olive-trees. 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you  ?    You've 

summer  all  at  once  ; 
In  a  day  he  leaps   complete   with  a  few 

strong  April  suns. 
'Mid   the   sharp  short    emerald    wheat, 

scarce  risen  three  fingers  well, 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows 

out  its  great  red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the 

children  to  pick  and  sell. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square  ?    There  's  a 

fountain  to  spout  and  splash  ! 
In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs  :  in  the 

shine  such  foambows  flash 
On   the   horses   with   curling  fish-tails, 

that  prance  and  paddle  and  pash 
Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch — fifty 

gazers  do  not  abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds 

round  her  waist  in  a  sort  of  sash. 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to 

see  though  jrou  linger. 
Except     yon   cypress   that    points  like 

death's  lean  lifted  forefinger. 
Some  think   fireflies  pretty,  when   they 

mix  i'  the  corn  and  mingle, 


Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks 

of  it  seem  a-tin£j,ie. 
Late   August,   or   early   September,  the 

stunning  cicala  is  sluill. 
And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine 

round  the  resinous  firs  on  the  hill. 
Enough  of  the  seasons, — I  spare  you  the 

months  of  the  fever  and  chill. 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the 

blessed  church-bells  begin  : 
No  sooner  the    bells   leave   off  than   the 

diligence  rattles  in  : 
You  get   the  pick  of  the  news,   and  it 

costs  you  never  a  pin. 
By  and  by  there's  the  travelling  doctor 

gives  pills,  lets  blood,  draws  teeth  ; 
Or  the  Pulcinello- trumpet  breaks  up  the 

market  beneath. 
At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture — 

the  new  play,  piping  hot ! 
And  a   notice    how,  only  this   morning, 

three  liberal  thieves  were  shot. 
Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most 

fatherly  of  rebukes. 
And   beneath,  with   his   crown   and  his 

lion,    some    little    new     law   of    the 

Duke's  ! 
Or  a  sonnet  with   floweiy  marge,  to  the 

Reverend  Don  So-and-so, 
Who  is  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  Saint 

Jerome,  and  Cicero, 
"  And     moreover,"     (the    sonnet    goes 

rhyming,)  "  the  skirts  of    Saint    Paul 

has  reached, 
Having    preached    us    those   six    Lent- 
lectures  more   unctuous  than  ever  he 

preached." 
Noon  strikes, — here  sweeps  the  proces- 
sion !  our    Lady    borne    smiling    and 

smart 
With  a  pink   gauze  gown  all    spangles, 

and  seven  swords  stuck  in  her  heart  ! 
Bang- whang-whang    goes     the     drum, 

iootle-ie-tootle  the  fife  ; 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still  :  it's  the 

greatest  pleasure  in  life. 

But    bless    you,    it's  dear — it  's    dear! 

fowls,  wine,  at  double  the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt, 

and  what  oil  pays  passing  the  gate 
It's  a  horror   to   think  of.     And   so,  the 

villa  for  me,  not  the  city  ! 

Beggars  can  scarcely   be   choosers  :  but 

still— ah,  the  pity,  the  pity  ! 
Look,  two  and   two  go   the  priests,  then 

the  monks  with  cowls  and  sandals. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


6?l 


And   the    penitents    dressed    in    white 

shirts,  a-iiolding  the  yellow  candles  ; 
One,  he  carries  a   flag   up  straight,  and 

another  across   with  handles, 
And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear, 

for  the  better  prevention  of  scandals  : 
Bang-wJiang-whang  goesthe  Arum,  tootle- 

te-tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no 

such  pleasure  in  life  !  1855. 

A  TOCCATA  OF  GALTJPPI'S 

Oh  Galuppi,  Baldassare,  this  is  very  sad 

to  rind  ! 
I  can  hardly  misconceive  you;  it  would 

prove  nie  deaf  and  blind  ; 
But  although  I  take  your  meaning,  'tis 

with  such  a  heavy  mind  ! 

Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and 
here  's  all  the  good  it  brings. 

What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice 
where  the  merchants  were  the  kings, 

Where  St.  Mark's  is.  where  the  Doges 
used  to  wed  the  sea  with  rings? 

Ay,  because  the  sea  's  the  street  there  ; 

and  't  is  arched  by  .  .  .  what  you  call 
.  .  .  Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it. 

where  they  kept  the  carnival: 
I  was  never  out  of  England — it 's  as  if  I 

saw  it  all. 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure 
when  the  sea  was  warm  in  May? 

Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight, 
burning  ever  to  mid-day. 

When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures 
for  the  morrow,  do  you  say  ? 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round 

and  lips  so  red, — 
On    her   neck  the   small   face  buoyant, 

like  a  bell-flower  on  its  bed. 
O'er  thebreast's  superb  abundance  where 

a  man  might  base  his  head  ? 

Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them — 
they  'd  break  talk  off  and  afford 

— She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet — 
he,  to  finger  on  his  Bword, 

While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas, 
stately  at  the  clavichord  ? 

What?  Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive, 
sixths  diminished,  sigh  on  sigh, 

Told  them  something?  Those  suspen- 
sions those  solutions  —  ''  Must  we 
die?" 


Those  commiserating  sevenths — "Life 
might  last !  we  can  but  try  !  " 

"Were    you   happy ?" — " Yes." — "And 

are  you  still  as  happy  ?  " — "  Yes.    And 

you  ?  " 
— "Then,    more   kisses!" — "Did  I  stop 

them,    when    a    million     seemed     so 

few?" 
Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it 

must  be  answered  to! 

So,  an  octave  struck  the  answer.  Oh, 
they  praised  you,  I  dare  say  ! 

"  Brave  Galuppi  !  that  was  music  !  good 
alike  at  grave  and  gay  ! 

I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I 
hear  a  master  play  !  " 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure  : 

till  in  due  time,  one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing, 

some  with  deeds  as  well  undone, 
Death   stepped   tacitly   and   took   them 

where  they  never  see  the  sun. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to 

take  my  stand  nor  swerve. 
While   I  triumph  o'er   a   secret   wrung 

from  nature's  close  reserve. 
In  you  come  witli  your  cold  music  till  I 

creep  through  every  nerve. 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creak- 
in.;'  where  a  house  was  burned  : 

"Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with, 
Venice  spent  what  Venice  earner!. 

The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal — where 
a  soul  can  be  discerned. 

"  Yours  for  instance  :  you  know  physics, 

something  of  geology, 
Mathematics  are  your  pastime;   souls 

shall  rise  in  their  degree  ; 
Butterflies     may     dread     extinction, — 

you  '11  n<>t  'he,  it  cannot  bo  ! 

"  As  fur  Venice  and  her  people,  merely 

born  to  bloom  and  drop, 
Here  on  earth  tiny  bore  their  fruitage, 

mirth  and  folly  wen;  the  crop: 
What  of  soul   was  left,  I  wonder,  when 

the  kissing  had  to  stop? 

"Dust  and  ashes ! "  So  you  creak  it, 
and  I  want  the  heart  to  scold. 

Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too 
— what's  Income  of  all  the  gold 

1<>  hang  and   brush   their  bosoms! 
I  feel  chilly  and  grown  old.         1855. 


$22 


BRITISH   POETS 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 

The    morn    when    first   it   thunders    in 
March, 
The  eel  in  the  pond  gives  a  leap,  they 
say  : 
As  I  leaned  and  looked  over  the  aloed 
arch 
Of  the  villa-gate  this  warm  March  day, 
No  flash  snapped,  no  dumb  thunder  rolled 
In    the  valley  beneath    where,  white 
and  wide 
And  washed  by  the  morning  water  gold, 
Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain-side. 

River  and  bridge  and  street  and  square 

Lay  mine,  as  much  at  my  beck  and  call, 
Through  the  live  translucent  bath  of  air, 

As  the  sights  in  a  magic  crystal  ball. 
And  of  all  I  saw  and  of  all  1  praised. 

The  most  to  praise  and  the  best  to  see, 
Was    the    startling     bell-tower     Giotto 
raised  : 

But  why  did  it  more  than  startle  me? 

Giotto,  how,  with  that  soul  of  yours. 
Could  you  play  me  false  who  loved  you 
so? 
Some   slights  if  a  certain  heart   endures 
Yet  it  feels,  I  would  have  your  fellows 
know  ! 
I'  faith,  I  perceive  not  why  I  should  care 
To  break  a  silence  that  suits  them  best, 
But  the  thing  grows  somewhat  hard  to 
bear 
When  I  find  a  Giotto  join  the  rest. 

On  the  arch  where  olives  overhead 

Print  the  blue  sky  with  twig  and  leaf, 
(That     sharp-curled     leaf    which    they 
never  shed) 
'  Twixt  the  aloes,  I  used  to  lean  in  chief, 
And   mark   through   the   winter    after- 
noons, 
By  a  gift  God  grants  me  now  and  then, 
In   the   mild   decline  of  those  suns  like 
moons, 
Who   walked  in  Florence,  besides   her 
men. 

They  might  chirp  and  chaffer,  come  and 
go 
For  pleasure  or  profit,  her  men  alive — 
My   business   was  hardly  with  them,    I 
trow, 
But   with   empty  cells  of  the   human 
hive  ; 
—With   the   chapter-room,  the   cloister- 
porch, 


The  church's  apsis,  aisle  or  nave, 
lis  crypt,  one  fingers  along  with  a  torch. 
Its  face  set  lull  for  the  sun  to  shave. 

Wherever  a  fresco  peels  and  drops, 
Wherever    an    outline    weakens    and 
wanes 
Till  the  latest  life  in  the  painting  stops, 
Stands  One  whom  each  fainter  pulse- 
tick  pains  : 
One,  wishful  each  scrap  should   clutch 
the  brick, 
Each    tinge    not    wholly    escape    the 
plaster, 
— A  lion  who  dies  of  an  ass's  kick, 

The  wronged  great  soul  of  an   ancient 
Master. 

For  oh,  this  world  and  the  wrong  it  does  ! 
They  are  safe   in   heaven   with   their 
backs  to  it, 
The  Michaels  and  Rafaels,  you  hum  and 
buzz 
Round  the  works  of,  you  of  the   little 
wit ! 
Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth's  old 

scope, 
Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face, 
And  have  all  attained  to  be  poets,  I  hope  ? 
'T  is  their  holiday  now,  in  any  case. 

Much  they  reck  of  your  praise  and  you  ! 

But  the  wronged  great  souls — can  they 

be  quit 

Of  a  world  where  their  work  is  all  to  do, 

Where  you  style  them,  you  of  the  little 

wit, 
Old  Master  This  and  Early  the  Other, 
Not   dreaming  that  Old  and   New   are 
fellows : 
A  younger  succeeds  to  an  elder  brother, 
Da    Vincis   derive  in  good  time  from 
Dellos. 

And  here  where  your  praise  might  yield 
returns, 
And  a   handsome   word  or   two   give 
help, 
Here,  after  your  kind,  the  mastiff  girns 

And  the  puppy  pack  of  poodles  yelp. 
What,  not  a  word  for  Stefano  there, 

Of  brow  once  prominent  and  starry, 
Called    Nature's    Ape,  and  the    world's 
despair 
For  his  peerless  painting?  (See  Vasari.) 

There    stands  the  Master.     Study,   my 
friends, 
What  a  man's  work  comes  to  I     So   ha 
plans  it, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


621 


Performs  it,  perfects  it,  makes  amends 
For  the  toiling  and  moiling,  and  then, 
sic  transit! 
Happier  the  thrifty  blind-folk  labor, 
With  upturned  eye  while  the  hand   is 
busy , 
Not  sidling  a  glance  at  the  coin  of  their 
neighbor  ! 
'T  is  looking  downward  that  makes  one 
dizzy. 

"  If  you  knew  their  work  you  would  deal 
your  dole." 
May  I  take  upon  me  to  instruct  you  ? 
When   Greek  Art  ran  and  reached  the 
goal, 
Thus  much  had  the  world  to  boast   in 
friictn — 
The  Truth  of  Man.  as  by  God  first  spoken, 

Which  the  actual  generations  garble, 
Was  re-uttered,  and  Soul  (which  Limbs 
betoken) 
And  Limbs  (Soul  informs)  made  new 
in  marble. 

So  you  saw  yourself  as  you  wished  you 
were, 
As  you  might  have  been,  as  you  can- 
not be ; 
Earth  here,  rebuked  by  Olympus  there: 
And  grew  content  in  your  poor  degree 
With  your  little  power,  by  those  statues' 
godhead, 
And  your  little  scope,  by  their  eyes' 
full  sway, 
And    your  little    grace,  by  their    grace 
embodied 
And  your  little  date,  by  their  forms 
that  stay. 

You  would  fain  be  kinglier,  say,  than  I 
am  ? 
Even  so.  you  will  not  sit  like  Theseus, 
You  would  prove  a  model  ?    The  Son   of 
Priam, 
Has  yet  the   advantage   in   arms'  and 
knees'  use. 
You're  wroth — can  you  slay  your  snake 
like  Apollo? 
You're     grievecf— still     Niobe   's     the 
grander ! 
You   live — there's  the   Racers'  frieze   to 
follow  : 
You  die — there's  the  dying  Alexander. 

So,   testing    your    weakness     by     their 
strengl  h, 
Your  meagre  charms  by  their  rounded 
beauty, 


Measured   by   Art  in   your  breadth  and 
length, 
You  learned — to  submit  is  a   mortal's 
duty. 
— When  1  say  "you"  'tis  the  common 
soul, 
The   collective,  I  mean :   the  race  of 
Man 
That  receives  life  in  parts  to  live  in  a 
whole, 
And    grow    here  according   to  God's 
clear  plan. 

Growth  came  when,  looking  your  last 
on  them  all, 
You  turned  your  eyes  inwardly  one 
fine  day 
And  cried  with  a  start — What  if  we  so 
small 
Be  greater  and  grander  the  while  than 
they  ? 
Are  they  perfect  of  lineament,  perfect  of 
stature  ? 
In  both,  of  such  lower  types  are  we 
Precisely  because  of  our  wider  nature; 
For  time,  theirs — ours,  for  eternity. 

To-day's  brief  passion  limits  their  range  ; 
It  seethes  with  the  morrow  for  us  and 
more. 
They  are  perfect — how  else?  they  shall 
never  change : 
We  are  faulty — why  not?    we  have 
time  in  store. 
The  Artificer's  hand  is  not  arrested 
With  us  ;  we  are  rough-hewn,  nowise 
polished : 
They  stand  for  our  copy,  and  once,  in- 
vested 
With  all  they  can  teach,  we  shall  see 
them  abolished. 

'T  is  a  life-long  toil  till   our  lump  be 
leaven — 
The  better  !     What's  come  to  perfec- 
tion perishes. 
Things  learned  on  earth,  we  shall  practise 
in  heaven  : 
Works  clone   least   rapidly,  Art  most 
cherishes. 
Thyself  shalt  afford  the  example.  Giotto  \ 
Thy  one  work,  not  to  decrease  or  dim- 
inish, 
Done  at  a  stroke,  was  just  (was  it  not  ?) 
"O!" 
Thy  great  Campanile  is  still  to  finish. 

Is  it  true  that  we  are  now,  and  shall  bo 
hereafter, 


b2X 


BRITISH  POETS 


But  what  and  where  depend  on  life's 
minute? 
Hails  heavenly  cheer  or  infernal  laughter 
Our  first  step  out  of  the  gulf  or  in  it  ? 
Shall  Man,  such  step  within  bis  endeavor, 
Man's    fare,  have   no   more   play  and 
action 
Than  joy  which  is  crystallized  forever, 
Or  grief,  an  eternal  petrifaction  ? 

On   which   I   conclude,  that   the   early 
painters, 
To  cries  of  "  Greek  Art  and  what  more 
wish  you  ?  " — 
Replied,      "  To     become     now     self-ac- 
quainters, 
And   paint   man,   man,  whatever  the 
issue  ! 
Make  new  hopes  shine  through  the  flesh 
they  fray. 
New   fears   aggrandize   the   rags  and 
tatters : 
To  bring  the  invisible  full  into  play  ! 
Let  the  visible  go  to  the  dogs — what 
matters  ?  " 

Give  these,  I  exhort  you,  their  guerdon 
and  glory 
For  daring  so  much,  before  they  well 
did  it. 
The  first  of  the  new,  in  our  race's  story, 
Beats  the  last  of  the  old  ;   't  is  no  idle 
quiddit. 
The  worthies  began  a  revolution. 

Which  if  on  earth  you  intend  to  ac- 
knowledge, 
Why,  honor  them  now  !  (ends  my  allo- 
cution) 
Nor  confer  your  degree  when  the  folk 
leave  college. 

There  's  a  fancy  some  lean  to  and  others 
hate — 
That,  when  this  life  is  ended,  begins 
New  work  for  the  soul  in  another  state, 
Where  it  strives  and  gets  weary,  loses 
and  wins  : 
Where   the   strong  and   the  weak,  this 
world's  congeries, 
Repeat  in  large  what  they  practised  in 
small, 
Through    life    after    life    in    unlimited 
series  ; 
Only  the  scale 's  to  be  changed,  that 's 
all. 

Yet  I  hardly  know.     When  a  soul  has 
seen 
By  the  means  of  Evil  that  Good  is  best, 


And,  through  earth  and  its  noise,  what 
is  heaven's  serene, — 
When  our  faith  in  the  same  has  stood 
the  test — 
Why  the  child  grown  man,  you  burn  the 
rod, 
The  uses  of  labor  are  surely  done  ; 
There  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people  of 
God: 
And  I  have  had  troubles  enough,  for 
one. 

But  at  any  rate  I  have  loved  the  season 

Of  Art's  spring-birth  so  dim  and  dewy  ; 
My  sculptor  is  Nicolo  the  Pisan, 

My  painter — who  but  Cimabue  ? 
Nor  ever  was  man  of  them  all  indeed, 

From  these  to  Ghibexti  and  Ghirlan- 
dajo, 
Could  say  that  he  missed  my  critic-meed. 

So,    now   to   my    special    grievance — 
heigh-ho ! 

Their  ghosts  still  stand,  as  I  said  before, 
Watching    each    fresco     flaked     and 
rasped, 
Blocked    up,    knocked    out,    or    white- 
washed o'er : 
— No   getting  again  what  the  church 
has  grasped  ! 
The  works  on  the  wall  must  take  their 
chance ; 
"  Works  never  conceded  to  England's 
thick  clime  !  " 
(I  hope  they  prefer  their  inheritance 
Of  a  bucketful  of  Italian  quick-lime.) 

When  they  go  at  length,  with  such  a 
shaking 
Of  heads  o'er  the  old  delusion,  sadly 
Each  master  his  way  through  the  black 
streets  taking, 
Where    many   a    lost    work   breathes 
though  badly — 
Why  don't  they  bethink  them  of  who  has 
merited  ? 
Why  not  reveal,  while  their  pictures 
dree 
Such  doom,  how  a  captive  might  be  out- 
ferreted  ? 
Why  is  it  they  never  remember  me  ? 

Not  that  I  expect  the  great  Bigordi, 
Nor  Sandro  to  hear  me,  chivalric, belli- 
cose ; 
Nor  the   wronged   Lippino  ;  and  not  a 
word  I 
Say  of  a  scrap  of  Fra  Angelico's: 
But  are  you  too  fine,  Taddeo  Gaddi, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


625 


To  grant  me  a  taste  of  your  intonaco, 
Some  Jerome  that  seeks  the  heaven  with 
a  sad  eye  ? 
Not  a  churlish  saint,  Lorenzo  Monaco  ? 

Could  not  the  ghost  with  the  close  red 
cap. 
My  Pollajolo,  the  twice  a  craftsman, 
Save  me  a  sample,  give  me  the  hap 
Of  a  muscular  Christ  that  shows  the 
draughtsman  ? 
No  Virgin  by  him  the  somewhat   petty, 
Of  finical  touch  and  tempera  crumbly — 
Could  /iot  Alesso  Baldoviuetti 

Contribute     so     much,     I     ask     him 
humbly  ? 

Margheritone  of  Arezzo, 

With     the     grave-clothes     garb     and 
swaddling  barret, 
(Why  purse  up  mouth  and  beak  in  a  pet 
so. 
You   bald   old    saturnine    poll-clawed 
parrot  ?) 
Not  a  poor  glimmering  Crucifixion, 
Where  in  the  foreground  kneels  the 
donor  ? 
If  such  remain,  as  is  my  conviction, 
The   hoarding   it   does  you    but  little 
honor. 

They   pass ;    for   them   the   panels   may 
thrill, 
The  tempera  grow  alive  and  tinglish  ; 
Their  pictures   are   left  to  the   mercies 
still 
Of  dealers  and  stealers,  Jews  and  the 
English, 
Who,  seeing  mere  money's  worth  in  then- 
prize, 
Will  sell  it  to  somebody  calm  as  Zeno 
At  naked  High  Art,  and  in  ecstasies 
Before  some  clay-cold  vile  Carlino  ! 

No  matter  for  these  !     But  Giotto,  you. 

Have  you  allowed,  as  the  town-tongues 
babble  it. — 
Oh,  never  !  it  shall  not  be  counted  tru< — 

That  a  certain  precious  little  tablet 
Which  Buouarrotti  eyed  like  a  lover — 

Was  buried  so  long  in  oblivion's  womb 
And.  left  for  another  than  1  to  discover. 

Turns  up  at  last  !    and  to  whom  ?  —  to 
whom  ? 

I,    that    have    haunted    the    dim     San 

Spirito, 
(Or  was  it  rather  the  Ognissanti  ?) 
Patient   on  altar-step  planting  a  weary 
toe ! 
4.0 


Nay.  I  shall  have  it  yet  !  Detitr  amanti! 
Mv  Koh-i-noor — or  (if   that   's   a   plati- 
tude) 
Jewel  of  Giamschid,  the  Persian  Son  s 
eye  ; 
So,  in  anticipative  gratitude, 

What  if  I  take  up  my  hope  and  pro- 
phesy ? 

When  the  hour  grows  ripe,  and  a  certain 
dotard 
Is  pitched,  no  parcel  that  needs  invoic- 
ing, 
To  the  worse  sideof  the  Mont  St.  Gothard, 

We  shall  begin  by  way  of  rejoicing  ; 
None  of   that   shooting   the   sky  (blank 
cartridge), 
Nor  a   civic    guard,   all    plumes    and 
lacquer, 
Hunting  Radetzky's  soul  like  a  partridge 
Over  Morello  with  scp-iib  and  cracker. 

This  time  we  '11  shoot  better  game  and 
bag  'em  hot — 
No  mere  display  at  the  stone  of  Dante 
But  a  kind  of  sober  Witanagemot 

(Ex  :  "  Casa  Guidi/'gxod  videos  ante-) 
Shall  ponder,  once  Freedom  restored  to 
Florence, 
How  Art   may   return  that   departed 
with  her. 
Go,   hated  house,  go  each  trace  of  the 
Loraine's, 
And   bring   us   the   davs   of   Orgagna 
hither  ! 

How  we  shall  prologuize,   how  we  shall 
perorate, 
Utter  fit  things  upon  art  and  history, 
Feel  truth  at  blood-heat  and  falsehood  at 
zero  rate. 
Make    of    the    want    of    the    age   no 
mystery  ; 
Contrast  the  fruetuous  and  sterile  eras. 
Show — monarchy  ever  its  uncouth  cub 
licks 
Out  of  the  bear's  shape  into  Chimsera's, 
While   Pure   Art's   birth   is   still    the 
republic's. 

Then  one  shall  propose  in  a  speech  (curt 
Tuscan, 
Expurgate  and  sober,  with  scarcely  an 
••  issimo") 
To  cud  now  our  half-told  tale  of  Cam- 
buscan, 
And    turn     the     bell-tower's    alt    to 
alt  issimo : 
And  line  as  the  beak  of  a  young  beceaecia 
The  Campanile,  the  Duomo's  fit  ally, 


626 


BRITISH    POETS 


Shall  soar  up  in  gold  full  fifty  braccia, 
Completing    Florence,     as     Florence 
Italy. 

Shall  I  be  alive  that  morning  the  scaffold 
Is  broken  away,  ami  the  long-pent  fire, 
Like  the  golden  hope  of  the  world,  un- 
baffled 
Springs  from  its  sleep,  and  up  goes  the 
spire 
While  "  God  and  the  People"  plain   for 
its  motto, 
Thence  the   new  tricolor  flaps  at  the 
sky? 
At  least  to  foresee  that  glory  of  Giotto 
And  Florence  together,  the  first  am  I ! 

1855. 

"DE  GUSTIBUS— " 

Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane. 
By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice — - 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say, — 

The  happier  they  ! 
Draw  yourself  up   from  the  light  of  the 

moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon. 

With  the  beanflowers'  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June  ! 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 
Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled, 
In  agasli  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 
Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 
(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 
O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 
And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands)  — 
In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 
Where  the  baked  cicala  dies  of  drouth, 
And  one   sharp  tree — 't  is   a   cypress — 

stands 
By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 
Rougli  iron-spiked, ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted, 
My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 
To  the  water's  edge.    For,  what  expands 
Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break  ? 
While,  in  the  house,  forever  crumbles 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls. 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 
A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 
Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  me- 
lons, 
And  says  there  's  news  to-day — the  king 


Was  shot  at.  touched  in  the  liver-wing, 
Goes  witli  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling  , 
— She  hopes   they   have  not  caught  the 

felons. 
Italy,  my  Italy  ! 

Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me — 
(When  fortune's  malice 
Lost  her,  Calais) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "  Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she  : 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be  ! 

1855. 

MY  STAR 

ALL  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red. 

Now  a  dart  of  blue  ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 
The}r  would  fain  see,  too, 
My   star  that   dartles   the  red   and  the 

blue  ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a   bird  ;  like  a  flower, 
hangs  furled  : 
They  must  solace  themselves  with  the 
Saturn  above  it. 
What   matter   to   me   if   their  star  is  a 
world  ? 
Mine  lias  opened  its  soul  to  me  ;  there- 
fore I  love  it.  1855. 

ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND 

My  love,  this  is  the  bitterest,  that  thou — 
Who  art  all  truth,  and  who  dost  love  me 

now 
As  thine  eyes  say,  as  thjr  voice  breaks 

to  say — 
Shouldst  love  so  truly,  and  couldst  love 

me  still 
A  whole  long  life  through,  had  but  love 

its  will. 
Would  death  that  leads  me  from  thee 

brook  delay; — 

I  have  but  to  be  by  thee,  and  thy  hand 

Will  never  let  mine  go,  nor  heart  with- 
stand 
The  beating  of  my  heart  to  reach  its 
place. 

When  shall  I  look  for  thee  and  feel  thee 
gone  ? 

When  cry  for  the  old  comfort  and  find 
none  ? 
Never,  I  know  !  Thy  soul  is  in  thy  face. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


627 


Oh,  I  should  fade — 't  is  willed  so  !  Might 
I  save, 

Gladly  I  would,  whatever  beauty  gave 
Joy   to  thy   sense,  for  that  was   pre- 
cious too. 

It  is  not  to  be  granted.     But  the  soul 

Whence    the    love    conies,    all    ravage 
leaves  that  whole  ; 
Vainly  the  flesh  fades  ;  soul  makes  all 
things  new. 

It  would  not   be  because  my  eye  grew 

dim 
Thou  couldst   not  find   the  love   there, 

thanks  to  Him 
Who  never  is  dishonored  in  the  spark 
He   gave  us  from  his  fire  of  fires  and 

bade 
Remember   whence   it   sprang,    nor    be 

afraid 
While  that  burns  on,  though  all  the 

rest  grow  dark. 

So,  how  thou  wouldst  be  perfect,  white 
and  clean 

Outside  as  inside,  soul  and  soul's  de- 
mesne 
Alike,  this  body  given  to  show  it  by  ! 

Oh,    three-parts   through    the    worst   of 
life's  abyss, 

What  plaudits  from  the  next  world  after 
this, 
Couldst  thou  repeat  a  stroke  and  gain 
the  sky  ! — 

And  is  it  not  the  bitterer  to  think 
That  disengage  our  hands  and  thou  wilt 
sink 
Although  thy  love  was  love  in  very 
deed  ? 
I  know  that  nature  !    Pass  a  festive  clay, 
Thou  dost  not  throw  its  relic-flower  away 
Nor  bid    its    music's    loitering    echo 
speed. 

Thou  let'st  the  stranger's  glove  lie  where 

it  fell  ; 
If   old   things  remain  old  things  all   is 

well, 
For  thou  art  grateful  as  becomes  man 

best  • 
And  hadst  thou  only  heard  me  play  one 

tune, 
Or  viewed  me  from   a  window,  not  so 

soon 
With   thee   would  such  things  fade  as 

with  the  rest. 

I  seem  to  see  !    We  meet  and  part ;  't  is 
brief  ; 


The  book  I  opened  keeps  a  folded  leaf. 
The  very  chair   I  sat  on,  breaks  the 
rank  ; 
That  is  a  portrait  of  me  on  the  wall — 
Three  lines,  my  face  comes  at  so  slight  a 
call  : 
And   for  all  this,  one   little  hour  to 
thank ! 

But  now,  because  the  hour  through  years 

was  fixed, 
Because  our    inmost    beings  met    and 

mixed, 
Because  thou  once  hast  loved  me — wilt 

thou  dare 
Say  to  thy  soul  and  Who  may  list  beside, 
"  Therefore  she  is  immortally  my  bride  ; 
Chance  cannot  change  my   love,  nor 

time  impair. 

"  So,  what  if  in  the  dusk  of  life  that's 

left, 
I,  a  tired  traveller  of  my  sun  bereft. 
Look  from  my  path  when,  mimicking 

the  same, 
The  firefly  glimpses  past  me,  come  and 

gone  ? 
— Where  was  it  till  the  sunset?    Where 

anon 
It  will  be  at  the  sunrise  !    What 's  to 

blame  ?  " 

Is.  it   so   helpful   to  thee  ?     Canst   thou 

take 
The  mimic  up,  nor,  for  the  true  thing's 

sake, 
Put  gently  by  such  efforts  at  a  beam  ? 
Is  t lie  remainder  of  the  way  so  long, 
Thou  need'st  the  little  solace,  thou  the 

strong? 
Watch  out  thy  watch,  let  weak  ones 

doze  and  dream  ! 

Ah,  but  the  fresher  faces  !    "  Is  it  true," 
Thou  'It  ask,  "  some  eyes  are  beautiful 

and  new  ? 
Some  hair, — how  can  one  choose  but 

grasp  such  wealth  ? 
And  if  a  man  would  press  Ins  lips  to  lips 
Fresh   as     the    wilding     hedge-rose-cup 

there  slips 
The  dewdrop   out  of,  must   it   be   by 

stealth  ? 

"  It  cannot  change  the  love  still  kept 

for  Her, 
More  than  if  such  a  picture  I  prefer 
Passing  a  day  with,   tearoom's  bare 

side  : 


628 


BRITISH   POETS 


The  painted  form   takes  nothing   she 

!>i  issessed, 
Yet.  while  the  Titian's  Venus  lies  at  rest, 
A  man    look*.     Once    more,    what    is 

there  to  chide  ?  " 

So  must  I  see,   from  where  I  sit  and 

watch, 
My  own  self  sell  myself,  my  hand  attach 
Its  warrant   to  the  very  thefts  from 

me — 
Thy  singleness   of  soul   that   made   me 

proud, 
Thy  purity  of  heart  I  loved  aloud, 
Thy  man's-truth  I  was  bold  to  bid  God 

see  I 

Love  so,  then,  if  thou  wilt  !    Give  all 

thou  canst 
Away  to  the  new  faces — disentranced, 
(Say  it  and  think    it)    obdurate    no 

more  ; 
Re-issue  looks  and  words  from  the  old 

mint, 
Pass  them  afresh,  no  matter  whose  the 

print 
Image  and   superscription  once   they 

bore  I 

Re-coin   thyself  and    give    it    them   to 

spend, — 
It   all  comes  to  the  same  thing  at  the 

end, 
Since  mine  thou  wast,   mine  art  and 

mine  shalt  be, 
Faithful  or  faithless,  sealing  up  the  sum 
Or   lavish    of  my  treasure,    thou  must 

come 
Back  to  the  heart's  place  here  I  keep 

for  thee  ! 

Only,  why  should  it  be  with  stain  at  all? 

Why  must  I,  'twixt  the  leaves  of   cor- 
onal. 
Put  any  kiss  of  pardon  on  thy  brow  ? 

Why  need  the  other  women   know   so 
much, 

And  talk  together,  "  Such  the  look  and 
such 
The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then  as 
now  !  " 

Might  I  die  last  and  show  thee  !    Should 

I  find 
Such   hardship   in    the    few  years   left 

behind, 
If  free  to  take  and  light  my  lamp,  and 

go 
Into  thy  tomb,  and  shut  the  door  and  sit, 


Seeing  thy  face  on  those  four  sides  of  it 
The  better  that  they  are  so   blank,  I 
know  ! 

Why,  time  was  what  I  wanted,  to  turn 

o'er 
Within  my  mind  each  look,  get  more 

and  more 
By  heart  each  word,  too  much  to  learn 

at  first : 
And  join  thee  all  the  fitter  for  the  pause 
'Neath  the   low  doorway's  lintel.     That 

were  cause 
For  lingering,  though  thou  calledst, 

if  I  durst  ! 

And  yet  thou  art  the  nobler  of  us  two : 
What  dare  I  dream  of,  that  thou  canst 
not  do, 
Outstripping  my  ten  small  steps  with 
one  stride  ? 
I  '11  say  then,  here's  a  trial  and  a  task — 
Is  it  to  bear  ? — if  easy,  I  '11  not  ask  : 
Though  love  fail,  I  can  trust  on  in  thy 
pride. 

Pride? — when   those  eyes  forestall  the 

life  behind 
The  death  I  have  to  go  through  ! — when 

I  find, 
Now    that  I  want  thy  help  most,  all 

of  thee  ! 
What  did  I  fear  ?    Thy  love  shall  hold 

me  fast 
Until  the  little  minute's  sleep  is  past 
And  I  wake  saved. — And  yet  it  will 

not  be  1  1855. 


TWO   IN  THE  CAMPAGNA 

I  wonder  do  you  feel  to-day 

As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Rome  and  May  s 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know 
Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 

(Like  turns  of   thread  the.  spiders  throw 
Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 

To  catch  at  and  let  go. 

Help  me  to  hold  it  !     First  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's 
cleft, 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin  ;  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating   weft, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


629 


Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 
Five   beetles — blind    and    green  they 
grope 

Among  the  honey-meal :  and  last, 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast  ! 

The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere  I 

Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 

Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

Such  life  here,  through  such  lengths  of 
hours. 

Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 
Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 

Such  letting  nature  have  her  way, 
While  heaven  looks  from  its  towers  ! 

How  say  you?  Let  us,  O  my  dove, 
Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 

As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above! 
How  is  it  under  our  control 

To  love  or  not  to  love  ? 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 
You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 

Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free  ! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie  ?    What  the 
core 

O'  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be? 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 
At  your  soul's  springs, — your  part  my 
part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

No.  I  yearn  upward,  touch  you  close, 

Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 
Catch  your  soul's  warmth, —  I  pluck  the 
rose 
And   love  ib   more  than  tongue   can 
speak — 
Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute  ?     Must  I  go 

Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 

Fixed  by  no  friendly  star  ? 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn  ! 

Where  is  the  thread  now  ?     Off  again  ! 
The  old  trick  !     Only  I  discern — 

Inlinite  passion,  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn.  1855. 


MISCONCEPTIONS 

This  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 

Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 

Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 

Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying 

feet  hung  to, — 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung 
to! 

This  is  a  heart  the  Queen  leaned  on, 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 
Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 
Oh,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 
Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer 

went  on — 
Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to, 
spent  on  !  1855. 

ONE  WAY   OF  LOVE 

All  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now.  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And   strew   them    where  Pauline    may 

pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside  ?    Alas  ! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die  ? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute  ! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music  ?    So  ! 
Break  the  string  ;  fold  music's  wing : 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing  ! 

My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 

This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 

And     speak     my    passion— heaven     or 

hell  ? 
She  will  not  not  give  me  heaven?  T  is 

well  ! 
Lose  who  may — I  still  can  say, 
Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they  ! 

1855. 

ANOTHER  WAY  OF  LOVE 

June  was  not  over 
Though  past  the  full, 

And  the  best  of  her  roses 
Had  yet  to  blow, 
When  a  man  I  know 

(But  shall  not  discover, 
Since  ears  are  dull, 

And  time  discloses) 


6?o 


BRITISH    POETS 


Turned  him  and  said  with  a  man's  true 

air. 
Half  sighing  a  smile  in  a  yawn,  as  't 

were. — 
"  If  I  tire  of  your  June,  will  she  greatly 

care?" 

"Well,  dear,  in-doors  with  you  1 

True  !  serene  deadness 
Tries  a  man's  temper. 
What's  in  the  blossom 
June  wears  on  her  bosom  ? 
Can  it  clear  scores  with  you  ? 
Sweetness  and  redness, 
Eadem  semper  ! 
Go,  let  me  care  for  it  greatly  or  slightly  ! 
If  June  mend  her  bower  now,  your  hand 

left  unsightly 
By  plucking  the  roses, — my  June  will  do 
rightly. 

And  after,  for  pastime, 
If  June  be  refulgent 
With  flowers  in  completeness, 
All  petals,  no  prickles, 
Delicious  as  trickles 
Of  wine  poured  at  mass-time, — 
And  choose  One  indulgent 
To  redness  and  sweetness  : 
Or  if,  with  experience  of   man   and  of 

spider, 
June  use  my  June-lightning,  the  strong 

insect-ridder. 
And   stop   the    fresh    film-work, — why, 
June  will  consider.  1855. 

RESPECTABILITY 

Dear,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice 

Deigned   to   proclaim   "  I    know  you 
both, 

Have  recognized  your  plighted  troth, 
Am  sponsor  for  you  :  live  in  peace  !  " — 
How  many  precious  months  and  years 

Of  youth    had  passed,  that  speed  so 
fast, 

Before  we  found  it  out  at  last, 
The  world,  and  what  it  fears ! 

How  much  of  priceless  life  were  spent 
With  men  that  every  virtue  decks, 
And  women  models  of  their  sex, 

Society's  true  ornament, — 

Ere  we  dared  wander,  nights  like  this, 
Through  wind  and  rain,  and  watch  the 

Seine, 
And  feel  the  Boulevard  break  again 

To  warmth  and  light  and  bliss  1 


I  know  !  the  world  proscribes  not  love  ; 

Allows  my  finger  to  caress 

Your  lips'  contour  and  downiness, 
Provided  it  supply  a  glove. 
The  world's  good  word  !— the  Institute  ! 

Guizot  receives  Montalembert ! 

Eh  ?     Down  the  court  three  lampions 
flare  : 
Put  forward  your  best  foot !  1855. 

LOVE  IN  A  LIFE 

Room  after  room, 

I  hunt  the  house  through 

We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou 
shalt  find  her — 

Next  time,  herself  ! — not  the  trouble  be- 
hind her 

Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  perfume! 

As  she  brushed  it,  the  cornice-wreath 
blossomed  anew  : 

Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the  wave 
of  her  feather. 

Yet  the  day  wears. 

And  door  succeeds  door  ; 

I  try  the  fresh  fortune — 

Range  the  wide  house  from  the  wing  to 

the  center. 
Still  the  same  chance  !  she  goes  out  as  I 

enter. 
Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest, — who 

cares  ? 
But  't  is  twilight,  you  see, — with  such 

suites  to  explore, 
Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves  to 

importune  !  1855. 

LIFE   IN  A  LOVE 

Escape  me  ? 
Never — 
Beloved  ! 
While  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 

So  long  as  the  world  contains!  us  both, 
Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth, 
While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other 

pursue. 
My  life  is  a  fault  at  last,  I  fear  : 

It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  indeed  \ 
Though  I   do  my  best  I  shall  scarce 
succeed. 
But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 
And  baffled,  get  up  and  begin  again, — 
So  the  chase  takes  up  one's  life,  that's 
all. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


631 


While,  look  but  once  from  your  farthest 
bound 
At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark. 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  goes  to  ground 
Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  self- 
same mark, 
I  shape  me— 
Ever 
Removed !  1855. 

IN  THREE   DAYS 

So.  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
And  just  one  night,  but  nights  are  short, 
Then  two  long  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 
See  how  I  come,  unchanged,  unworn  ! 
Feel,  where  my  life  broke  off  from  thine, 
How  fresh  the  splinters  keep  and  fine, — 
Only  a  touch  and  we  combine  ! 

Too  long,  this  time  of  year,  the  days  ! 
But  nights,  at  least  the  nights  are  short. 
As  night  shows  where  her  one  moon  is, 
A  hand's-breadth  of  pure  light  and  bliss, 
So  life's  night  gives  my  lady  birth 
And  my  eyes  hold  her  !  What  is  worth 
The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth? 

O  loaded  curls,  release  your  store 
Of  warmth  and  scent,  as  once  before 
The  tingling  hair  did.  lights  and  darks 
Outbreaking  into  fairy  sparks. 
When  under  curl  and  curl  I  pried 
After  the  warmth  and  scent  inside, 
Through   lights   and   darks   how  mani- 
fold— 
The  dark  inspired,  the  light  controlled  ! 
As  early  Art  embrowns  the  gold. 

What  great  fear,  should  one  say,  "  Three 

days 
That  change  the  world  might  change  as 

well 
Your  fortune  ;  and  if  joy  delays, 
Be  happy  that  no  worse  befell  !  " 
What  small  fear,  if  another  says. 
"Three  days  and  one  short  night  beside 
May  throw  no  shadow  on  your  ways  ; 
But  years  must  teem  with  change  un- 
tried, 
With  chance  not  easily  defied, 
With  an  end  somewhere  undescried." 
No  fear  ! — or  if  a  fear  be  1><  111 
This  minute,  it  dies  out  in  scorn. 
Fear  ?     I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
And  one  night,  now  t  he  nights  are  short, 
Then  just  two  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 

1855. 


THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL 

A  PICTURE  AT  FANO 

Dear  and  great  Angel,   wouldst  thou 
only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  clone  with 
him,  for  me  ! 
Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  minis- 
try. 
And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  sus- 
pending 
Thy  flight,  may'st  see  another  child  for 
tending. 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no 
more, 
From   where  thou  standest  now,   to 
where  I  gaze, 
— And  suddenly  my  head  is  covered  o'er 
With   those  wings,   white  above   the 
child  who  prays 
Now  on  that  tomb — and  I  shall  feel  thee 

guarding 
Me,  out  of  all  the  world  ;  for  me,  discard- 
ing 
Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and 
opes  its  door. 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past   thy 
head 
Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child, 
I  know, 
For  I  should  have  thy  gracious   face  in- 
stead. 
Thou   bird   of  God  I     And   wilt   thou 
bend  me  low 
Like   him,  and  lay,  like   his,  my   hands 

together, 
And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently 
tether 
Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  gar- 
ment's spread? 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 
My   head    beneath    thine,    while   thy 
healing  hands 
Close-covered   both  my  eyes  beside  thy 
breast, 
Pressing   the   brain,  which   too  much 
thought  expands, 
Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smooth- 
ing 
Distortion  down   till  every   nerve  had 
soothing. 
And   all  lay   quiet,    happy  and   sup 
pressed. 


632 


BRITISH   POETS 


How  soon  all    worldly  wrong   would  be 
repaired  ! 
I  think   how  I  should  view  the  earth 
and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was 
bared 
After  thy  healing,  with  such  different 
eyes. 

0  world,  as  God  has  made  it !     All  is 

beauty  : 
And   knowing   this,  is  love,  and  love  is 
duty. 
What   further  may  be  sought  for  or 
declared  ? 

Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 
(Alfred,  dear  friend  !)—  that  little  child 
to  pray. 
Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 
Pressed   gently, — with   his   own  head 
turned  away 
Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before 

him 
Of  work  to  do.  though  heaven  was  open- 
ing o'er  him, 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

"We   were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we 
went 
To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 
And  drink  his  beauty   to  our   soul's  con- 
tent 
— My  angel  with  me  too :  and  since  I 
care 
For  dear  Guercino's   fame  (to  which  in 

power 
And    glory    comes    this    picture   for  a 
dower,  [cent) — 

Fraught  with    a  pathos    so   magnifi- 

And  since  lie  did  not  work  thus  earnestly 
At   all   times,  and   has   else   endured 
some  wrong — 

1  took  one   thought   his  picture  struck 

from  me, 
And  spread   it   out,  translating  it  to 
song. 
My  love  is   here.     Where  are   you,  dear 

old  friend? 
How   rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's 
far  end? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 

1855. 

MEMORABILIA 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  lie  stop  and  speak  to  you, 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again  ? 
HowT  strange  it  seems  and  new  ! 


But  you  were  living  before  that, 
And  also  you  are  living  after  ; 

And  t lie  memory  I  started  at — 
My  starting  moves  your  laughter  ! 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And   a   certain   use  in   the  world  no 
doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about : 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather  ! 
Well,  I  forget  the  rest.  1855. 

POPULARITY 

Stand  still,  true  poet  that  you  are  ! 

I  know  you  ;  let  me  try  and  draw  you, 
Some  night  you  '11  fail  us  :  when  afar 

You  rise,  remember  one  man  saw  you, 
Knew  you,  and  named  a  star  ! 

My  star,  God's  glow-worm!  Why  extend 
That  loving  hand   of  his  which  leads 
you, 
Yet  locks  you  safe  from  end  to  end 
Of  this   dark   world,  unless   he  needs 
you, 
Just  saves  your  light  to  spend  ? 

His  clenched  hand  shall  unclose  at  last, 
I  know,  and  let  out  all  the  beauty  : 

My  poet  holds  the  future  fast, 
Accepts  the  coining  ages'  duty, 

Their  present  for  this  past. 

That  day  the  earth's  feast-master's  brow 
Shall  clear,  to  God  the  chalice  raising  ; 

"  Others  give  best  at  first,  but  thou 
Forever  set'st  our  table  praising, 

Keep'st  the  good  wine  till  now  !  " 

Meantime,  I  '11  draw  you  as  you  stand. 
With    few    or    none     to    watch    and 
wonder : 

I  '11  say— a  fisher,  on  the  sand 
By  Tyre  the  old,  with  ocean-plunder, 

A  netful,  brought  to  land. 

Who  has  not  heard  how  Tyrian  shells 
Enclosed  the  blue,  that  dye  of  dyes 

Whereof  one  drop  worked  miracles, 
And  colored  like  Astarte's  eyes 

Raw  silk  the  merchant  sells  ? 

And  each  bystander  of  them  all 
Could  criticise,  and  quote  tradition 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


633 


How  depths  of  blue  sublimed  some  pall 
— To  get  which,  pricked  a  king's  am- 
bition ; 
Worth  sceptre,  crown  and  ball. 

Yet  there  's  the  dye,  in  that  rough  mesh. 
The  sea  has  only  just  o'er-whispered  ! 

Live  whelks,  each  lip's  beard  dripping 
fresh, 
As  if  they  still  the  water's  lisp  heard 

Through  foam  the  rock-weeds  thresh. 

Enough  to  furnish  Solomon 

Such  hangings  for  his  cedar-house, 

That,    when    gold-robed     he    took    the 
throne 
In  that  abyss  of  blue,  the  Spouse 

Might  swear  his  presence  shone 

Most  like  the  centre-spike  of  gold 

Which   burns   deep   in   the   bluebell's 
womb 

What  time,  with  ardors  manifold, 
The  bee  goes  singing  to  her  groom, 

Drunken  and  overbold. 

Mere  conches  !  not  fit  for  warp  or  woof  ! 

Till    cunning     come     to    pound    and 
squeeze 
And  clarify, — refine  to  proof 

The  liquor  filtered  by  degrees, 
While  the  world  stands  aloof. 

And   there  's  the   extract,  flasked   and 
fine. 
And  priced  and  salable  at  last ! 
And  Hobbs.  Nobbs,  Stokes  and   Nokes 
combine 
To  paint  the  future  from  the  past, 
Put  blue  into  their  line. 

Hobbs   hints  blue, — straight     he   turtle 
eats  : 
Nobbs  prints  blue, — claret  crowns  his 
cup  : 
Nokes  outdares  Stokes  in  azure  feats, — 
Both   Rorge.     Who  fished  the  murex 
up  ? 
What  porridge  had  John  Keats  ?  z 

1855. 

THE  PATRIOT 

AN   OLD  STORY 

It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 

With  myrtle  mixed    in  my  path  like 
mad  : 

1  See  Chesterton's  Life  of  Browning,  pp.  154-6. 


The  house-roofs  seemed   to  heave  and 
sway, 
The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags 
they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 
The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowd 
and  cries. 
Had  I  said,  "  Good  folk,  mere  noise  re- 
pels— 
But   give  me  your  sun   from  yonder 
skies !  " 
They  had   answered,  "  And  afterward, 
what  else?" 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 
To  give  it  mjT  loving  friends  to  keep-! 

Naught  man  could  do,  have  I   left  un- 
done : 
And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 

This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There 's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set ; 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 
At  the  Shambles' Gate — or,  better  yet, 

By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow. 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 
A  rope  cuts  botli  my  wrists  behind  ; 

And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead 
bleeds, 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind, 

Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 

Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go  ! 

In    triumphs,    people    have     dropped 
down  dead. 
"  Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou  owe 
Me?" — God  might  question;  now  in- 
stead, 
'T  is  God  shall  repay  :  I  am  safer  so. 

1855. 

A  LIGHT  WOMAN 

So  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end, 
Which  do  you  pity  the  most  of  us 
three? — 

My  friend,  or  the  mistress  of  my  friend 
With  her  wanton  eyes,  or  me  ? 

My  friend  was  already  too  good  to  lose, 
And  seemed  in   the  way  of   improve- 
ment yet, 
When   she   crossed   his   path   with   her 
hunting-noose, 
And  over  him  drew  her  net. 


634 


BRITISH   POETS 


When  I  saw  him  tangled  in  her  toils, 
A  shame,  said  T.  if  she  adds  just  him 

To  her  nine-and  ninety  other  spoils, 
The  hundredth  for  a  whim  ! 

And  before  my  friend  be  wholly  hers, 
1  low  easy  to  prove  to  him,  I  said. 

An  eagle's  the  game  her  pride  prefers, 
Though  she  snaps  at  a  wren  instead  ! 

So,  I  gave  her  eyes  my  own  eyes  to  take, 
My  hand  sought  hers  as  in  earnest 
need, 

And  round  she  turned  for  my  noble  sake, 
And  gave  me  herself  indeed. 

The  eagle  am  I,  with  my  fame  in  the 
world. 

The  wren  is  he,  with  his  maiden  face. 
■ — You  look  away  and  your  lip  is  curled  ? 

Patience,  a  moment's  space  ! 

For  see,    my   friend   goes  shaking  and 
white ; 
He  eyes  me  as  the  basilisk  : 
I  have   turned,    it   appears,  his  day  to 
night, 
Eclipsing  his  sun's  disk. 

And  I  did  it,  he  thinks,  as  a  very  thief  : 
'•  Though  I  love  her — that,  he  compre- 
hends— 
One  should  master  one's  passions,  (love, 
in  chief) 
And  be  loyal  to  one's  friends  !  " 

And  she, — she  lies  in  my  hand  as  tame 
As  a  pear  late  basking  over  a  wall ; 

Just  a  touch  to  try  and  off  it  came  ; 
'T  is  mine, — can  I  let  it  fall  ? 

With  no  mind  to  eat  it,  that 's  the  worst ! 
Were  it  thrown  in  the  road,  would  the 
case  assist  ? 
'T   was    quenching  a    dozen    blue-flies' 
thirst 
When  I  gave  its  stalk  a  twist. 

And  I, — what  I  seem  to  my"  friend,  you 
see : 
What  I  soon  shall   seem  to   Ins  love, 
you  guess : 
What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of 
me? 
No  hero,  I  confess. 

'T  is  an  awkward   thing  to   play   with 
souls, 
And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own  : 


Yet  think  of  my  friend,  and  the  burning 
coals 
He  played  with  for  bits  of  stone  ! 

One   likes   to   show   the   truth    for   the 
truth  ; 
That  the   woman   was   light  is  very 
true  : 
But  suppose  she  says, — Never  mind  that 
youth, 
What  wrong  have  I  done  to  you? 

Well,  anyhow,  here  the  story  stays, 

So  far  at  least  as  I  understand  ; 
And,  Robert   Browning,   you   writer  of 
plays, 
Here  's  a  subject  made  to  your  hand  ! 

1855. 

THE   LAST   RIDE  TOGETHER 

I  said — Then  dearest,  since  't  is  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since   all,   my  life   seemed   meant   for, 
fails, 
Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must 
be— 
My  whole  heai't  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness  ! 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave,— I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
— And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame. 
Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with 
me. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers  ; 
Those  deep  dark   eyes  where   pride  de- 
murs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 
With   life   or  death  in   the   balance  : 
right  ! 
The  blood  replenished  me  again  ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain  : 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but   the  world  may  end 
to-night  ? 

Hush  !  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 
All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 
By  many  benedictions — sun's 
And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once — 
And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


63S 


Till  flesh    must    fade    for  heaven   was 

here  ! — 
Tlius  leant   she   and   lingered — joy  and 

fear  ! 
Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 

Smoothed    itself    out,    a    long-cramped 
scroll 

Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry  ? 

Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this  ? 

80  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 

Might  she  have  loved  me?  just  as  well 

She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell  ! 

Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  be- 
fell? 
And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 

Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds? 
Why,  all  men  strive,  and  who  succeeds? 
We  rode  ;  it  seemed,  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought, — All  labor,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess, 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful 
past  ! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me  ;   here  we 
ride. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  pain'- 1  ? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared? 
What   act   proved  all   its   thought   had 

been  ? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshly  screen? 
We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There's  many  a  crown  for  us  who  can 

reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each  ! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing  !  what  atones? 
They  scratch    his  name  on  the  Abbey- 
stones. 
My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?     Well. 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only  ;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 
And  place  them  in  rhyme  so,  side   by 
side. 
Tis  something,  nay 'tis  much:  but  then. 
Have  you  yourself  what's  best  for  men? 
Are  you — poor.  sick,  old  ere  your  time — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 


Than   we    who    never    have    turned    a 
rhyme  ? 
Sing,  riding's  a  joy.     For  me,  I  ride. 

And  you,  great  sculptor — so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn  ! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"  Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
But   in   music  we   know   how  fashions 
end  ! " 

I  gave  my  youth  ;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 

Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us?    Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being — had  I  signed  the  bond — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 
•    Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such  ?    Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth    being    so    good,   would    heaven 

seem  best? 
Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this 

ride. 

And  yet — she  has  not  spoke  so  long! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned, 

We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide  ? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  forever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity, — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride  together,  forever  ride' 

1855. 

A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 

SHORTLY  AFTER  THE   REVIVAL  OF  LEARN- 
ING IN  EUROPE 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar 
thorpes 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow  : 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  t  he  rock-row  ! 
That's  the  appropriate  country  ;  there 
man's  thought, 


636 


BRITISH  POETS 


Rarer,  in  tenser, 
Self -gathered    for    an  outbreak,  as  it 
ought, 
Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd 
and  crop : 
Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture  ! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  ex- 
cels ; 
Clouds  overcome  it ; 
No  !  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit. 
Thither  our  path  lies  ;  wind  we  up  the 
heights ; 
Wait  ye  the  warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the    level's  and   the 
night's  ; 
He  's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each 
head, 
'Ware  the  beholders ! 
This  is  our  master,   famous,  calm  and 
dead, 
Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

Sleep,   crop  and   herd !  sleep,   darkling 
thorpe  and  croft, 
Safe  from  the  weather ! 
He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and 
throat, 
Lyric  Apollo  ! 
Long   he   lived   nameless:  how   should 
Spring  take  note 
Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the   little  touch,  and  youth   was 
gone  ! 
Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he.  "  New  measures,  other  feet 
anon  ! 
My  dance  is  finished  ?  " 
No.  that  's    the   world's  way  :  (keep  the 
mountain-side, 
Make  for  the  city  !) 
He  knewthe  signal,  and  stepped  on  with 
pride 
Over  men's  pity  ; 
Left  play   for  work,    and  grappled  with 
the  world 
Bent  on  escaping : 
"  What's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "  thou 
keepest  furled  ? 
Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard 
and  sage, — 
Give  !  " — So,  he  gowned  him, 


Straight  got   by  heart   that   book  to  its 
last  page  : 
Learned,  we  found  him. 
Yea,  but   we  found  him   bald  too,  eyes 
like  lead, 
Accents  uncertain  : 
"  Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have 
said, 
"  Up  with  the  curtain  ! " 
This  man  said  rather,  "  Actual  life  comes 
next? 
Patience  a  moment ! 
Grant  1  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed 
text, 
Still  there's  the  comment. 
Let  me  know  all  1    Prate  not  of  most  or 
least, 
Painful  or  easy  ! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I'd  fain  eat  up  the 
feast, 
Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it, 
When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to 
give ! 
Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image    the    whole,    then    execute    the 
parts — 
Fancy  the  fabric 
Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire 
from  quartz. 
Ere  mortar  dab  brick  ! 

(Here's  the  town-gate  reached  :  there's 
the  market-place 
Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus !) 
That  before  living  he'd  learn  how   to 
live- 
No  end  to  learning : 
Earn  the   means  first — God  surely  will 
contrive 
Use  for  our  earning. 
Others   mistrust   and   say,    "But   time 
escapes : 
Live  now  or  never  ! " 
He  said,  '•  What's  time?  Leave  Now  for 
dogs  and  apes  ! 
Man  has  Forever." 
Back  to  his  book  then  :  deeper  drooped 
his  head : 
Calculus  racked  him : 
Leaden  before,   his  eyes  grew  dross  of 
lead : 
Tussis  attacked  him. 
"  Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest !  " — not 
he  ! 
(Caution  redoubled, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


637 


Step  two  abreast,   the  way   winds  nar- 
rowly !) 
Not  a  whit  troubled. 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sacked  at  the  flagon. 
Oil,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain  ! 
Was  it  not  great  ?  did  not  he  throw  on 
God, 
(He  loves  the  burthen) — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen  ? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant  ? 
He  would  not  discount   life,  as  fools  do 
here, 
Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck   or  nothing — heaven's 
success 
Found,  or  earth's  failure  : 
"  Wilt  thou  trust  deatli  or  not  ? "  He 
answered  "  Yes ! 
.         Hence  with  life's  pale  lure  !  " 
■  That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it : 
This  high  man,  with   a  great  thing  to 
pursue, 
Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred's  soon  hit : 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here — should  he  need 
the  next, 
Let  the  world  mind  him  ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unper- 
plexed 
Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the   throttling  hands  of   death 
at  strife. 
Ground  he  at  grammar  ; 
Still,  through  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech 
were  rife  : 
While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hoti's  business — let  it  be  ! — 

Properly  based  Oun — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,   here's  the    platform,   here's  the 
proper  place : 
Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews  !  [low 

Here's  the  top-peak  ;  the   multitude  he- 
Live,  for  they  can,  there  : 


Tli is  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know — 

Bury  this  man  there  ? 
Here — here's  his  place,    where  meteors 
shoot,  clouds  form, 
Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go  {     Let  joy  break  with 
the  storm, 
Peace  let  the  dew  send  ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects  . 

Loftily  lying. 
Leave  him — still  loftier  than  the  world 
suspects, 
Living  and  dying.  1855. 

THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST 

There's  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world 

knows  well, 
And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square. 
And  this  story  of  both  do  our  townsmen 

tell. 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 
At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East 
Asked,  "Who  rides    by  with  the  royal 
air  ! " 

The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her 
ceased  ; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand  ; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  in- 
creased— 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand — 
As  one  at  eacli  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,    "  The     Great-Duke     Ferdi- 
nand." 

That  selfsame  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back — "  Who  is 

she?" 
— "  A  bride  the  Riccardi   brings   home 

to-day." 

Hair  in  heaps  lay  heavily 
Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure — 
Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black 
tree, 

Crisped  like  a  war  steed's  encolure — 
And  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure, 

And  lo.  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man, — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and 
wise. 


638 


BRITISH    POETS 


He  looked  at  her  as  a  lover  can  ; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes: 

The  past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life  began. 

Now,   love  so    ordered    for  both  their 

sakes, 
A.  feast  was  held  that  selfsame  night 
Iu  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow 

makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three-parts  light, 
But  the  palace  overshadows  one, 
Because  of  a  crime,  which  may  God  re- 
quite ! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was 

done, 
Through  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son.) 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue's  face  in  the 

Square) 
Turned  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude 
At  the  bright  approach   of    the   bridal 

pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 
A  single  minute  and  no  more 
While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  sub- 
dued— 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor — ■ 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady   a   kiss  con- 
ferred. 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word  ? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think, 
Only  one  out  of  a  thousand  heard. 

That    was    the  bridegroom.     At    day's 

brink 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed  chamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 
That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut 

on  her 
Till  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 
I  lirough  a  certain   window   facing  the 

East 
She  could  watch  like  a  convent's  chroni- 
cler. 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a 
feast, 

And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  be- 
side, 

He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 


"  Freely  I  choose  too,"  said  the  bride — 
"  Your  window  and  its  world  suffice," 
Replied    the    tongue,   while    the  heart 
replied — 

"If  I   spend  the  night  with  that  devil 

twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a  damned  soul   looks  on  para- 
dise ! 

"  I  fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 

"  'T  is  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  borrow. 
And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy's  trim, 
And  I  save   my  soul — but   not  to-mor- 
row— " 

(She  checked  herself  and  her  eye  grew 

dim) 
"  My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state  : 
I  must  keep  it  one  day  more  for  him. 

"  Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait  ? 
Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know  ; 
We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate." 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.     Just 

so ! 
So  we  resolve  on  a  thing  and  sleep  : 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the   Duke  said,    "  Dear  or 

cheap 
As   the   cost    of   this  cup  of  bliss  may 

prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep." 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 
He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on 

call, 
As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke's  alcove) 

And  smiled  "  'T  was  a  very  funeral, 
Your    lady    will    think,    this    feast    of 

ours, — 
A  shame  to  efface  whate'er  befall ! 

"  What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bow- 
ers, 
A«nd  try  if  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 
Cure  last  night's  faults  with  this  morn- 
ing's flowers?" 

The  bridegroom,  riot  a  thought  to  be 

seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,  "  Too  much  favor  for  me  so  mean  1 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


639 


"  But  alas  !  my  lady  leaves  the  South  ; 
Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apen- 

nine 
Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth  : 

"Nor  a  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 
If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year, 
To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  decline.'' 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "  A  sage  and  a  kindly 

fear. 
Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring  : 
Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here !  " 

And   then   to   himself — "  Which   night 

shall  hring 
Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces,  fool — 
Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  the  king  ! 

"  Yet  my  passion  must  wait  anight,  nor 

cool — 
For    to-night   the   Envoy   arrives   from 

Fiance 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself,  my 

tool. 

"  I  need  thee  still  and  might  miss  per- 
chance. 
To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 
With  its  hope  of  my  lady's  countenance  : 

"  For  I  ride — what  should  I  do  but  ride  ? 

And  passing  her  palace,  if  I  list. 

May  glance  at  its  window — well  betide  !  " 

So  said,  so  done  :  nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray   that   broke   from  the   ardent 

brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit 

kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow, 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And   leave   them   then  as   it  left   them 
now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  day 

more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore, 
With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh, 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 

They  thought  it  would  work  infallibly, 
But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth  : 
The   rose  would    blow  when  the  storm 
passed  by. 


Meantime  they  could  profit  in  winter's 

dearth 
By  store  of  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose  : 
The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain 

worth  : 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  oppose 

Were  simple  policy  ;  better  wait : 

We  lose  no  friends  and  we  gain  no  foes. 

Meantime,   worse  fates  than  a  lover's 

fate, 
Who  daily  may  ride  and  pass  and  look 
Where    his    lady   watches    behind    the 

grate  ! 

And  she — she  watched  the  square  like  a 

book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook  : 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book 

was  done. 
And   she    turned   from   the   picture    at 

night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

So  weeks  grew  months,  years  ;  gleam  by 

gleam 
The  glory  dropped  from  their  youth  and 

love, 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a 

dream ; 

Which    hovered     as    dreams    do,    still 

above  : 
But   who  can  take  a  dream  for  a  truth  ? 
Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remove  ! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  .youth 
Depart,     and     the    silver     thread    that 

streaked 
Her   hair,    and,    worn   by  the  serpent's 

tooth. 

The   brow    so   puckered,    the    chin    so 

peaked, — 
And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 
Hollow-eyed  and  haggard -cheeked, 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass — 
"  Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
•'  Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 

"Him.  the  Carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 
Who   fashions    the    clay   no    love    wil 

change, 
And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 


640 


BRITISH   POETS 


'•  Let  Robbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 

"  Make  iiic  ;i  face  on  the    window  there, 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while. 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square  ! 

"  And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

"  To  say,  '  What  matters  it  at  the  end  ? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm 
Than   does  that  image,   my  pale-faced 
friend.' 

'  Where  is  the    use    of    the  lip's    red 

charm. 
The   heaven   of   hair,   the   pride  of  the 

brow. 
And  the   blood   that   blues    the    inside 

arm — 

"  Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

But  long  ere  Robbia's  cornice,  fine, 
With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  en- 
lace, 
Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine — 

(And,  leaning  out  of  a.  bright  blue  space, 
As  a  ghost  might  lean  from  a  chink  of 

sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face — 

Eying  ever,  with  earnest  eye 

And  quick-turned  neck  at  its  breathless 

stretch, 
Some  one  who  ever  is  passing  by — ) 

The  duke  had  sighed  like  the  simplest 
wretch 

In  Florence,  "Youth — my  dream  es- 
capes ! 

Will  its  record  stay  ? "  And  he  bade 
them  fetch 

Some  subtle  moulder  of  brazen  shapes — 
"  Can   the  soul,   the   will,  die  out  of  a 

man 
Ere  his  body  find  the  grave  that   gapes? 

"John  of  Douay  shall  effect  my  plan, 
Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft. 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can, 


"In  the  very  squar«  I  have  crossed  so 

oft: 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft, 

"  While  the  mouth   and  the   brow   stay 

brave  in  bronze — 
Admire  and  say,  '  When  he  was  alive 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasura  once  1 ' 

"  And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 
To  listen  the  while,  and   laugh   in   my 

tomb 
At  idleness  which  aspires  to  strive." 


So!      While  these  wait  the   trump  of 

doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room  ? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his, 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row, 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss — ■ 
Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 
He   had   burned   his   way   through   the 
world  to  this. 

I  hear  you  reproach,   "But  delay  was 

best, 
For  their  end  was  a  crime." — Oh,  a  crime 

will  do 
As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test, 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through, 
Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 
And    prove   its  worth   at    a    moment's 
view  ! 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of 

pelf? 
Where  a  button  goes,  't  were  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham  ; 
As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  submit, 
When  your  table's  a  hat,  and  your  prize, 
a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit, 
Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 
Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing 
it, 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


641 


If  you  choose  to  play  ! — is  my  principle. 
Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  he  it  what  it  will  ! 

The  counter  our  lovers  staked  was  lost 
As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin  : 
And  the  sin  I  impute  to   each   frustrate 
ghost 

Is — the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was   a   vice,   I 

say. 
You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join) 
How  strive  you  ?    De  te,  fabula  I 

1855. 

"  CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK 
TOWER  CAME" 

See  Edgar's  song  in  Lear. 

My  first  thought  was,  he   lied  in  every 
word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 
Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his 
lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee,  that  pursed  and 
scored 
Its  edge,  at  one  more  victim  gained 
thereby. 

What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with  his 
staff  ? 
What,  save   to   waylay   with   his  lies, 

ensnare 
All    travellers   who    might   find  him 
posted  there, 
And    ask    the    road?    I    guessed  what 

skull-like  laugh 
Would    break,    what  crutch  'gin   write 
my  epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thorough- 
fare, 

If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 
Into   that    ominous   tract   which,   all 

agree, 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.     Yet  acquies- 
cingly 
I  did  turn  as  he  pointed  :  neither  pride 
Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried, 
So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end 
might  be. 

For,    what   with  my  whole  world-wide 
wandering. 
What    with    my    search     drawn    out 
through  years,  my  hope 

Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 
41 


AVith    that     obstreperous    joy    success 

would  bring, — 
I  hardly  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 
My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in  its 

scope. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death 
Seems    dead   indeed,   and  feels  begin 

and  end 
The  tears,  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each 

friend, 
And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw 

breath 
Freelier  outside,  ("  since  all  is  o'er,"  he 

saith, 
"  And  the  blow  fallen  no  grieving  can 

amend ; ") 

While  some    discuss  if  near  the  other 
graves 
Be  room  enough  for  this,   and  when  a 

day 
Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away, 
With  care  about   the  banners,  scarves 

and  staves: 
And  still  the   man  hears  all,  and  only 
craves 
He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love 
and  stay. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been 

writ 
So  many  times  among  "The  Band  " — 
to  wit. 
The  knights  who   to   the  Dark  Tower's 

search  addressed 
Their  steps — that  just  to  fail  as  they, 
seemed  best, 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now — should  I 
befit? 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from  him, 
That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  high- 
way 
Into  the  path  he  pointed.     All  the  day 
Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
"Was   settling  to   its  close,  yet  shot  one 
grim 
Red  leer    to  see  the  plain  catch   its 
estray. 

For  mark  !  no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,   after  a  pace  or 

two, 
Than,  pausing  to   throw  backward  a 
last  view 
O'er   the  safe   road,  't  was  gone;    gray 
plain  all  round  : 


642 


BRITISH  POETS 


Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 
I  might  go  on;  naught  else  remained 
to  do. 

So,  on  I  went.     I  think  I  never  saw 
Such  starved  ignoble  nature  ;  nothing 

throve : 
For    flowers — as  well  expect  a  cedar 
grove ! 
But   cockle,  spurge,   according  to  their 

law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none 
to  awe. 
You  'd  think  :  a  burr  had  been  a  treas- 
ure trove. 

No!  penury,  inertness  and  grimace, 
In  some  strange  sort,  were  the  land's 

portion.     "See 
Or  shut  jour  eyes,"  said  Nature  peev- 
ishly, 
"  It   nothing   skills  :  I   cannot   help  my 

case  : 
'T  is  the  Last  Judgment's  fire  must  cure 
this  place. 
Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prisoners 
free." 

If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle-stalk 
Above  its  mates,  the  head  was  chop- 
ped ;  the  bents 
Were  jealous  else.    What  made  those 
holes  and  rents 
In    the    dock's    harsh    svvarth    leaves, 

bruised  as  to  balk 
All    hope  of  greenness  ?  't    is  a  brute 
must  walk 
Pashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's 
intents. 

As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 
In   leprosy  ;  thin   dry    blades   pricked 

the  mud 
Which  underneath  looked  kneaded  up 
with  blood. 
One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone  a- 

stare, 
Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there  : 
Thrust    out     past   service    from    the 
devil's  stud  1 

Alive?  he   might  be   dead  for  aught  I 
know, 
With  that  red  gaunt  andcolloped  neck 

a-strain. 
And  shut   eyes  underneath   the   rusty 
mane  ; 
Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with 
such  woe  ; 


I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so  ; 
He  must  be   wicked   to  deserve  such 
pain. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on  my 
heart. 
As   a    man    calls  for  wine    before  he 

fights, 
I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier 
sights, 
Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 
Think   first,    fight   afterwards — the  sol- 
dier's art  : 
One  taste  of  the  old  time  sets  all  to 
rights. 

Not  it !  I  fancied   Cuthbert's  reddening 
face 
Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold. 
Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  Hold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way   lie   used.     Alas,  one   night's 
disgrace  ! 
Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and  left 
it  cold. 

Giles  then,  the  soul  of  honor — there  he 
stands 
Frank  as  ten  j'ears  ago  when  knighted 

first. 
What   honest    man   should    dare    (he 
said)  he  durst. 
Good — but     the     scene     shifts — faugh  ! 

what  hangman  hands 
Pin   to   his   breast  a   parchment?    His 
own  bands 
Read  it.     Poor  traitor,  spit  upon  and 
cvi'-st  ! 

Betterthis  present  than  a  past  like  that ; 
Back  therefore  to  my  darkening  path 

again ! 
No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could 
strain. 
Will  the  night  send  a  howlet  or  a  bat  ? 
I  asked  :  when  something  on  the  dismal 
flat 
Came    to    arrest     my    thoughts    and 
change  their  train. 

A  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 
As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes. 
No    sluggish    tide    congenial    to    the 
glooms ; 
This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have  been  a 

bath 
For  the  fiend's  glowing  hoof — to  see  the 
wrath 
Of  its  black  eddy  bespate   with  flakes 
and  spumes. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


643 


So  petty,  yet  so  spiteful !     All  along, 
Low    scrubby    alders    kneeled    down 

over  it  ; 
Drenched    willows   flung  them  head- 
long in  a  fit 
Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng  : 
The  river  which  had  done  them  all  the 
wrong, 
Whate'er  that  was,  rolled  by,  deterred 
no  whit. 

Which,   while  I  forded, — good    saints, 
how  1  feared 
To   set    my  foot    upon   a   dead  man's 

cheek, 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to 
seek 
For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard  ! 
— It  may  have  been  a  water-vat  I  speared, 
But,   ugh.   it   sounded   like   a    baby's 
shriek. 

Glad  was  I  when  I  reached   the  other 
bank. 
Now    for    a    better    country.       Vain 

presage  ! 
Who   were   the  stragglers,  what  war 
did  they  wage. 
Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad 

the  dank- 
Soil   to   a   plash?    Toads  in  a  poisoned 
tank. 
Or  wild  cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage — 

The  fight  must  so  have  seemed  in  that 
fell  cirque. 
What  penned  them  there,  with  all  the 

plain  to  choose? 
No   footprint   leading  to   that   horrid 

mews. 

None   out   of   it.     Mad   brewage   set  to 
work 

Their     brains,    no    doubt,    like    galley- 
slaves  the  Turk 
Pits  for  his  pastime.  Christians  against 
Jews. 

And    more   than    that — a   furlong    on  — 
why,  there  ! 
What   bad   use   was   that  engine    for, 

that  wheel, 

Or  brake,  not  wheel — that  harrow   fit 

to  reel  [air 

Men's  bodies  out  like  silk  ?  with  all  the 

Of  Tophet's  tool,  on  earth  left  unaware. 

Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth 

of  steel. 

[ben   came   a   bit   of   stubbed    ground, 
once  a  wood, 


Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and  now 

mere  earth 
Desperate  and  done  with :  (so  a  fool 
finds  mirth. 
Makes  a  tiling  and  then  mars  it,  till  his 

mood 
Changes  and  off  he  goes  !)  within  a  rood — 
Bog,  clay  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark 
black  dearth. 

Now  blotches  rankling,  colored  gay  and 
grim. 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness  of 

the  soil's 
Broke    into   moss   or  substances  like 
boils  ; 
Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in 

him 
Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  rim 
Gaping  at   death,   and   dies   while   it 
recoils. 

And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end  ! 
Naught  in  the  distance  but  the  even- 
ing, naught 
To   point   my   footstep  further !      At 
the  thought, 
A   great   black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom- 
friend, 
Sailed    past,    nor  beat   his    wide    wing 
dragon-penned 
That  brushed  my  cap — perchance  the 
guide  I  sought. 

For,  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow  grew, 
'  Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given 

place 
All   round   to   mountains — with   such 
name  to  grace 
Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stolen 

in  view. 
How  thus    they    had    surprised    me, — 
solve  it,  you  ! 
How  to  get  from  them  was  no  clearer 
case. 

Yet  half  I  seemed  to  recognize  some 
trick 
Of    mischief    happened    to    me,   God 

knows  when — 

In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.     Here  ended, 

then,  [nick 

Progress  this  way.     When,  in  the  very 

Of  giving   up,  one  time  more,  came  a 

click  [the  den  ! 

As  when  a  trap  shuts — you're  inside 

Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once, 
This  was  the  place  !  those  two  hills  on 
the  right, 


644 


BRITISH    POETS 


Crouched  like  two   bulls  locked   horn 
in  horn  in  fight ; 
"While  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalped  mountain 

.  .  .  Dunce, 
Dotard,  a-dozing  at  the  very  nonce, 
After  a   life   spent   training   for    the 
sight ! 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower 
itself  ? 
The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the 

fool's  heart, 
Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  coun- 
terpart 
In  the    whole    world.      The    tempest's 

mocking  elf 
Points  to  the  shipinan  thus  the  unseen 
shelf 
He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers 
start. 

Not  see  ?    because  of  night  perhaps  ? — 
why.  day 
Came  back  again  for  that  !  before  it 

left 
The   dying  sunset  kindled  through  a 
cleft  : 
The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay, 
Chin   upon   hand,    to  see  the   game    at 
bay  — 
"  Now  stab  and  end  the  creature — to 
the  heft  !  " 

Not  hear?  when  noise  was  everywhere  ! 
it  tolled 
Increasing  like  a  bell.     Names  in  my 

ears, 
Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers, — 
How  such  a   one  was  strong,  and   such 

was  bold, 
And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 
Lost,  lost!    one  moment   knelled    the 
woe  of  years. 

There  they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hill- 
sides, met 
To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame 
For  one  more  picture  !  in  a  sheet  of 
flame 
I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.     And 

yet 
Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set, 
And    blew:   "  Childe  Roland  to    the 
Dark  Toicer  came."  1855. 

FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI 

I  AM  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave  ! 
You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my 
face. 


Zooks,  what  's  to  blame?  you  think  you 

see  a  monk  ! 
What,  't   is  past  midnight,  and  you  go 

the  rounds, 
And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 
Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors 

ajar? 
The  Carmine  's  my  cloister:  hunt  it  up. 
Do, — harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your 

zeal, 
Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong 

hole. 
And   nip   each   softling  of  a  wee  white 

mouse, 
Weke,  weke,  that  's  crept  to  keep  him 

company  ! 
Aha,   you   know   your   betters  !     Then, 

you  '11  take 
Your  hand  away  that  's  fiddling  on  my 

throat. 
And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who 

am  I  ? 
Why,  one,   sir,  who   is  lodging  with   a 

friend 
Three  streets  off — he's  a  certain  .  .  .how 

d'  ye  call  ? 
Master — a  .  .  .  Cosimo  of  the  Medici. 
I'  the  house  that  caps  the  corner.     Boh  ! 

you  were  best ! 
Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you  're 

hanged, 
How  you  affected  such  a  gullet's-gripe  ! 
But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your 

knaves 
Pick  up  a  manner  nor  discredit  you  : 
Zooks,  are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep 

the  streets 
And  count  fair  prize  what  comes   into 

their  net  ? 
He  's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is ! 
Just  such  a  face  !     Why,  sir,  you  make 

amends. 
Lord,  I  'm  not  angry  !     Bid  your  hang- 
dogs go 
Drink    out    this    quarter-florin    to    the 

health 
Of  the  munificent  House   that   harbors 

me 
(And    many  more   beside,  lads !     more 

beside  !) 
And  all  's  come  square  again.     I  'd  like 

his  face — 
His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade   in   this 

door 
With   the   pike   and    lantern, — for    the 

slave  that  holds 
John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 
With  one  hand   ("Look  you,  now,"  as 

who  should  say) 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


645 


And   his  weapon   in  the   other,  yet  un- 

wiped  ! 
It  's   not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit   of 

chalk, 
A  wood-coal   or  the  like  ?  or  you  should 

see  ! 
Yes,  I  'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me 

so. 
What,  brother    Lippo's   doings,   up   and 

down 
You  know  them    and   they   take   you  ? 

like  enough  ! 
I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye — 
"Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 
Let  's  sit  and   set  things  straight  now, 

hip  to  haunch. 
Here  's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one 

makes  up  bands 
To  roam  the  town  and  sing  our  carnival. 
And  I  've  been  three  weeks  shut  within 

my  mew, 
A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and 

saints 
And  saints  again.     I  could  not  paint  all 

night— 
Ouf  !     I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh 

air. 
There  came  a   hurry  of  feet  and  little 

feet, 
A  sweep   of   lute   strings,   laughs,   and 

whifts  of  song, — 
Flower  d1  the  broom. 

Take  away  love,  arid  our  earth  is  a  tomb! 
Mower  o'  the  quince, 
I  let  Lisa  go,  and  irhat  good  in  lifesincef 
Flower  o"  the  thyme — and  so  on.     Eound 

they  went. 
Scarce  had  the\r  turned  the  corner  when 

a  titter 
Like   the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moon- 
light.— three  slim  shapes, 
And  a  face  that  looked  up  .  .  .  zooks,  sir, 

flesh  and  blood, 
That  's  all  I  *in  made  of  !     Into  shreds  it 

went. 
Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 
All  the  bed-furniture — a  dozen  knots. 
There  was  a  ladder  !     Down  I  let  myself, 
Hands  and   feet,    scrambling  somehow, 

and  so  dropped, 
And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the 

fun 
Hard  by    Saint  Laurence,   hail  fellow, 

well  met, — 
Flower  o'  the  rose, 
If  Tve   been   merry,   what    matter  ivho 

knows  ? 
And  so  as  I  was  stealing  back  again 
To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleen 


Ere  i.  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On   Jerome   knocking   at   his   poor   old 

breast 
With   his  great  round   stone  to  subdue 

the  flesh, 
You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see ! 
Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake 

your  head — 
Mine  's  shaved — a   monk,    you  say — the 

sting  's  in  that ! 
If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself. 
Mum  \s  the  word  naturally  ;  but  a  monk  ! 
Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for  ?  tell  us, 

now  ! 
I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 
And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 
I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year 

or  two 
On  fig-skins,    melon-parings,   rinds  and 

shucks, 
Refuse  and   rubbish.      One   fine   frosty 

day, 
My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat, 
The    wind    doubled  me  up  and  down   I 

went. 
Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one 

hand, 
(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger  as  I  knew) 
And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge, 
By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six 

words  there, 
While  I  stood  munching  my  first  bread 

that  month  : 
"  So,    boy,    you're   minded,"  quoth   the 

good  fat  father, 
Wiping  his  own  mouth,  't  was  refection- 
time, — 
"  To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 
Will  you  renounce"  .   .  .   "the  mouth- 
ful of  bread  ?"  thought  I  ; 
By  no  means  !     Brief,  they  made  a  monk 

of  me ; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and 

greed. 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop,  and  banking- 
house, 
Trash,    such    as    these    poor    devils    of 

Medici 
Have  given  their  hearts  to — all  at  eight 

\  ears  old. 
Well.  sir.   I  found   in  time,   you  may  be 

sure. 
"1"  was  not  lor  nothing — the  good  bellyful. 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes 

all  round. 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside! 
••  Let  's    see    what  the  urchin  's  fit   for" 

— that  came  next. 
Not  overmuch  their  wa  v.  T  must  confess. 


646 


BRITISH    POETS 


Such  a  to-do  !     They  tried  me  with  their 

books  ; 
Lord,   they'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in 

pure  waste  ! 
Flower  <>'  the  clove, 
All   the   Latin  I  construe  is  "  amo,''  I 

lore  ! 
But,   mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in 

the  streets 
Eight  years  together,  as  my  fortune  was. 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will 

fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he 

desires, 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him    for  his 

pains, — 
Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine, 
Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and 

catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again, 
Or  holla  for   the   Eight   and    have   him 

whipped, — 
How    say    I  ? — nay,    which    dog  bites, 

which  lets  drop 
His  bone   from  the  heap  of  offal    in  the 

street, — 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp 

alike, 
He  learns  the  look  of  tilings,  and  none 

the  less 
c'or  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 
J  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  he  sure, 
Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to 

use. 
I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books, 
Scrawled  them  within  the  antiphonary's 

marge, 
Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music- 
notes, 
Found  eyes   and  nose   and   chin  for  A's 

and  B's, 
And  made   a  string   of  pictures   of  the 

world 
Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs   of  verb  and 

noun. 
On  the  wall,  the  bench,   the  door.     The 

monks  looked  black. 
"Nay,"    quoth   the    Prior,    "turn    him 

out.  d'  ye  say  ? 
In  no   wise.     Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a 

lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts. 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 
And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our  church 

up  fine 
And  put   the  front  on   it  that  ought  to 

be  !  " 
And  hereupon  lie  bade  me  daub  away. 


Thank  you !  my   head   being   crammed, 

the' walls  a  blank, 
Never  was  such  prompt  disem burdening. 

First,  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and 

white, 
I  drew  them,    fat  and   lean  :  then,  folk 

at  church. 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  candle- 
ends, — 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot, 
Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting 

there 
"With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a 

row 
Of   admiration,   half  for  his  beard  and 

half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a   fist   at  him  with  one  fierce 

ami. 
Signing  himself  with  the  other  because 

of  Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only 

this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 
Till  some   poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her 

head, 
(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through) 

came  at  eve 
On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf. 
Her   pair   of   earrings   and   a  bunch   of 

flowers 
(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and 

so  was  gone. 
I  painted  all,  then  cried  "  T  is  ask  and 

have  ; 
Choose,   for  more 's    ready  !  " — laid   the 

ladder  flat, 
And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister- 
wall. 
The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised 

loud 
Till  cheeked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not 

to  see, 
Being  simple  bodies, — "  That's  the  very 

man  ! 
Look  at  the  boy   who  stoops  to  pat  the 

dog  ! 
That  woman  's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who 

comes 
To  care  about  his  asthma  :  it 's  the  life  !  " 
But  there  my  triumph's  straw-fire  flared 

and  funked ; 
Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and 

say: 
The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 
And  stopped  all  that  in  no  time.    "  How  ? 

what's  here  ?  [us  all  ! 

Quite  from  the  mark   of  painting,  bless 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


647 


Faces,   arms,   legs,   and  bodies  like  the 

true 
As  much  as   pea  and  pea !  it 's  devil's- 

game  ! 
Your  business  is  not  to  catcli  men  with 

show, 
With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay, 
But  lift  them  over  it.  ignore  it  all, 
Make  them  forget  there  's  such  a  thing 

as  flesh. 
Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of 

men — 
Man's  soul,  and  it  's  a  fire,  smoke  .  .  . 

no,  it  's  not  .  .  . 
It  's    vapor  done    up  like    a  new-born 

babe — 
(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves 

your  mouth) 
It  's  .  .  .  well,  what    matters    talking, 

it 's  the  soul  ! 
Give  us  no   more  of   body  than   shows 

soul  ! 
Here  's  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-praising 

God, 
That   sets   us    praising, — why   not   stop 

with  him  ? 
Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of 

our  head 
With  wonder  at  lines,  colors,  and  what 

not? 
Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and 

arms ! 
Rub  all  out.  try  at  it  a  second  time. 
Oh,  that  white  smallish  female  with  the 

breasts, 
She  's   just   my  niece  .  .  .  Herodias,  I 

would  say, — 
Who  went  and  danced  and  got    men's 

heads  cut  off  ! 
Have  it  all  out !  "     Now,  is  this  sense,  I 

ask? 
A   fine   wa}r  to  paint  soul,  by  painting 

body 
So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go 

further 
And   can't    fare    worse  !     Thus,   yellow 

does  for  white 
When  what  you  put  for  yellow's  simply 

black, 
And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 
When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks 

naught. 
Why  can't  a   painter  lift  each  foot  in 

turn. 
Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a   double 

step. 
Make   his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more 

like,  [face, 

Both  in  their  order?    Take  the  prettiest 


The   Prior's   niece  .  .  .  patron-saint — is 

it  so  pretty 
You  can't   discover  if  it   means  hope, 

fear. 
Sorrow  or  joy?  won't  beauty  go  with 

these  ? 
Suppose  I  've   made   her  eyes  all  right 

and  blue, 
Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's 

flash, 
And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them 

three-fold? 
Or  say  there  's  beauty  with  no  soul  at 

all  - 
(I  never  saw  it — put  the  case  the  same — ) 
If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else, 
You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  in- 
vents : 
That  's  somewhat  :  and  you  '11  find  the 

soul  you  have  missed, 
Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him 

thanks. 
"  Rub  all  out  !  "     Well,  well,  there  'smy 

life,  in  short, 
And  so  the  thing  lias  gone  on  ever  since. 
I  'm  grown  a  man  no  doubt,  I  've  broken 

bounds : 
You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years 

old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the 

girls. 
I  'm  my   own   master,  paint   now  as   I 

please — 
Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner- 
house  ! 
Lord,  it  's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in 

front — 
Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes 

than  just 
To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse  ! 
And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old 

grave  eyes 
Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work, 
The   heads  shake  still — "  It  's  art's  de- 
cline, my  son  ! 
You  're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great 

and  old  ; 
Brother  Angelico's  the  man,  you  '11  find  ; 
Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer  : 
Fag  on  at  flesh,  you  '11  never  make  the, 

third  !  " 
F/oicer  o'  the  pine. 
You  keep  your  mistr  .  .  .  manners,  and 

I  'It  stifle  to  mine! 
I  'm  not  the  third,  then  :  bless  us,  they 

must  know  ! 
Don't  you  think  they  're  the  likeliest  to 

know,  [,ny  rage, 

They  with  their  Latin  ?    So,  I  swallow 


64S 


BRITISH    POETS 


Clench  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight, 

and  paint 
To  please  them — sometimes  do  and  some- 
times don't  ; 
For,  doing  most,  there  's  pretty  sure  to 

come 
A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my 

saints — 
A  laugh,   a  cry,   the    business    of    the 

world — 
(Flower  o'  the  Pcudi, 
Death  for  us  all,  and  Ms  own  life  for 

each !) 
And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup 

runs  over. 
The  world  and  life  's  too  big  to  pass  for 

a  dream, 
And   I   do   these  wild   things    in   sheer 

despite, 
And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at, 
In  pure  rage  !    The  old  mill-horse,  out 

at  grass 
After  hard   years,  throws   up   his    stiff 

heels  so, 
Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to 

him 
The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 
What  would  men  have  ?     Do  they  like 

grass  or  no — 
May  they  or  may  n't  they  ?  all   I  want 's 

the  thing 
Settled  forever  one  way.     As  it  is, 
You  tell   too  many  lies  and  hurt  your- 
self : 
You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too 

much, 
You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your 

word, 
You  find  ahundantly  detestable. 
For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught ; 
T  always  see  the  garden  and  God  there 
A-making   man's  wife  :  and,  my  lesson 

learned, 
The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 
I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterwards. 

You  understand  me  :   I  'm  a  beast,  I 

know. 
But  see,  now — why,  I  see  as  certainly 
As  that   the   morning-star   's  about   to 

shine, 
"What  will    hap    some    day.     "We  we  a 

youngster  here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do, 
Slouches   and   stares   and  lets  no  atom 

drop  : 
His  name  is  Guidi — be  '11  not  mind  the 

monks —  [talk — 

They  call  lain  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them 


He   picks   my  practice   up — he  '11  paint 

apace. 
I  hope  so — though  I  never  live  so  long, 
I  know  what's  sure  to  follow.     You  be 

judge ! 
You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike; 
However,  you  're  my  man,  you  've  seen 

the  world 
— The  beauty   and  the  wonder  and  the 

power, 
The  shapes  of  things,  their  colors,  lights 

and  shades, 
Changes,    surprises, — and   God  made  it 

all ! 
— For  what  ?     Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay 

or  no. 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's 

line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above, 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman, 

child, 
These  are  the  frame  to  ?    What  's  it  all 

about  ? 
To  be   passed  over,  despised  ?  or  dwelt 

upon, 
Wondered  at  ?  oh,  this  last  of  course  ! — 

you  say. 
But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say, — paint 

these 
Just  as  thev  are,  careless  what  comes  of 

{t  ? 
God's  works —  paint  any  one,  and  count 

it  crime 
To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "  His 

works 
Are  here  already  ;  nature  is  complete  : 
Suppose  you  reproduce  her — (which  you 

can't) 
There  's  no  advantage !  you  must   beat 

her,  then." 
For,  don't   you   mark  ?   we   're  made  so 

that  we  love 
First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things 

we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a   hundred  times  nor  cared  to 

see ; 
And  so  they  are  better,  painted — better 

to  us, 
Which   is  the    same    thing.     Art    was 

given  for  that  ; 
God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 
Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  no- 
ticed, now, 
Your  cull  ion's  hanging  face  ?    A  bit  of 

chalk, 
And  trust  me  but  .you  should,  though  I 

How  much  more. 
If  I   drew  higher  things  with  the   same 

truth ! 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


649 


That   were   to   take   the   Prior's   pulpit- 
place, 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  !     Oh.  oh, 
It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall 

do 
And  we   in  our   graves  !     This  world  's 

no  blot  for  us, 
Nor   blank  ;     it    means    intensely,   and 

means  good : 
To  find   its   meaning   is   my   meat    and 

drink. 
"  Ay,   but  you    don't    so    instigate    to 

prayer  ! " 
Strikes  in  the  Prior  :  ,l  when  your  mean- 
ing 's  plain 
It    does    not    say     to     folk — remember 

matins. 
Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday  !  "  Why, 

for  this 
"What  need  of  art  at    all?    A  skull  and 

bones, 
Two  bits  of  stick   nailed   crosswise,  or, 

what  's  best, 
A  bell  to  chime  the   hour  with,  does  as 

well. 
I  painted  a  Saint   Laurence  six  months 

since 
At   Prato,   splashed   the   fresco   in   fine 

style  : 
"  How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaf- 
fold 's  down  ?  " 
I  ask  a  brother  :  "  Hugely,"  he  returns — 
"  Already   not   one   phiz   of  your  three 

slaves 
Who  turn  the   Deacon   off  his   toasted 

side, 
But   's  scratched   and   prodded    to   our 

heart's  content, 
The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own 
With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a 

rage  : 
We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 
Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year, 
For    pity    and     religion     grow     i'     the 

crowd  — 
Your     painting     serves     its    purpose!" 

Hang  the  fools  ! 

— That  is — you  '11  not  mistake  an    idle 

word 
Spoke  in  a  huff   by   a  poor   monk,  God 

wot, 
Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which 

turns 
The    unaccustomed    head   like    Chianti 

wine  ! 
Oli,  the  church  knows  !  don't  misreport 

me,  now  ! 
It  's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 


Should    have    his    apt  word  to  excuse 

himself  : 
And     harken      how    I    plot     to    make 

amends. 
I  have  bethought   me:   I   shall   paint  a 

piece 
.  .  .  There  's    for  you  !      Give    me  six 

months,  then  go,  see 
Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's  !     Bless 

the  nuns  ! 
They  want  a  cast  o'  my  office.     I  shall 

paint 
God  in  the  midst,  Madonna,  and  her  babe, 
Ringed    by   a    bowery,    flowery    angel- 
brood. 
Lilies  and  vestments  and   white  faces, 

sweet 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to  Church   at  mid- 
summer. 
And  then  i'  the  front,  of  course  a  saint 

or  two — 
Saint  John,    because   he  saves   the  Flo- 
rentines, 
Saint  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black 

and  white 
The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them  a 

long  day, 
And  Job,  I  must   have   him   there  past 

mistake. 
The  man  of   Uz  (and  Us  without   the  z, 
Painters  who  need  his  patience).     Well, 

all  these 
Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come 
Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect, 
As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light, 
Music    and   talking,    who    but   Lippo! 

I!— 
Mazed,    motionless,   and   moonstruck — 

I  'm  the  man  ! 
Back  I  shrink — what   is  this  I  see  and 

hear  ? 
I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's-things  by 

mistake, 
My  old  serge  gown   and   rope   that  goes 

all-round, 
I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company  ! 
Where  's   a   hole,  where  's   a   corner  for 

escape  ? 
Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  thing 
Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm — "  Not  so 

fast  1 " 
—  Addresses     the     celestial      presence, 

"  nay— 
I  [e  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 
Though  he 's  none  of  you !    Could  Saint 

John  there  draw— 
His    camel-hair    make   up    a  painting- 
brush  '( 


650 


BRITISH   POETS 


We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 
Isteperfecit  opus!"    So.  all  smile— 
I  si  1  utile  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 
Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 
Thrown    like   a  .spread  of  kirtles  when 

you're  gay 
And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being 

shut, 
Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 
The   hothead   husband  !     Thus  I  scut  lie 

off 
To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting 

go 

The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 
That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the 

nick. 
Like  the  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  Saint  Lucy, 

I  would  say, 
And  so  all  's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the 

church 
A  pretty  picture  gained.    Go,  six  months 

hence ! 
Your  hand,  sir.  and  good-by  :  no  lights, 

no  lights  ! 
The   street  's    hushed,   and  I  know  my 

own  way  back, 
Don't  fear  me  !     There  's  the  gray  be- 
ginning.    Zooks !  1853. 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

CALLED  "  THE  FAULTLESS  PAINTER  " 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,    my    Lucrezia ;    bear   with   me    for 

once : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as   you 

wish. 
You  turn   your  face,  but  does  it  bring 

your  heart  ? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend, 

never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own 

price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next   it   takes    mine.      Will   it? 

tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I'll   content   him, — but  to-morrow, 

Love  ! 
I  often  am  much  wearierthan  you  think, 
This  evening   more  than  usual,   and  it 

seems 
As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me 

sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in 

mine 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 


Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 

I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 

Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 

To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for 
this! 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 

And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she 
curls  inside. 

Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither  ;  you 
must  serve 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require  : 

It  saves  a  model.     So  !  keep  looking  so— 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on 
rounds ! 

— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  per- 
fect ears. 

Even  to  put  the  pearl  there  !  oh,  so 
sweet-r- 

My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's 
moon , 

Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks — no  one's:  very  dear, 
no  less. 

You  smile  ?  why,  there  's  my  picture 
ready  made, 

There  's  what  we  painters  call  our  har- 
mony ! 

A  common  grayness  sil  vers  everything,— 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

— You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in 
me 

(That  's  gone  you  know), — but  I,  at 
every  point  ; 

My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all 
toned  down 

To  yonder  Sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There  's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel- 
top  ; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the 
way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  in- 
side ; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden  ;  days 
decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  every- 
thing, 

Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.  Love,  we  are  in  God's 
hand. 

How  strange  now  looks  the  life  he  makes 
us  lead  ; 

So  free  wTe  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are  ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter  :  let  it  lie  ! 

This  chamber  for  example — turn  your 
head —  [stand 

All  that  's  behind  us  !     You  don't  under 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


65  * 


Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 
But  yon  can  hear  at  least  when  people 

speak : 
And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the 

door 
— It  is  the  thing,  Love !  so  such  things 

should  be — 
Behold  Madonna  ! — I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know, 
What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 
Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 
I  do  not  boast,  perhaps :   yourself  are 

judge, 
Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last 

week, 
And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in 

France. 
At  any  rate  't  is  easy,  all  of  it  ! 
No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that  's  long 

past : 
I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives, 
— Dream?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to 

do, 
And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty 

such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this 

town, 
Who   strive — you   don't  know  how  the 

others  strive 
To   paint   a   little   thing  like   that   you 

smeared 
•  Carelessly     passing    with     your     robes 

afloat, — 
Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Some- 
one says, 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much 

less ! 
Well,    less    is    more,    Lucrezia :    I    am 

judged. 
There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 
In    their    vexed    beating    stuffed     and 

stopped-up  brain, 
Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to 

prompt 
This  low-pulsed  forthright   craftsman's 

hand  of  mine. 
Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  them- 
selves, I  know, 
Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that  'sshut 

to  me, 
Enter  and    take  their  place  there  sure 

enough, 
Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell 

the  world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit 

here. 
The  sudden   blood  of   these  men  !  at  a 

word — 


Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it 

boils  too. 
I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself. 
Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's. 

blame 
Or   their   praise   either.     Somebody   re- 
marks 
Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 
His   hue   mistaken  ;    what   of   that  ?    or 

else, 
Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered  ;  what 

of  that? 
Speak    as    they  please,   what  does  the 

mountain  care? 
Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his 

grasp, 
Or  what  's  a  heaven  for?    All  is  silver- 
gray 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the 

worse  I 
I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might 

gain, 
And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 
"Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself. 
Our    head    would   have   o'erlooked   the 

world  !  "     No  doubt. 
Yonder  's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous 

youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 
('T  is  copied.  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 
Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes 

to  see. 
Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish 

him, 
Above  and  through  his  art — for  it  gives 

way  ; 
That   arm   is   wrongly    put — and   there 

again — ■ 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 
Its  body,  so  to  speak  :  its  soul  is  right, 
He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  un- 
derstand. 
Still,  what  an  arm  !  and  I  could  alter  it : 
But   all   the  play,  the   insight   and  the 

stretch — 
Out  of  me,  out  of  me  !     And  wherefore 

out  ? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given 

me  soul, 
We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and 

you  ! 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I 

think — 
Moie  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 
But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect 

brow. 
And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect 

mouth, 


6;2 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  tin1  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a 

bird 
The   fowler's   pipe,   and   follows  to  the 

snare — 
Had   you,    with    these    the    same,   but 

brought  a  mind  ! 
Some  women   do   so.     Had   the   mouth 

there  urged 
"  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  for  gain. 
The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo  ! 
Rafael  is  waiting  :  up  to  God,  all  three  !  " 
I   might   have   done   it   for  you.     So  it 

seems  : 
Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  overrules. 
Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's 

self ; 
The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you  ? 
What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 
In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will 

not : 
And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive  : 
Yet    the   will  's  somewhat — somewhat, 

too,  the  power — ■ 
And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the 

end, 
God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 
'T  is  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 
That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 
Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak 

the  truth. 
I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home 

all  day. 
For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 
The   best   is   when   they  pass  and  look 

aside ; 
But  they  speak  sometimes  ;  I  must  bear 

it  all. 
Well   may  they   speak !     That  Francis, 

that  first  time. 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontaine- 

bleau  ! 
I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the 

ground, 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden 

look,— 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made 

the  smile, 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my 

neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his   breath   on 

me, 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his 

eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire 

of  souls 


Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those 

hearts, — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  be- 
yond. 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my 

work, 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward  ! 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days  ? 
And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .but 

I  know — 
'T  is  done  and  past ;  't  was  right,   my 

instinct  said  ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not 

gray, 
And   I  'm   the   weak-eyed    bat    no   sun 

should  tempt 
Out   of  the    grange   whose   four   walls 

make  his  world. 
How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your 

heart. 
The    triumph    was — to  reach  and  stay 

there  ;  since 
I  reached  itere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your 

hair's  gold, 
You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine ! 
"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that ; 
The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray. 
But   still   the    other's   Virgin    was    his 

wife  " — 
Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence  ;  clearer 

grows 
My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 
To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these 

years  .  .  . 
(When  the  young  man  wras  flaming  out 

his  thoughts 
Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 
"Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little 

scrub 
Goes   up  and  down  our  Florence,  none 

cares  how, 
Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 
As  you  are,  pricked  on   by  your  popes 

and  kings, 
Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow 

of  yours !  " 
To   Rafael's! — And   indeed    the   arm   is 

wrong. 
I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 
Give   the   chalk   here — quick,  thus  the 

line  should  go  ! 
Ay,  but  the  soul!  he's  Rafael!  rub  it 

out! 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


653 


Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 
(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 
Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?) 
If  really  there   was  such   a   chance,  so 

lost,— 
Is,    whether  you  're — not  grateful — but 

more  pleased. 
Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile 

indeed ! 
This  hour  has  been  an  hour  !     Another 

smile  ? 
If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 
I  should   work  better,  do  you  compre- 
hend? 
I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give 

you  more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now ;  there  's  a 

star  ; 
Morello  's  gone,  the   watch-lights  show 

the  wall, 
The   cue-owls   speak   the  name  we  call 

them  by. 
Come  from  the  window,  love, — come  in, 

at  last, 
Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 
King  Francis  may  forgive  me:   oft  at 

nights 
When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired 

out. 
The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from 

brick 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright 

gold, 
That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with  ! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.    Must  you  go? 
That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  out- 
side ? 
Must  see  you — you,  and  not  with  me  ? 

Those  loans? 
More  gaining  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled 

for  that  ? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more 

to  spen' 1  ? 
While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a 

heart 
Are    left    me.    work  "s    my    ware,  and 

what  s  it  worth  ? 
I'll  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 
The  gray  remainder  of  i  he  evening  out, 
Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfecl  ly 
How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in 

France, 
One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's 

~  face. 
Not  yours  this  time  !     I  want  you  at  my 

side 
To  hear  them — that  is,  Michel  Agnolo — 
Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 


Will    you?      To-morrow,    satisfy    your 

friend. 
I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 
Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand — there, 

there, 
And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  twc 
If  he  demurs  ;  the  whole  should  prove 

enough 
To  pay   for   this  same   Cousin's   freak. 

Beside, 
What's    better  and   what's    all    I  care 

about, 
Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the   ruff  ! 
Love,  does  that  please  you?     Ah,  but 

what  does  he, 
The  Cousin  !  what  does  he  to  please  you 

more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to- 
night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  altei 

it? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis  !— it  is  true 
I  took  Ins  coin,  was  tempted  and  com- 
plied. 
And  built  tins  house  and  sinned,  and  all 

is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich  !     Let  each  one  bear 

his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,   lived  poor,  and 

poor  they  died  ; 
And   I  have  labored    somewhat  in  my 

time 
And   not   been   paid   profusely.      Some 

good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him 

t  ix  ! 
No  doubt,  there's   something  strikes  a 

balance.     Yes. 
You   loved  me  quite  enough,  it   seems 

to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would 

one  have  ? 
In  heaven,   perhaps,  new  chances,  one 

more  chajnce — 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem. 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard.  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  rover — the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While    T    have    mine!      So — still    they 

overcome 
Because    there's    still    Lucrezia, — as    I 

choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle  !    Go,  my 
Love.  1855. 


'54 


BRITISH    POETS 


ONE  WORD  MORE.1 

TO   E.    B.     B. 

London,  September,  1S55. 


There  they    are,    my    fifty    men    and 

women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished  ! 
Take   them,    Love,   the   hook   and    me 

together : 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie 

also. 

H 

Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets, 
Made    and    wrote    them    in  a  certain 

volume 
Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 
Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas  : 
These,  the  world  might  view — but  one, 

the  volume. 
Who   that  one,  you    ask  ?    Your  heart 

instructs  you. 
Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  ? 
Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 
Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 
Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 
Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving, 
Cheek,   the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a 

painter's, 
Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a 

poet's  ? 

in 

You    and  I  would    rather    read    that 

volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 
Would  we  not  ?  than  wonder  at  Madon- 
nas— 
Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision, 
Her,  that's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 

rv 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 
Guido  Reni,  like  his  own  eye's  apple 
Guarded    long    the    treasure-book    and 

loved  it. 
Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 
Cried,  and  the  world  cried  too,  "  Ours, 

the  treasure  !  " 
Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 

1  The  last  poem  of  the  Collection  Men  and 
Women,  two  volumes,  published  in  1855,  and 
containing  a  large  part  of  Browning's  greatest 
wcrk.  Here,  for  once,  Browning  speaks  in  his 
own  person. 


Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom  to  please?    You  whisper  "  Bea- 
trice." 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  re- 
traced it, 
(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped 

for, 
When,  his  left-hand  i'  the  hair  o'  the 

wicked, 
Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its 

stigma, 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parch- 
ment, 
Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing 

rankle, 
Let   the  wretch    go    festering    through 

Florence) — 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated, 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel, — 
In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 
Says  he  —  "Certain  people  of  import- 
ance " 
(Such  he  gave  his  daily  dreadful  line  to) 
"  Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the 

poet." 
Says  the  poet  —  "  Then  I  stopped   my 
painting." 

VI 

You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would    we    not  ?  —  than   read  a  fresh 
Inferno. 

VII 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
While  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel, 
In  they  broke,  those  "  people  of  import- 
ance :  " 
We  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  forever. 

VIII 

What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  pic« 

ture? 
This:  no  artist  lives  and  loves,  that  longs 

not 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 
(Ah,  the  prize  !)  to  find  his  love  a  lan- 
guage 
Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient — 
Using  nature  that's  an  art  to  others, 
Not,  this  one  time,  art  that's  turned  his 

nature, 
Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


655 


None     but     would     forego     his    proper 

dowry, — 
Does  he  paint  ?    he  fain  would   write  a 

poem, — 
Does  he  write  ?   he  fain  would  paint  a 

picture, 
Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 
So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist, 
Gain    the  man's   joy,    miss   the  artist's 

sorrow. 


Wherefore  ?  Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's 
abatement ! 

He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the 
water, 

Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath 
him. 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 

Proves, '  perchance,  but  mortal  in  the 
minute. 

Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  re- 
member, 

So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril, 

When  they  stood  and  mocked — "Shall 
smiting  help  us  ?  " 

When  they  drank  and  sneered  —  "A 
stroke  is  easy  ! " 

When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went 
their  journey, 

Throwing  him  for  thanks — "  But  drought 
was  pleasant." 

Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual 
triumph  ; 

Thus  the  doing  savors  of  disrelish  ; 

Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  some- 
what ; 

O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the 
mandate, 

Carelessness  or  consciousness — the  ges- 
ture. 

For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him. 

Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed 
faces, 

Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed 
prelude — 

"How  shouldst  thou,  of  all  men,  smite, 
and  save  us?" 

Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel — 

"Egypt's  flesh-pots — nay,  the  drought 
was  better." 


Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic 
warrant  ! 

Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  bril- 
liance, 


Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial 

fiat. 
Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 


Did   lie    love    one    face    from    out  the 

thousands, 
(Were  she  Jethro's  daughter,  white  and 

wifely, 
Were  she  but  the  ^Ethiopian  bondslave,) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert ; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneeling    down    to  let   his   breast   be 

opened) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

XII 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 
Paint   you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you 

statues, 
Make  you  music  that  should  all-expres" 

me  ; 
So  it  seems  :  I  stand  on  my  attainment 
This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me 
Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you 
Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing 
All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  you 

own,  Love  ! 


Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us — 
Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must 

seize  it.       , 
Take    these    lines,    look    lovingly    and 

nearly, 
Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last 

time. 
He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair- 
brush, 
Curbs     the     liberal    hand,    subservient 

proudly, 
Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little 
Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 
Fills     his     lady's     missal-marge      with 

flowerets. 
He    who    blows    through    bronze,    may 

breathe  through  silver, 
Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 
He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once  as  I 

do. 

XIV 

Love,    you    saw    me    gather   men   and 

women, 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy, 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 


656 


BRITISH   POETS 


Speak  from  every  mouth, — the  speech,  a 

poem. 
Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hope  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving: 
I   a tn    mine   and  yours — the  rest  be  all 

men's, 
Karshisli.  ('Icon,  Norbert,  and  the  fifty. 
Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  per- 
son. 
Not  as  Lippo,  Roland,  or  Andrea, 
Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this 

sentence  : 
Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and 

women, 
Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished  ; 
Where   my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie 

also ! 
Poor  the  speech  ;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all 

things. 

XV 

Not   but   that   you  know  me  !     Lo,  the 

moon's  self  ! 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-trans- 
figured, 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  color, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight, 
Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's- 

breadth. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Rounder     'twixt     the     cypresses     and 

rounder, 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  apiece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished, 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traVerses  the  house- 
roofs, 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 
Goes  dispiritedly,  glad  to  finish. 

XVI 

What,  there's  nothing  in  the  moon  note- 
worthy ? 
Nay  :  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal , 
Use,  to  charm  him  ^so  to  fit  a  fancy), 
All  her  magic  ('t  is  the  old  sweet  my  tlios), 
She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 
Side    unseen    of   herdsman,   huntsman, 

steersman — 
Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace, 
Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret, 
Dumb  to   Homer,  dumb  to  Keats — him, 

even  ! 
Think,   the   wonder  of  the  moonstruck 

mortal — 
When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in 

heaven, 
Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better  1 


Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  ice- 
berg 

Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders. 

Hungry    with  huge  teeth  of  splintered 
crystals  ? 

Proves  she  as  the  paved  work  of  a  sap- 
phire 

Seen    by   Moses   when   he   climbed   the 
mountain  ? 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu 

Climbed    and    saw   the   very   God.    the 
Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone   the   stone,   the  sapphire  of  that 
paved  work. 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God 
also ! 

XVII 

What  were  seen  ?    None  knows,  none 

ever  shall  know. 
Only  this  is  sure — the  sight  were  other, 
Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in 

Florence, 
Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 
God    be   thanked,   the   meanest    of   his 

creatures 
Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the 

world  with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her  ! 


This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you.  Love  ! 
This  to  you — yourself  my  moon  of  poets  ! 
All,  but  that  *s  the  world's  side,  there  's 

the  wonder, 
Thus   they   see   you,   praise  you,  think 

they  know  you ! 
There,  in  turn  I  stand   with  them  and 

praise  you — • 
Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 
But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out 

them, 
Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 
Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 
Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed 

of, 
Where   I   hush   and   bless   myself  with 

silence. 


Oli,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh.  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song — and  in  my  brain  I  sing 

it. 
Drew    one    angel — borne,    see,    on    my 

bosom ! 

R.  B.     1855. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


<>57 


BEN  KARSHOOK'S   WISDOM 


Would  a  man  'scape  the  rod  ?  " 
Rabbi  Ben  Karshook  saith, 

See  tliat  he  turn  to  God 
The  day  before  his  death." 

Ay.  could  a  man  inquire 

When  it  shall  come  !"  I  say. 

The  Rabbi*s  eye  shoots  fire — 
"  Then  let  him  turn  to-day  !  " 


Quoth  a  young  Sadducee  : 

"  Reader  of  many  rolls, 
Is  it  so  certain  we 

Have,  as  they  tell  us,  souls?" 

"  Son,  there  is  no  reply  !  " 

The  Rabbi  bit  his  beard: 
"  Certain,  a  soul  have  I — 

We  may  have  none,"  he  sneered. 

Thus  Karshook.   the  Hiram's-Hammer, 
The  Right-hand  Temple-column, 

Taught  babes  in  grace  their  grammar, 
And  struck  the  simple,  solemn. 

1856. 

AMONG  THE  ROCKS 

Oh,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old 
earth. 
This  autumn    morning  !     How  he  sets 
his  bones 
To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees 

and  feet 
For    the    ripple    to     run     over     in     its 
mirth  ; 
Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap 

of  StolH'S 

The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters 

SWeet. 

That  is   the   doctrine,    simple,   ancient, 
true  : 
Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles 
and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your 

love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,   and  wholly    well 
for  you  : 
Make    the    low  nature  better  by   your 
throes ! 
Give    earth   yourself,    go   up   for  gain 
above !  18(14. 

42 


ABT   VOGLER 
(AFTER    he    has   been    extemporizing 

UPON  THE  MUSICAL   INSTRUMENT  OF  HIS 
INVENTION) 

Would   that   the   structure   brave,   the 
manifold  music  I  build, 
Bidding   my   organ   obey,   calling   its 
keys  to  their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a 
touch,  as  when  Solomon  willed 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of 
demons  that  lurk. 
Man,  brute,    reptile,  fly, — alien   of   end 
and  of  aim, 
Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven- 
high,  hell-deep  removed, — 
Should  rush    into   sight   at   once   as   he 
named  the  ineffable  Name, 
And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleas- 
ure the  princess  he  loved  ! 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his.  the  beau- 
tiful building  of  mine, 
This    which    my    keys    in    a     crowd 
pressed  and  importuned  to  raise  ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would 
dispart  now  and  now  combine. 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten 
their  master  his  praise  ! 
And  one  would  bury    his   brow    with   a 
blind  plunge  down  to  hell. 
Burrow  awhile   and   build,    broad   on 
the  roots  of  things. 
Then    up  again  swim  into  sight,  having 
based  me  my  palace  well. 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,   flat  on 
the  nether  springs. 

And  another  would   mount  and  march, 
like  the  excellent  minion  he  was, 
Ay,   another    and   yet    another,    one 
crowd  but  with  many  a  crest. 
Raising  my  rampired   walls   of  gold   as 
transparent  as  glass, 
Eager  to  do   and   die,   yield  each   his 
place  to  the  rest  : 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner 
tips  with  fire, 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a 
festal  night — 
Outlined  round  and  round  Rome's  dome 
from  space  to  spire) 
Up.  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and 
the  pride  of  my  soul  was  in  sight. 

Insight?     Not  half!  for   it    seemed,    it 
was  certain,  to  match  man's  birth, 


65S 


BRITISH   POETS 


Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an 
impulse  .is  1  ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down, 
made  effort  to  reach  the  earth, 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my 
passion,  to  scale  the  sky  : 
Novel  splendors  burst  forth,  grew   fami- 
liar and  dwelt  with  mine, 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found   and 
fixed  its  wandering  star; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze:  and   they 
did  not  pale  nor  pine, 
For  earth   had    attained    to    heaven, 
there  was  no  more  near  nor  far. 

Nay  more  :  for  there   wanted   not   who 

walked  in  the  glare  and  glow, 
Presences  plain  in  the  place  ;  or,  fresh 

from  the  Protoplast, 
Furnished    for    ages    to   come,    when   a 

kindlier  wind  should  blow. 
Lured  now   to   begin  and   live,   in   a 

house  to  their  liking  at  last  ; 
Or  else  the  wonderful   Dead    who   have 

passed  through  the  body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more   to   breathe 

in  an  old  world  worth  their  new   : 
What  never  had   been,  was   now  ;  what 

was,  as  it  shall  be  anon  ; 
And  what  is, — shall  I  say,  matched  both  ? 

for  I  was  made  perfect  too. 

All  through   my   keys   that   gave   their 
sounds  to  a  wish  of  my  soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its 
wish  flowed  visibly  forth. 
All  through  music  and  me  !     For  think, 
had  I  painted  the  whole, 
Why,  there  it  had  stood,    to   see,    nor 
the  process  so  wonder-worth  : 
Had  1  written   the  same,  made   verse — 
still,  effect  proceeds  from  cause. 
Ye  know7  why  the  forms  are   fair,   ye 
hear  how  the  tale  is  told  ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obed- 
ience to  laws, 
Painter    and    poet    are  proud  in    the 
artist-list  enrolled  : — 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of 

the  will  that  can, 
Existent   behind  all  laws,  that  made 

them  and,  lo,  they  are  ! 
And  I  know  not   if,  save  in  this,  such 

gift  be  allowed  to  man, 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not 

a  fourth  sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well :  each  tone  of  our  scale 

in  itself  is  naught : 


It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud, 

soft,  and  all  is  said  : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !     I  mix  it  with  two 
in  my  thought : 
And  there  !     Ye  have  heard  and  seen  : 
consider  and  bow  the  head  ! 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the    palace    of 
music  I  reared  ; 
Gone  !  and  the    good  tears  start,  the 
praises  that  come  too  slow  ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can 
say  that  he  feared, 
That   he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the 
gone  thing  was  to  go. 
Never  to  be  again  !     But  many  more  of 
the  kind 
As    good,  nay,  better,  perchance :   is 
this  your  comfort  to  me  ? 
To  me,  who   must   be  saved   because  I 
cling  with  my  mind 
To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same 
God  :  ay,  what  was,  shall  be. 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee, 
the  ineffable  Name  ? 
Builder  and    maker,   thou,  of   houses 
not  made  with  hands  ! 
What,   have  fear  of  change  from   thee 
who  art  ever  the  same  ? 
Doubt   that    thy  power    can  fill    the 
heart  that  thy  power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good  !  What 
was,  shall  live  as  before  ; 
The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence 
implying  sound  ; 
What  was  good  shall  be  good,  with,  for 
evil,  so  much  good  more  ; 
On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs ;  in  the 
heaven  a  perfect  round. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed 
of  good  shall  exist  ; 
Not    its     semblance,    but   itself ;     no 
beauty,  nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  lias  gone   forth,  but  each 
survives  for  the  melodist 
When  eternity  affirms  the  conception 
of  an  hour, 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic 
for  earth  too  hard, 
The   passion  that  left  the  ground    to 
lose  itself  in  the  sky. 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover 
and  the  bard  ; 
Enough    that    he  heard  it  once  :    we 
shall  hear  it  by  and  by. 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  tri- 
umph's evidence 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


659 


For  the  fulness  of   the  days?      Have 
we  withered  or  agonized  ? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but 
that  singing  might  issue  thence  ? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in,  but  that 
harmony  should  be  prized  ? 
Sorrow    is  hard   to  bear,  and    doubt    is 
slow  to  clear, 
Eacli  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme 
of  the  weal  and  woe  : 
^ut  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whis- 
pers in  the  ear  ; 
The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome  ;  't  is 
we  musicians  know. 

Well,   it  is  earth  with  me  ;  silence  re- 
sumes her  reign  : 
I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly 
acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  com- 
mon chord  again. 
Sliding  by  semitones  till  I  sink  to  the 
minor, — yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand 
on  alien  ground. 
Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled 
from  into  the  deep  ; 
Which,  hark,  I  have    dared  and  done, 
for  my  resting-place  is  found. 
The  C  Major  of  this  life  :  so,  now  T  will 
try  to  sleep.  1864. 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA 

Grow  old  along  with  me  ! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of'  life,  for  which  the  first  was 

made  : 
Our  times  are  in  his  hand 
"V3ho  saith,  4'  A  whole  I  planned. 
Youth   shows  but  half  ;  trust  God :  see 

all,  nor  be  afraid  1  " 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  '•Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which   lily  leave  and  then  as  best  re- 
call ?  " 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned,   "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars  ; 
Mine    be    some     figured    flame    which 
blends,  transcends  them  all !  " 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate  :  folly  wide  the  mark  ! 
Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by 
a  spark. 


Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed. 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  a  feast  : 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men  : 
Irks    care    the    crop-full    bird?      Frets 
doubt  the  maw-crammed  beast? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 
To  that  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod  ; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that  take, 
I  must  believe. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each   sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand 

but  go ! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain  ; 
Learn,   nor    account    the  pang  ;    dare. 

never  grudge  the  throe  ! 

For  thence, — a  paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
What  I  aspired  to  he, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me  : 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would 
not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  worksTest  arms  and  legs 

want  play  ? 
To  man.  propose  this  test — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its 

lone  way  ? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use  : 

I  own  the  Past  profuse 

Of   power  each  side,  perfection    every 

turn  : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "  How 

good  to  live  and  learn  "  ? 

Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  thine  ! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

1,  whc  saw  power,  see  now  Love  perfect 

too  : 
Perfect  I  call  thy  plan  : 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  ! 
Maker,  remake,  complete,— I  trust  what 

thou  shalt  do  !  " 


66o 


BRITISH    POETS 


For  pleasant  is  this  flesh  ; 
Our  soul,  in  iis  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for 

rest : 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  march  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as 

we  did  best ! 

I. ft  us  not  always  say, 

••  Spite  of  this  flesh  to  day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon 

the  whole  ! " 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry,  "  All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helpsflesh  more,  now, 

than  flesh  helps  soul !  " 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage. 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its 

term  : 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute  ;  a  God  though 

in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and 

new  : 
Fearless  and  unperplexed, 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to 

indue. 

Youth  ended.  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby  ; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what   survives  is 

gold  : 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 
( rive  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute  ;  I  shall  know, 

being  old. 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the 

gray  : 
A  whisper  from  the  west 
Shoots — "  Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  try  its  worth  :  here  dies  an- 
other day." 

So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at 

last. 
"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 


That  acquiescence  vain  : 
The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved 
the  Past."" 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  lie  learns  to-day  : 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the 
tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught 

found  made : 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.    Thou  waitedst  age:  wait  death 

nor  be  afraid ! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand 

thine  own, 
With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let 

thee  feel  alone. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced   to   each   his  station  in  the 

Past  ! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Right?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and 

give  us  peace  at  last  ! 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  re- 
ceive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me  ;  we  all  surmise, 

They  this  thing,  audi  that:  whom  shall 
my  soul  believe  ? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "  work,"  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had 

the  price  ; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found   straightway   to   its   mind,  could 

value  in  a  trice  : 

But  all.  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


661 


So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  ac- 
count ; 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet 
swelled  the  man's  amount : 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act. 

Fancies   that    broke    through   language 

and  escaped  ; 
All  I  could  never  be, 
All,  men  ignored  in  me, 
This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel 

the  pitcher  shaped. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor  !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins   fast,  why   passive   lies 

oar  clay, — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round. 
"Since   life   fleets",  all   is   change;    the 

Past  gone,  seize  to-day  !  " 

Fool !     All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth   changes,  but  thy   soul   and  God 

stand  sure  : 
What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be  : 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops  :  Potter 

and  clay  endure. 

He  fixed  thee  'mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  would  fain 

arrest  : 
Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently 

impressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves, 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 

Around   thy  base,  no   longer  pause  and 

press? 
What  though,  about  thy  rim, 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow   out,    in    graver   mood,    obey   the 

sterner  si  ress  ? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up  ! 

To  uses  of  a  cup. 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trum- 
pet's peal. 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

The  master's  lips  aglow  ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup.  what 
needst  thou  with  earth's  who  I ': 


But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee.  God.  who  mouldest  men  ; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was 

worst, 
Did  I — to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 
Bound    dizzily — mistake    my    end,    to 

slake  thy  thirst  : 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work  : 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings 

past  the  aim  ! 
My  times  be  in  thy  hand  ! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 
Let   age   approve   of  youth,  and   death 

complete  the  same  !  1864. 

CALIBAN  UPON   SETEBOS ; 

OR,  NATURAL  THEOLOGY  IN  THE  ISLAND 

"Thou  tlioughtest  that  I  was  altogether  such 
an  one  as  thyself." 

['Will  sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of  day 

is  best. 
Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire, 
With  elbows  wide,  fists  clenched  to  prop 

his  chin. 
And,  while  he  kicks  both  feet  in  the  cool 

slush. 

And  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft-things 

course, 
Run   in   and  out   each   arm,  and   make 

him  laugh  :  [plant, 

And  while   above  his   head  a   pompion- 
( ioating  the  cave-top  as  a  brow  its  eye, 
Creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair  and 

beard. 
And  now  a  flower  drops  with  a  bee  inside. 
And   now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch   and 

crunch, — 
He   looks   out  o'er  yon  sea   which   sun- 
beams cross 
And  recross  till  they  weave  a  spider-web, 
(Meshes  of   fire,  some   greatfish    breaks 

at  times. )  [please, 

And   talks  to  his  own   self ,  howe'er  he 
Touching    that  other,  whom    his   dam 

called  God. 
Because  to  talk  about  Him,  vexes — ha, 
Couhl  He  but  know  !  and  lime  to  vex  is 

now, 
When  talk  is  safer   than  in  winter-time. 
Moreover  Prosper  and  Miranda  sleep 
In  confidence  he  drudges  at  their  task-. 
Ami  it  is  good  to  cheat  the  pair,  and  gibe, 
Letting   the  rank   tongue  blossom   intc 
ech.] 


662 


BRITISH   POETS 


Setebos,  Setebos,  and  Setebos  ! 
Thinketh.  He  dwelleth  i*  tbe  coldo'  tbe 
moon. 

'Thinketh  He  made  it,  with  the  sun  to 
match, 

But  not  tbe  stars  ;  tbe  stars  came  other- 
wise ; 

Only  made  clouds,  winds,  meteors,  such 
as  that : 

Also  this  isle,  what  lives  and  growls 
thereon, 

And  snaky  sea  which  rounds  and  ends 
the  same. 

'Thinketh,  it  came  of  being  ill  at  ease  : 
He  hated   that  He  cannot  change  His 

cold. 
Nor  cure   its  ache.     '  Hath  spied  an  icy 

fish 
That  longed  to  '  scape  the  rock-stream 

where  she  lived. 
And  thaw  herself  within   the  lukewarm 

brine 
O'  the  lazy   sea  her  stream   thrusts  far 

amid, 
A  crystal  spike 'twixt  two  warm   walls 

of  wave ; 
Only,  she  ever  sickened,  found  repulse 
At  the  other  kind  of  water,  not  ber  life, 
(Green-dense  and  dim-delicious,  bred  o' 

tbe  sun,) 
Flounced   back  from  bliss   she  was  not 

born  to  breathe, 
And  in  her  old  bounds  buried  her  despair, 
Hating  and  loving  warmth  alike  :  so  He. 

'Thinketh,  He   made   tbereat   the   sun, 

this  isle, 
Trees  and  tbe  fowls  here,  beast  and  creep- 
ing tbing. 
Yon  otter,   sleek-wet,   black,   lithe  as  a 

leech  ; 
Yon  auk,  one  fire-eye  in  a  ball  of  foam, 
That  floats  and  feeds  ;  a  certain   badger 

brown 
He  hath    watched  bunt  with  that   slant 

whitewedge  eye 
By  moonlight ;  and  the  pie  with  the  long 

tongue 
That   pricks   deep   into   oakwarts   for  a 

worm, 
And  says  a  plain  word  when  she  finds 

her  prize,  [selves 

But  will  not  eat  the  ants  ;  the  antstbem- 
That   build  a  wall  of  seeds   and  settled 

stalks 
About   their  hole — He  made  all   these 

and  more, 


Made  all  we  see,  and  us,  in  spite  :  how 

else? 
He  could   not,  Himself,  make  a  second 

self 
To  be   His  mate  ;  as  well  have  made 

Himself  : 
He  would  not  make   what  He  mislikes 

or  slights. 
An   eyesore  to  Him,  or   not   worth   His 

pains : 
But  did,  in  envy,  listlessness  or  sport, 
Make   what  Himself   would  fain,   in  a 

manner,  be — 
Weaker  in  most  points,  stronger  in  a  few, 
Worthy,   and  yet  mere  playthings  all 

the  while, 
Tilings  He  admires  and  mocks  too, — that 

is  it. 
Because,  so  brave,  so  better  though  they 

be, 
It  nothing  skills  if  He  begin  to  plague. 
Look  now,  I  melt  a  gourd-fruit  in  to  mash, 
Add  honeycomb  and   pods,  I  have   per- 
ceived, 
Which  bite   like  finches  when   they  bill 

and  kiss, — 
Then,  when  froth  rises  bladdery,  drink 

up  all, 
Quick,    quick,     till    maggots    scamper 

through  my  brain  ; 
Last,  throw  me  on  my  back  i'  the  seeded 

thyme, 
And  wanton,  wishing  I  were  born  a  bird. 
Put  case,  unable  to  be  what  I  wish, 
I  yet  could  make  a  live  bird  out  of  clay  : 
Would  not  I  take  clay,  pinch  my  Caliban 
Able  to  fly?— for,   there,   see,  be   bath 

wings, 
And   great   comb   like    the   hoopoe's  to 

admire, 
And  there,  a  sting  to  do  his  foes  offence, 
There,  and  I  will  that  he  begin  to  live, 
Fly  to  yon  rock-top,  nip  me  off  tbe  horns 
Of  grigs  high  up  that  make  the  merry  din 
Saucy  through  their  veined  wings,  and 

mind  me  not. 
In  which  feat,  if  his  leg  snapped,  brittle 

clay, 
And  he  lay   stupid-like, — why   I  should 

laugh  ; 
And  if  he,  spying  me  should  fall  to  weep 
Beseech  me  to  be  good,  repair  his  wrong, 
Bid   his   poor   leg   smart   less   or    grow 

again, — 
Well,  as    the   chance    were   this   might 

take  or  else 
Not  take  my  fancy  :  I  might  hear  his  cry 
And  give  tlie  manikin  three   sound  legs 

for  one, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


663 


Or  pluck  the  other  off,  leave  him  like  an 

egg, 
And  lessoned    he  was   mine  and  merely 

clay. 
Were   this    no    pleasure    lying    in    the 

thyme, 
Drinking  the  mash,  with    brain  become 

alive 
Making  and    marring  clay  at  will?    So 

He. 

'Thinketh   such    shows    nor    right    nor 

wrong  in  Him, 
Nor  kind  nor    cruel :  He  is    strong   and 

Lord. 
'  Am  strong  myself  compared  to  yonder 

crabs 
That  march   now  from  the  mountain  to 

the  sea  ; 
'  Let  twenty  pass  and  stone  the  twenty- 
first, 
Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so. 
'  Say,  the  first  straggler  that  boasts  purple 

spots 
Shall  join  the  file,  one  pincer  twisted  off  ; 
'Say  this  bruised  fellow  shall  receive  a 

worm , 
And  two   worms  he   whose  nippers  end 

in  red  ; 
As  it  likes  me  each  time  I  do:  so  He. 

Well  then,  'supposeth   He  is  good  i' the 

main, 
Placable  if  His  mind   and  ways  were 

guessed, 
But  rougher  than   His  handiwork,    be 

sure  ! 
Oh,  He  hath  made  things  worthier  than 

Himself, 
And  envieth  that,  so  helped,  such  things 

do  more 
Than  He  who  made  them  !     What  con- 
soles but  this? 
That    they,    unless    through    Him,    do 

naught  at  all, 
And  must  submit  :  what   other   use   in 

things? 
'Hath  cut  a  pipe  of  pithless  elder-joint 
That,    blown   through,  gives   exact  the 

scream  o'  the  jay 
When  from  her  wing   you    twitch   the 

feathers  blue  : 
Sound  this,  ami  little  birds  that  hate  the 

jay 

Flock  within   stone's  throw,  glad   their 

foe  is  hurt  : 
Put  case  such   pipe  could  prattle  and 

boast  forsooth,  [thing, 

"I  catch  the   birds,   I  am   the    crafty 


I  make  the  cry  my  maker  cannot  make 
With  Ins  great  round  mouth  ;  he  must 

blow  through  mine  !  " 
Would  not  I  smash  it  with  my  foot  ?   So 

He. 

But  wherefore  rough,  why  cold  and  ill 

at  ease  ? 
Aha.  that  is  a  question  !     Ask,  for  that, 
What  knows, — the  something  over  Sete- 

bos 
That  made  Him,  or  He,  may  be,  found 

and  fought, 
Worsted,  drove  off  and  did  to  nothing, 

perchance. 
There  may  be  something  quiet  o'er  His 

head. 
Out  of  His  reach,  that  feels  nor  joy  nor 

grief, 
Since  both    derive    from   weakness    in 

some  way. 
I  joy  because  the  quails  come ;    would 

not  joy 
Could  I  bring  quails  here  when  I  have  a 

mind  : 
This  Quiet,  all  it  hath  a  mind  to,  doth. 
'Esteemeth    stars    the    outposts    of    its 

couch, 
But  never  spends  much  thought  nor  care 

that  way. 
It  may  look  up,  work  up,  the  worse  for 

those 
It  works  on  !     'Careth  but  for  Setebos 
The  many-handed  as  a  cuttle-fish, 
Who,  making   Himself   feared   through 

what  He  does, 
Looks  up,  first,  and  perceives  he  cannot 

soar 
To  what  is  quiet  and  hath  happy  life  ; 
Next  looks  down  here,  and  out  of  very 

spite 
Makes  this  a  bauble-world  to  ape  yon 

real, 
These  good  things  to  match  those  as  hips 

do  grapes. 
'Tis    solace    making    baubles,    ay,    and 

sport. 
Himself  peeped  late,  eyed  Prosper  at  his 

books 
Careless  and  lofty,  lord  now  of  the  isle  : 
Vexed,  'stitched  a  book  of  broad  leaves, 

arrow-shaped, 
Wrote    thereon,  he  knows  what,  prodi- 

gious  words  ; 
Has  peeled  a  wand  and   called   it  by  a 

name  ; 
Weareth   at,  whiles  for  an  enchanter's 

robe 
The  eyed  skin  of  a  supple  oncelot ; 


664 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  hath  an  ounce  sleeker  than  young- 
ling mole, 

A  four  legged  serpent  he  makes  cower 
and  couch, 

Now  snarl,  now  hold  its  breath  and 
mind  his  eye, 

And  saith  she  is  Miranda  and  my  wife  : 

'Keeps  for  his  Ariel  a  tall  pouch-bill 
crane 

He  hids  go  wade  for  fish  and  straight 
disgorge  ; 

Also  a  sea-beast,  lumpish,  which  he 
snared, 

Blinded  the  eyes  of  and  brought  some- 
what tame, 

And  split  its  toe-webs,  and  now  pens  the 
drudge 

In  a  hole  o'the  rock,  and  calls  him  Cali- 
ban : 

A  bitter  heart  that  bides  its  time  and 
bites. 

'Plays  thus  at  being  Prosper  in  a  way. 

Taketh  his  mirth  with  make-believes:  so 
He. 

His  dam   held  that  the  Quiet  made  all 

things 
Which  Setebos  vexed  only  :    'holds  not 

so. 
Who  made  them  weak,  meant  weakness 

He  might  vex. 
Had   He   meant  other,  while  His  hand 

was  in, 
Why   not   make   horny   eyes   no   thorn 

could  prick. 
Or   plate    my  scalp  with   bone   against 

the  snow, 
Or   oversea le   my  flesh  'neath  joint  and 

joint 
Like  an  ore's  armor  ?    Ay, — so  spoil  His 

sport ! 
He  is  the  One  now :  only  He  doth  all. 

'Saith.  He   may   like,  perchance,    what 

profits  him. 
Ay,  himself  loves  what  does  him  good  ; 

but  why? 
'Gets  good  no  otherwise.     This  blinded 

beast 
Loves  whoso   places   flesh-meat   on   his 

nose. 
But,  had  he  eyes,  would  want  no  help. 

but  hate 
Or  love,  just   as  it  liked  him:    he  hath 

eyes. 
Also  it  pleases  Setebos  to  work, 
Use  all  His  hands,  and   exercise   much 

craft,  [worked. 

By  no    means  for  the  love   of    what    is 


'Tasteth    himself,    no   finer   good   i'  the 

world 
When  all  goes  right,  in  this  safe  sun  in  ier- 

tinie, 
And  he  wants  little,  hungers,  aches  not 

much. 
Than    trying   what  to  do  with   wit   and 

strength. 
'Falls   to   make   something :   'piled   yon 

pile  of  turfs, 
And  squared  and  stuck  there  squares  of 

soft  white  chalk, 
And,  with  a  fish-tooth,  scratched  a  moon 

on  each, 
And  set  up  endwise  certain   spikes  of 

tree, 
And  crowned  the  whole  with  a  sloth's 

skull  a-top. 
Found  dead  i'  the  woods,  too  hard  for 

one  to  kill. 
No  use  at  all  i'  the  work,  for  work's  sole 

sake  ; 
'Shall  some  day  knock  it  down  again:  so 

He. 

'Saith  He  is  terrible  :  watch  His  feats  in 

proof  ! 
One    hu  ricane     will     spoil    six     good 

months'  hope. 
He  hath  a  spite  against  me,  that  I  know, 
Just  as  He  favors  Prosper,  who  knows 

why  ? 
So  it  is,  all  the  same,  as  well  I  find. 
'Wove  wattles  half   the  winter,  fenced 

them  firm 
With    stone    and     stake    to    stop    she- 
tortoises 
Crawling  to  lay  their  eggs   here  :  well, 

one  wave, 
Feeling  the  foot  of  Him  upon  its  neck, 
Gaped   as   a   snake   does,  lolled   out  its 

large  tongue, 
And   licked   the    whole   labor   flat  :     so 

much  for  spite. 

'Saw  a  ball  flame  down  late  (yonder  it 

lies) 
Where  half  an  hour  before,  I  slept  i'  the 

shade  : 
Often   they   scatter    sparkles :   there   is 

force  ! 
'Dug   up  a  newt  He  may  have  envied 

once 
And  turned  to  stone,  shut   up  inside   a 

stone. 
Please    Him    and    hinder    this? — What 

Prosper  does? 
Aha,  if  He  would  tell  me  how  !     Not  He  ! 
There  is  the  sport :  discover  how  or  die! 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


665 


All  need  not  die,  for  of  the  things  o'  the 

isle 
Some  flee  afar,  some  dive,  some  run  up 

trees ; 
Those  at  His  mercy, — why  they  please 

Him  most 
When  .  .  .  when  .  .  .   well,    never    try 

the  same  way  twice  ! 
Repeat   what   act  has  pleased,  He  may 

grow  wroth. 
You  must  not  know  His  ways,  and  play 

Him  off, 
Sure   of  the  issue.     Doth  the  like  him- 
self: 
'Spareth  a  squirrel  that  it  nothing  fears 
But  steals  the  nut  from  underneath  my 

thumb, 
And  when  I  threat,  bites  stoutly  in  de- 
fence : 
'Spareth  an  urchin  that  contrariwise, 
Curls  up  into  a  ball,  pretending  death 
For  fright  at  my  approach  :  the  two  ways 

please. 
But  what  would  move  my  choler  more 

than  this, 
That  either  creature  counted  on  its  life 
To-morrow  and  next  day  and  all  days  to 

come 
Saying,  forsooth,  in  the   inmost   of   its 

heart, 
"  Because  he  did  so  yesterday  with  me, 
And  otherwise  with  such  another  brute, 
So  must  he  do  henceforth  and  always." — 

Ay? 
Would  teach  the  reasoning  couple  what 

"  must"  means ! 
'Doth  as  lie  likes,  or  wherefore  Lord  ? 

So  He. 

'Conceiveth  all  things  will  continue  thus. 

And  we  shall  have  to  live  in  fear  of  Him 

So  long  as  He  lives,  keeps  his  strength  : 
no  change, 

If  He  have  done  His  best,  make  no  new 
world 

To  please  Him  more,  so  leave  off  watch- 
ing this, — 

If  He  surprise  not  even  the  Quiet's  self 

Some  strange  day, — or,  suppose,  grow 
into  it 

As  grubs  grow  butterflies  :  else,  here  we 
are,  [all. 

And  there  is  He,  and  nowhere  help  at 

'Believeth  with  the  life,  the  pain    shall 

stop. 
His  dam  held  different,  that  after  death 
He  both  plagued  enemies   and   feasted 

friends  : 


Idly  !     He  doth  His   worst  in  this  our 

life. 
Giving  just  respite  lest  we  die  through 

pain, 
Saving  last  pain  for  worst. — with  which, 

an  end. 
Meanwhile,  the  best  way  to  escape  His 

ire 
Is,  not  to  seem  too  happy.     'Sees,  him- 
self, 
Yonder  two  flies,  with  purple  films  and 

pink, 
Bask   on   the   pompion-bell  above  :  kills 

both. 
'Sees  two  black  painful  beetles  roll  then 

ball 
On  head  and  tail  as  if  to  save  their  lives  : 
Moves  them  the  stick  away  they  strive 

to  clear. 

Even  so,'  would  have  him  misconceive, 

suppose 
This  Caliban  strives  hard  and  ails  no  less, 
And  always,  above  all  else,  envies  Him  ; 
Wherefore   he    mainly  dances    on  dark 

nights, 
Moans  in  the  sun,  gets  under   holes  to 

laugh, 
And  never  speaks  his  mind  save  housed 

as  now  : 
Outside,  'groans,  curses.     If  He  caught 

me  here, 
O'erheard  this  speech,  and  asked  "  What 

chucklest  at?" 
'Would,  to  appease  Him,  cut  a  finger  off, 
Or  of  my  three  kid  yearlings  burn  the 

best, 
Or  let  the  toothsome  apples  rot  on  tree. 
Or  push  my  tame  beast   for  the  ore  to 

taste : 
While  myself  lit  a  fire,  and  made  a  song 
Andsungit,  "  What  I  hate,  be  consecrate, 
To  celebrate  Thee  and  Thy  state,  no  mate 
For  Thee ;  what  see  for  envy  in   poor 

me  f" 
Hoping  the  while,  since  evils  sometimes 

mend, 
Warts  rub  away  and  soi'es  are  cured  with 

slime, 
That  some  strange  day,  will  either  the 

Quiet  catch 
And  conquer  Setebos,  or  likelier  He 
Decrepit  may  doze,  doze,  as  good  as  die. 


[What,  what?     A  curtain  o'er  the  world 

at  once  ! 
Crickets  stop  hissing ;   not  a  bird — or, 

yes. 


666 


BRITISH    POETS 


There  scuds  His  raven  that  has  told  Him 

all  ! 
It  was  fool's  play,  this  prattling!    Ha! 

The  wind 
Shoulders  the  pillared  dust,  death's  house 

o'  the  move, 
And  fast   invading  fires  hegin  !     White 

blaze — 
A  tree's  head  snaps — and  there,   there, 

there,  there,  there. 
His  thunder  follows !     Fool  to  gibe  at 

Him  ! 
Lo  !     'Lieth  flat  and  loveth  Setebos  ! 
'Maketh  his  teeth  meet  through  his  upper 

lip,  [month 

Will  let  those  quails  fly.  will  not  eat  this 
One  little  mess   of   whelks,  so   he  may 

'scape !]  1864. 

CONFESSIONS 

What  is  lie  buzzing  in  my  ears? 

"  Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears  ?  " 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I ! 

What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view 
again 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge, — is  a  suburb  lane, 

With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 

That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do, 
From  a  house  you  could  descry 

O'er  the  garden-wall ;  is  the  curtain  blue 
Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye  ? 

To   mine,   it   serves   for   the    old    June 
weather 
Blue  above  lane  and  wall ; 
And     that     farthest     bottle      labelled 
"Ether" 
Is  the  house  o'ertopping  all. 

At    a     terrace,    somewhere     near    the 
stopper. 

There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 
A  girl:  I  know,  sir,  it  's  improper, 

My  poor  mind  's.  out  of  tune. 

Only,  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except  : 
They  styled  their  house  "  The  Lodge." 

What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane  ? 

But,  by  creeping  very  close, 
With  the  good  wall's  help, — their  (  res 
might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 


Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together, 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there, 
By    the    rim    of    the     bottle     labelled 
"  Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 

And  stood   by  the  rose-wreathed  gate 
Alas, 

We  loved,  sir — used  to  meet  : 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was — 

But,  then,  how  it  was  sweet !     1864 

YOUTH  AND  ART 

It  once  might  have  been,  once  only  : 
We  lodged  in  a  street  together, 

You,  a  sparrow  on  the  house  top  lonely. 
I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 

Your  trade  was  witli  sticks  and  clay, 
You     thumbed,    thrust,    patted    and 
polished, 

Then  laughed  "They  will  see  some  day 
Smith  made,  and  Gibson  demolished." 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song  ; 

I  chirped,   cheeped,  trilled  and  twit- 
tered, 
"  Kate  Brown's  on  the  boards  ere  long, 

And  Grisi's  existence  embittered  !  " 

I  earned  no  more  by  a  warble 
Than  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster  : 

You  wanted  a  piece  of  marble, 
I  needed  a  music-master. 

We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 
Chipped  each  at  a  crust  like  Hindoos, 

For  air,  looked  out  on  the  tiles, 

For    fun,  watched  each  other's   win- 
dows. 

You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 
Cap  and  blouse — nay,  a  bit  of  beard 
too : 

Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  your  mouth 
With  fingers  the  clay  adhered  to. 

And  I — soon  managed  to  find 

Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  facing, 
Was  forced  to  put  up  a  blind 

And  be  safe  in  my  corset-lacing. 

No  harm  !     It  was  not  my  fault 

If  you  never  turned  your  eye's  tail  up 

As  I  shook  upon  E  in  alt., 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up  : 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 
And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


667 


And  stalls  in  our  street  looked  rare 
With  bulrush  and  watercresses. 

Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 
In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it  ? 

Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 
Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it? 

I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx, 

(And  yet  the  memory  rankles,) 

When  models  arrived,  some  minx 

Tripped  up-stairs,  she  and  her  ankles. 

But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good  ! 

"  That  foreign  fellow, — who  can  know 
How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood, 

For  his  tuning  her  that  piano  ?  " 

Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say, 

"  Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fortunes, 

And  I  fetch  her  from  over  the  way. 
Her,  piano,  and  long  tunes  and  short 
tunes?" 

No.  no  :  you  would  not  be  rash. 

Nor  1  rasher  and  something  over  : 
You've  to  settle  yet  Gibson's  hash, 

And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 

But  you  meet  the  Prince  at  the  Board, 
I'm  queen  myself  at  bals-pare, 

I  've  married  a  rich  old  lord, 
And  you   're  dubbed  knight  and  an 
R*  A. 

Eacli  life  un fulfilled,  you  see  ; 

It  hangs  still,  patchy  and  scrappy  : 
We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed  free. 

Starved,      feasted,      despaired, — been 
happy. 

And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce,    . 

And  people  suppose  me  clever  : 
Tli is  could  but  have  happened  once, 

And  we  missed  it,  lost  it  forever. 

1864. 

A  FACE 

If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold, 
Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers  ! 
No  shade  in 'reaching  on  the  matchless 

mould 
Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  open- 
ing Soft 

In   the   pure   profile:  not   as   when  she 

Laughs, 
For  thai  spoils  all  :  but  rather  as  if  aloft 
Yon  hyacinth,  she  loves  so,  leaned   its 

staff's 


Burden  of  honey-colored  buds  to  kiss 
And  capture  'twixt  the  lips  apart   for 

this. 
Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might 

surround, 
How   it   should  waver  on  the  pale  gold 

ground 
Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it 

lifts ! 
I  know,  Correggio  loves  to  mass,  in  rifts 
Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 
Breaking    its   outline,    burning    shades 

absorb  : 
But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I  should 

think, 
Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 
Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against 

the  sky 
(That  's  the  pale  ground  you  'd  see  this 

sweet  face  by), 
All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condensed  into 

one  eye 
Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should 

it  wink.  1864. 

PROSPICE 

Fear  death? — to  feel    the   fog    in   my 
throat, 
The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows-  begin,   and  the  blasts 
denote 
I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the 
storm. 
The  post  of  the  foe  ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a 
visible  form, 
Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit 
attained, 
And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guer- 
don be  gained, 
The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my 
eyes,  and  forbore, 
An  1  bade  me  creep  past. 
No  !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare 
like  my  peers 
The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in   a  minute  pay  glad 
life's  arrears 
Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best    to 
t,he  brave. 
The  black  minute's  at  end, 


668 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices 
that  rave, 
Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 

Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a   peace 
"lit  of  pain. 
Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  sonl !     I  shall  clasp 
thee  again, 
And  with  God  be  the  rest !    1861.  1864. 

EPILOGUE 

TO   DRAMATIS    PERSONS 

Witless  alike  of  will  and  way  divine, 
How   heaven's  high    with    earth's   low 

should  intertwine  ! 
Friends.  I  have  seen  through  your  eyes  : 

now  use  mine  ! 

Take  the  least  man  of  all  mankind,  as  I ; 
Look  at  his  head  and  heart,  find  how 

and  why 
He  differs  from  his  fellows  utterly  : 

Then,  like  me,  watch  when  nature  by 

degrees 
Grows  alive  round  him,  as  in  Arctic  seas 
(They  said  of  old)  the  instinctive  water 

flees 

Toward   some  elected  point  of  central 

rock, 
As  though,  for  its  sake  onlv,  roamed  the 

flock 
Of  waves  about  the  waste  :  awhile   they 

mock 

With  radiance  caught  for  the   occasion, 

— hues 
Of  blackest  hell  now,  now  such  reds  and 

blues 
As  only  heaven  could  fitly  interfuse, — 

The  mimic  monarch  of  the   whirlpool, 

king 
O'  the  current  for  a  minute  :  then  they 

wring 
Up  by  the  roots  and  oversweep  the  thing, 

And  hasten  off.  to  play  again  elsewhere 
The  same  part,  choose  another  peak  as 

bare, 
They  find  and  flatter,   feast  and  finish 

there. 

When  you  see  what  I   tell  you, — nature 

dance 
About  each  man   of  us,  retire,  advance, 
As   though    the  pageant's  end   were  to 

enhance 


His  worth,  and — once  the  life,  his  pro- 
duct, gained — 

Roll  away  elsewhere,  keep  the  strife 
sustained, 

And  show  thus  real,  a  thing  the  North 
but  feigned — 

When  you  acknowledge  that  one  world 

could  do 
All  the  diverse  work,  old  yet  ever  new, 
Divide  us,    each  from  other,  me  from 

you,— 

Why,  where's  the  need  of  Temple,  when 

the  walls 
O'  the  world  ai-e  that?     What  use  of 

swells  and  falls 
From  Levites'  choir,  Priests'  cries,  and 

trumpet-calls  ? 

That  one  Face,  far  from  vanish,  rather 

grows, 
Or  decomposes  but  to  recompose, 
Become    my    universe    that    feels    and 

knows !  1864. 

DEDICATION  OF  THE  RING  AND 
THE  BOOK 

(  END  OF  BOOK  i) 

Such,  British  Public,  ye  who  like  me  not, 
(God    love   yon  !  ) — whom   I   yet   have 

labored  for, 
Perchance  more  careful  whoso  runs  may 

read 
Than  erst  when   all,    it   seemed,   could 

read  who  ran. — 
Perchance   more    careless   whoso   reads 

may  praise 
Than  late  when  he  who  praised  and  read 

and  wrote 
Was  apt  to  find  himself  the  selfsame 

me, — 
Such  labor  had  such  issue,  so  I  wrought 
This  arc,  by  furtherance  of  such  alloy, 
And  so,  by  one  spirt,  take  away  its  trace 
Till,  justifiably  golden,  rounds  my  ring. 

A  ring  without  a  posy,  and  that  ring 
mine  ? 

O  lyric  Love,  half  angel  and  half  bird, 
And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire. — 
Boldest  of  hearts  that  ever  braved   the 

sun, 
Took  sanctuary  within  the  holier  blue, 
And  sang  a  kindred  soul  out  to  his  face, — 
Yet  human  at  the  red-ripe  of  the  heart — 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


669 


When  the  first  summons  from  the  dark- 
ling earth 
Reached     thee     amid     thy     chambers, 

blanched  their  blue. 
And  bared  them  of   the   glory — to   drop 

down, 
To  toil  for  man,  to  suffer  or  to  die. — 
This   is   the   same    voice  :   can   thy  soul 

know    change? 
Hail  then,  and  harken   from  the  realms 

of  help  ! 
Never  may  I  commence  my  song,  my  due 
To  God  who  best  taught  song  by  gift   of 

thee. 
Except   with  bent  head  and  beseeching 

hand- 
That  still,  despite  the  distance   and   the 

dark,  [change 

What  was.  again  may  be:  some  inler- 
Of   grace,  some   splendor  once  thy   very 

thought, 
Some  benediction  anciently  thy  smile  : 
— Never  conclude,  but  raising  hand  and 

head 
Thither  where  eyes,  that  cannot  reach, 

yet  yearn 
For  all  hope,  all  sustain  men  t,  all  reward, 
Their  utmost    up   and    on, — so   blessing 

back 
In  those  thy  realms  of  help,  that  heaven 

thy  home. 
Some  whiteness  which,  I  judge,  thy  face 

makes  proud. 
Some  wanness  where,  I    think,  thv    foot 

may  fall !  1868. 

HERVE  RIEL 


On  the  sea  and  at   the  Hogue,    sixteen 
hundred  ninety-two, 

Did  the  English  fight  the   French, — woe 
to  France  ! 

And,    the    thirty-first    of    May,    helter- 
skelter  through  tin-  hlii>', 

Like  a  crowd  of  frightened    porpoises  a 
shoal  of  sharks  pursue, 
Came  crowding   ship   on  ship  to  Saint 
M  do  on  t  he  Ranee, 

With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 


'T  was  the  squadron  that   escaped,  with 

the  victor  in  full  chase  : 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his 

great  ship,  Damfreville  : 
Close  on  him  fled,  greal  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ; 


And  they  signalled  to  the  place 
"  Help  the  winners  of  a  race  ! 
Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take 
us  quick — or,  quicker  still. 
Here  's  the  English  can  and  will !  " 

in 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk 
and  leaped  on  board  ; 
'•  Why  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships 
like  these  to  pass?'"  laughed  they  : 
"  Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks   to   port,  all 

the  passage  scarred  and  scored, 
Shall   the   '  Formidable '  here   with    her 
twelve  and  eighty  guns 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the 
single  narrow  \.  ay, 
Trust  to  enter  where  '  t  is  ticklish  for  a 

craft  of  twenty  tons, 
And  with  flow  at  full  beside? 
Now,  't  is  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 

Reach  the  mooring  ?    Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs. 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  ! " 

IV 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 

Brief  and  bitter  the  dehate  : 

••  Hire's  the  English  at  our  heels  ;  would 

you  have  them  take  in  tow 
All   that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked   to- 
gether stern  and  bow. 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound  ? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground  !  " 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 
"  Not  a  minute  more  to  wait  ! 
Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 
Shove   ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the 
vessels  on  the  beach  ! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 


"  Give  the  word  !  "  But  no  such  word 

Was  ever  spoke  or  heard  : 

For    up  stood,   for  out  stepped,   for  in 

struck"  amid  all  these 
—A  Captain  ?  A  Lieutenant?  A   Mate — 

first,  second,  third  ? 
No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
Willi  his  betters  to  compete! 
But  a  simple    Breton    sailor   pressed   by 

Tourville  for  t  he  fleei . 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the 

Croisickese. 

VI 

And  "  What  mockery  or  malice  have  we 
here  ?  "  cries  Herve  Riel : 


670 


BRITISH    POETS 


"  Are  you  mad,  youMalouins?    Are  you 

cowards,  fools,  or  rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who 

took  the  soundings,  tell 
On  my  lingers  every  bank,  every  shallow, 

every  swell, 
Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where 

the  river  disembogues? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?    Is  it 

love  the  lying's   for? 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored   fast  at   the 

foot  of  Solidor. 
Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France  ?  That 

were  worse  than  fift}r  Hogues  ! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth  !  Sirs, 

believe  me  there's  a  way  ! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 
Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  '  Formidable  '  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 
Audi   lead   them,    most   and   least,    by 

a  passage  I  know  well, 
Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 
And  thei'e  lay  them  safe  and  sound  : 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 
— Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 
Why  I've  nothing   but   my  life, — here's 

my  head  !  "  cries  Herve  Riel. 


Not  a  minute  more  to  wait, 

"  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great  ! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the 
squadron  !  "  cried  its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place  ! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace  ! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  the  passage   as   its   inch   of   way 
were  the  wide  sea's  profound  ! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock, 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,   not  a   keel 
that  grates  the  ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past, 
All  are  harbored  to  the  last, 
And     just      as     Herve       Riel      hollas 

"  Anchor  !  " — sure  as  fate, 
Up  the  English  come — too  late  ! 

VIII 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm  : 
They  see  the  green  trees  wave 


On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
•*  Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 

As  they  cannonade  away  ! 
'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding 

on  the  Ranee  !  " 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Cap- 
tain's countenance! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell ! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing  !  " 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"  Herve  Riel  !  " 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

IX 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips  : 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse  ! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have  !   or  my 
name's  not  Damfreville." 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue  : 
"  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty  's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  toCroisic  Point, 
what  is  it  but  a  run  ? — 
Since  't  is  ask  and  have,  I  may — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore — 
Come  !     A  good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  go  and   see  my  wife,  whom  I 
call  the  Belle  Aurore  !  " 

That  lie  asked  and  that  he  got, — noth- 
ing more. 


Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost : 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it 
befell ; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack, 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


671 


la  memory  of    the    man  but  for    whom 

had  gone  to   wrack 
All  that  France  saved    from   the  fight 

whence  England  bore  the  bell. 
Go  to  Paris  :  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  anil  flank  ! 
You  shall  look   long   enough  ere  you 

come  to  Herve  Riel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse, 
In  my  verse,    Herve  Riel,  do  thou   once 

more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor   France,  love 

thy  wife,  the  Belle  Aurore  !     1871. 

FIFINE   AT   THE   FAIR 
PROLOGUE 

AMPHIBIAN 

The  fancy  I  had  to-day, 

Fancy  which  turned  a  fear  ! 
1  swam  far  out  in  the  bay, 

Since  waves  laughed  warm  and  clear. 

I  lay  and  looked  at  the  sun, 

The  noon-sun  looked  at  me  : 
Between  us  two,  no  one 

Live  creature,  that  I  could  see. 

Yes  !     Tliei-e  came  floating  by 

Me,  who  lay  floating  too, 
Such  a  strange  butterfly  ! 

Creature  as  dear  as  new  : 

Because  the  membraned  wings 

So  wonderful,  so  wide, 
So  sun-suffused,  were  things 

Like  soul  and  naught  beside. 

A  handbreadth  overhead  ! 

All  of  the  sea  my  own. 
It  owned  the  sky  instead  ; 

Both  of  us  were  alone. 

I  never  shall  join  its  flight, 
For,  naught  buoys  flesh  in  air. 

If  it  touch  the  sea — good  night  ! 
Death  sure  and  swift  waits  there. 

Can  the  insect  feel  the  better 
For  watching  the  uncouth  play 

Of  limbs  that  slip  the  fetter, 
Pretend  as  they  were  not  cla\  ? 

Undoubtedly  I  rejoice 

That  the  air  comports  so  well 

With  a  creature  which  hud  the  choice 
Of  the  land  once.     Who  can  tell? 


What  if  a  certain  soul 

Which  early  slipped  its  sheath, 
And  has  for  its  home  the  whole 

Of  heaven,  thus  look  beneath, 

Thus  watch  one  who.  in  the  world, 
Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way', 

Nor  wishes  the  wings  unfurled 
That  sleep  in  the  worm,  they  say  ? 

But  sometimes  when  the  weather 
Is  blue,  and  warm  waves  tempt 

To  free  one's  self  of  tether, 
And  try  a  life  exempt 

From  worldly  noise  and  dust, 
In  the  sphere  which  overbrims 

With  passion  and  thought, — why,  just 
Unable  to  fly,  one  swims  ! 

By  passion  and  thought  upborne, 
One  smiles  to  one's  self — "  They  fare 

Scarce  better,  they  need  not  scorn 
Our  sea,  who  live  in  the  air  !  " 

Emancipate  through  passion 
And  thought,  with  sea  for  sky, 

We  substitute,  in  a  fashion, 
For  heaven — poetry  : 

Which  sea,  to  all  intent, 
Gives  flesh  such  noon-disport 

As  a  finer  element 
Affords  the  spirit-sort. 

Whatever  they  are,  we  seem  : 
Imagine  the  thing  they  know  ; 

All  deeds  they  do,  we  dream  ; 
Can  heaven  be  else  but  so? 

And  meantime,  yonder  streak 

Meets  the  horizon's  verge  ; 
That  is  the  land,  to  seek 

If  we  tire  or  dread  the  surge 

Land  the  solid  and  safe — 
To  welcome  again  (confess  !) 

When,  high  and  dry,  we  chafe 
The  body,  and  don  the  dress. 

Does  she  look,  pity,  wonder 
At  one  who  mimics  flight, 

Swims — heaven  above,  sea  under, 
Yet  always  earth  in  sight?         1872. 

EPILOGUE 

THE  HOUSEHOLDER 

Savage  I  was  sitting  in  my  house,  late, 
lone  : 


672 


BRITISH    POETS 


Dreary,    weary   with   the    long   day's 
work  : 
Head   of  me,   heart  of  me,  stupid  as  a 
si  one  : 
Tongue-tied    now,   now    blaspheming 
like  a  Turk  ; 
When,  in  a  moment,  just  a  knock,  call, 
cry. 
Half  a  pang  and  all  a  rapture,  there 
again  were  we  ! — 
"  What,  and  is    it  really   you   again  ?  " 
quoth  I  : 
"  I  again,  what  else  did  you  expect? " 
quoth  She. 

''Never  mind,  hie  away  from  this  old 
house — 
Every    crumbling   brick    embrowned 
with  sin  and  shame  ! 
Quick,  in  its  corners  ere  certain  shapes 
arouse  ! 
Let  them — every  devil  of  the  night — 
lav  claim, 
Make   and  mend,  or  rap  and  rend,  for 
me !    Good-by  ! 
God  be  their  guard  from  disturbance 
at  their  glee, 
Till,  crash,  comes  down  the  carcass  in  a 
heap  !  "  quoth  I : 
"Nay,     l>ut     there's     a    decency    re- 
quired ! "  quoth  She. 

"Ah,  but   if   you  knew   how   time  has 
dragged,  days,  nights ! 
All  the  neighbor-talk    with  man  and 
maid — such  men  ! 
All  the  fuss  and  trouble  of  street-sounds, 
window-sights : 
All   the   worry   of  flapping   door  and 
echoing  roof  ;  and  then. 
All  the  fancies  .  .  .  Who  were  they  had 
leave,  dared  try 
Darker  arts  that  almost  struck  despair 
in  me  ? 
If  you  knew    but   how   I   dwelt   down 
here  !  "  quoth  I : 
"  And  was  I  so  better  off  up  there  ?" 
quoth  She. 

"  Help  and   get   it   over  !     Reunited   to 
his  wife 
(How  draw  up  the  paper  lets  the  par- 
ish people  know  ?) 
Lies  M.  or  X..  departed  from  this  life, 
Day  tin'  Hi  is  or  that,  month  and  year 
the  so  and  so. 
What  i'  the  way  of  final  flourish  ?    Prose, 
verse  ?     Try  ! 
Affliction  sore  long  time  he  bore,  or, 
what  is  it  to  be? 


1V//   God  did  please   to  grant  him  ease. 
Do  end  !  "  quotli  I  : 
"  I  end   with — Love  is  all,  and  Death 
is  nought !  "  quoth  She.        1872. 

HOUSE 

Spall  I  sonnet-sing  you  about  myself? 
Do  I  live  in  a  house  you  would  like  to 
see? 
Is  it  scant  of  gear,  has  it  store  of  pelf? 
"  Unlock   my   heart,   with  a    sonnet- 
key?" 

Invite   the   world,  as  my  betters  have 
done  ? 
"  Take  notice  :  this  building  remains 
on  view, 
Its  suites  of  reception  every  one, 

Its   private   apartment  and    bedroom 
too ; 

"For  a  ticket,  apply  to  the  Publisher." 
No :  thanking  the  public,  I  must  de- 
cline. 
A  peep  through  my  window,  if  folk  pre- 
fer ; 
But,  please  you,  no  foot  over  threshold 
of  mine  ! 

I  have  mixed  with  a  crowd  and  heard 
free  talk 
In  a  foreign  land  where  an  earthquake 
chanced 
And   a   house   stood   gaping,  naught  to 
balk 
Man's    eye    wherever    he    gazed  or 
glanced. 

The  whole  of  the  frontage  shaven  sheer, 
The  inside  gaped  :  exposed  to  day, 

Right    and    wrong    and    common    and 
queer, 
Bare,  as  the  palm  of  your  hand,  it  lay. 

The  owner?     Oh,  he  had  been  crushed, 
no  doubt ! 
"  Oild  tables  and  chairs  for  a  man  of 
wealth  ! 
What  a  parcel  of  musty  old  books  about ! 
He  smoked, — no    wonder    he  lost  hir 
health ! 

"  I  doubt  if  he  bathed  before  he  dressed. 
A    brasier? — the    pagan,     he    burned 
perfumes ! 
You  see  it  is  proved,  what  the  neighbors 
guessed  : 
His    wife   and   himself    had   separate 
rooms." 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


673 


Friends,   the  good  man  of  the  house  at 
least 
Kept   house    to  himself  till  an  earth- 
quake came  : 
T  is  the  fall  of  its  frontage  permits  you 
feast 
On  the  inside  arrangement  you  praise 
or  blame. 

Outside  should  suffice  for  evidence  : 
And  whoso  desires  to  penetrate 

Deeper,  must  dive  by  the  spirit-sense — 
No  optics  like  yours,  at  any  rate  ! 

"  Hoity-toity  !     A  street  to  explore, 
Your  house  the  exception  !  '  With  this 
same  key 
Shakespeare    unlocked    Ids    heart!"' — 
Once  more, 
Did    Shakespeare  ?      If    so,    the    less 
Shakespeare  he  !  1876. 

FEARS  AND  SCRUPLES 

Here  's  my  case.     Of  old  I  used  to  love 
him, 
This   same    unseen    friend,    before   I 
knew  : 
Dream  there   was  none  like  him,  none 
above  him. — 
Wake  to  hope  and  trust  my  dream  was 
true. 

Loved  I  not  his  letters  full  of  beauty? 

Not  his  actions  famous  far  and  wide  ? 
Absent,  he  would  know  I  vowed  him 
duty  ; 

Present,  lie  would  find  me  at  his  side. 

Pleasant  fancy  !    for  I  had  but  letters, 
Only  knew  of  actions  by  hearsay  : 

He  himself  was  busied  with  my  betters; 
What  of  that?     My  turn  must  come 
some  day. 

'■Some  day  "  proving — no  day  !      Here's 
the  puzzle. 
Passed  and  passed   my  turn   is.     Why 
complain  ? 
He  's  so  busied  !     If  I  could  hut  muzzle 
People's  foolish  mouths  that  give  me 
pain  ! 

•'Letters?"     (hear    them!)      "You     a 
judge  of  writing? 
Ask  the  experts  !     How  they  shake  the 
head 
O'er  these  characters,  your  friend's  in- 
diting— 
Call  them  forgery  from  A  to  Z  t 

43 


"  Actions  ?  Where's  your  certain  proof 
(thejr  bother) 
"He,  of   all   you    find   so   great    and 
good, 
He,  he  only,  claims  t.iis,  that,  the  other 
Action — claimed    by    men,    a    multi- 
tude?" 

I  can  simply  wish  I  might  refute  yon. 
Wish  my  friend  would, — by  a  word,  a 
wink, — 
Bid   me   stop   that  foolish  mouth, — you 
brute  you  ! 
He    keeps    absent, — why,     I    cannot 
think. 

Never  mind  !    Though  foolishness  may 
flout  me, 
One  thing  's  sure  enough  :  't  is  neither 
frost, 
No,   nor  fire,  shall  freeze  or  burn  from 
out  me 
Thanks   for  truth — though  falsehood, 
gained — though  lost. 

All  my  days,  I'll  go  the  softlier,  sadlier, 
For   that   dream's  sake  5     How  forget 
the  thrill 
Through  and  through  me   as  I  thought 
••The  gladlier 
Lives  my  friend  because  I  love  him 
still!" 

Ah,   but  there  's  a  menace  some  one 
utters  ! 
'•  What   and  if  your  friend  at  home 
play  tricks  ? 
Peep  at  hide-and-seek   behind  the   shut- 
ters ? 
Mean  your  eyes  should  pierce  through 
solid  bricks? 

"  What  and  if  he,  frowning,  wake  you, 
dreamy  ? 
Lay  on  you  the  blame  that  bricks — 
conceal? 
Say,  '  At  least  I saiv  who  did  not  see  me. 
Does    see    mm-,    and   presently    shall 
feeV? 

'•  Why,  that  makes  your  friend  a  mon- 
ster !  "  say  you  : 
"  Had  his  house  no  window  ?     At  first 
nod, 
Would     you    not    have    hailed    him  ? " 
Hush.  T  pray  yon  ! 
What  if  this  friend  happened  to  be— 
God  ?  1870. 


674 


BRITISH    POETS 


NATURAL  MAGIC 

All  I  can  say  is — I  saw  it ! 

The  room  was  as  bare  as  your  hand. 

I  locked  in   the  swarth  little  lady, — I 

swear, 
From  the  head  to  the  foot  of  her — well, 

quite  as  bare !' 
"  No  Nautch  shall  cheat  me,"  said  I, 

"  taking  my  stand 
At  this  bolt  which  I  draw  ! "     And  this 

bolt — I  withdraw  it, 
And  there  laughs  the  lady,  not  bare,  but 

embowered 
With — who  knows  what  verdure,  o'er- 

fruited,  o'erflowered  ? 
Impossible  !    Only — I  saw  it ! 

All  I  can  sing  is — I  feel  it  ! 

Tins  life  was  as  blank  as  that  room  ; 

I  let  you  pass  in  here.  Precaution,  in- 
deed ? 

"Walls,  ceiling  and  floor, — not  a  chance 
for  a  weed  ! 

Wide  opens  the  entrance  :  where  's  cold 
now,  where  's  gloom? 

No  May  to  sow  seed  here,  no  June  to 
reveal  it, 

Behold  you  enshrined  in  these  blooms 
of  your  bringing, 

These  fruits  of  your  bearing — nay,  birds 
of  your  winging  ! 

A  fairy-tale  !    Only— I  feel  it !      1876. 

MAGICAL  NATURE 

Flower — I  never  fancied,  jewel — I  pro- 
fess you  ! 
Bright  I  see  and  soft  I  feel  the  outside 
of  a  flower. 
Save    but    glow    inside    and — jewel,    I 
should  guess  you, 
Dim  to  sight  and  rough  to  touch  :  the 
glory  is  the  dower. 

You,  forsooth,  a  flower?    Nay,  my  love, 
a  jewel-^ 
Jewel  at  no  mercy  of  a  moment  in 
your  prime  ! 
Time  may  fray  the  flower-face:  kind  be 
time  or  cruel, 
Jewel,   from   each   facet,   flash    your 
laugh  at  time  !  1876. 

APPEARANCES 

And  so  you  found  that  poor  room  dull. 
Dark,  hardly  to  your  taste,  my  dear  ? 
Its  features  seemed  unbeautiful: 


But  this  I  know — 't  was  there,  not  here, 
You  plighted  troth  to  me,  the  word 
Which — ask  that  poor  room  how  it  heard. 

And  this  rich  room  obtains  your  praise 
Unqualified, — so  bright,  so  fair, 

So  all  whereat  perfection  stays? 

Ay,  but  remember — hei-e,  not  there, 

The  other  word  was  spoken  ! — Ask 

This  rich   room   how   you  dropped  the 
mask !  1876. 

EPILOGUE 

TO  THE  PACCHIAROTTO  VOLUME 

juetrTOt   .   .   . 
oi  6"    afxtf>oprjs  olfov  /xe'Aayos  avOoafxiov, 

"  The  poets  pour  us  wine — " 

Said  the  dearest  poet  I  ever  knew, 
Dearest  and  greatest  and  best  to  me. 
You  clamor  athirst  for  poetry — 
We  pour.     "  But  when  shall  a  vintage 
be" — 
You    cry—"  strong    grape,    squeezed 
gold  from  screw, 
Yet  sweet  juice,  flavored  flowery -fine? 
That  were  indeed  the  wine  !  " 

One  pours  your  cup — stark  strength, 

Meat  for  a  man  ;  and  you  eye  the  pulp 
Strained,  turbid  still,  from  the  viscous 

blood 
Of  the  snaky  bough  :  and  you  grumble 

"  Good  ! 
For  it  swells  resolve,  breeds  hardihood  ; 

Dispatch  it,  then,  in  a  single  gulp  !  " 
So,   down,   with   a   wry   face,   goes    at 
length 
The  liquor  :  stuff  for  strength. 

One  pours  your  cup — sheer  sweet, 
The   fragrant   fumes   of   a   year  con- 
densed : 
Suspicion  of  all  that  's  ripe  or  rathe, 
From  the  bud  on  branch  to  the  grass  in 

swathe, 
"  We  suck  mere  milk  of  the  seasons," 
saith 
A  curl  of    each    nostril — "dew,   dis- 
pensed 
Nowise  for  nerving  man  to  feat : 
Boys  sip  such  honeyed  gweet !  " 

And  thus  who  wants  wine  strong, 
Waves  each  sweet  smell  of  the  year 
away  ; 
Who  likes  to  swoon  as  the  sweets  suffuse 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


675 


His  brain  with  a  mixture  of  beams  and 

dews 
Turned   syrupy    drink — rough   strength 
eschews  ; 
"  What  though  in  our  veins  your  wine- 
stock  stay  ? 
The  lack  of  the  bloom  does  our  palate 
wrong. 
Give  us  wine  sweet,  not  strong  !  " 

Yet  wine  is — some  affirm — 

Prime   wine    is    found   in   the   world 
somewhere, 
Of    portable    strength    with    sweet    to 

match. 
You   double   your    heart    its   dose,    yet 

catch — 
As    the     draught    descends — a    violet- 
s  match, 
Softness — however  it  came  there, 
Through  drops  expressed  by  the  fire  and 
worm  : 
Strong  sweet  wine— some  affirm. 

Body  and  bouquet  both  ? 

Tis  easy  to  ticket  a  bottle  so  ; 
But  what  was  the  case  in  the  cask,  my 

friends? 
Cask  ?     Nay,  the  vat — where  the  maker 

mends 
His  strong  with  his  sweet  (you  suppose) 
and  blends 
His  rough  with  his  smooth,  till  none 
can  know 
How  it  comes  you  may  tipple,  nothing 
loth. 
Body  and  bouquet  both. 

"  You  "  being  just — the  world. 
No  poets — who  turn,  themselves,  the 
winch 
Of  the  press  :  no  critics — I'll  even  say, 
(Being   flustered   and  easy  of   faith  to- 
day,) 
Who  for  love  of  the  work  have  learned 
the  way 
Till  themselves  produce  home-made, 
at  a  pinch  : 
No  !    You  are  the  world,  and  wine  ne'er 
purled 
Except  to  please  the  world  ! 

"For,  oh  the  common  heart  ! 
And,  ali  the  irremissible  sin 
Of  poets  who  please  themselves,  not  us  ! 
Strong    wine   vet   sweet   wine    pouring 

thus  ! 
How   please   still — Pindar   and   ^Eschy- 
lus! 


Drink — dipped   into    by    the    bearded 
chin 
Alike  and  the  bloomy  lip — no  part 
Denied  the  common  heart ! 

,;  And  might  we  get  such  grace, 
And  did   you  moderns  but  stock  our 
vault 
With  the  true  half-brandy  half-attar-gul, 
How  would  seniors  indulge  at  a  hearty 

pull 
While  juniors  tossed  off  their  thimble- 
ful ! 
Our  Shakespeare  and  Milton  escaped 
your  fault, 
So,  they  reign  supreme  o'er  the  weaker 
race 
That  wants  the  ancient  grace  !  " 

If  I  paid  myself  with  words 

(As  the  French  say  well)  I  were  dupe 
indeed ! 
I  were  found  in  belief  that  you  quaffed 

and  bowsed 
At    your    Shakespeare    the  whole    day 

long,  caroused 
In  your  Milton  pottle-deep  nor  drowsed 
A  moment  of   night— toped  on,  took 
heed 
Of    nothing    like    modern    cream-and- 
curds. 
Pay  me  with  deeds,  not  words ! 

For — see  your  cellarage  ! 
There  are  forty  barrels  with  Shakes- 
peare's brand. 
Some  five  or  six  are  abroach  :  the  rest 
Stand  spigoted,  fauceted.     Try  and  test 
What  vourselves  call  best  of  the  very 
best ! 
How  comes  it  that  still  untouched  they 
stand  ? 
Why  don't  you  try  tap.  advance  a  stage 
With  the  rest  in  the  cellarage  ? 

For — see  your  cellarage  ! 
There   are   four  big  butts  of   Milton's 
brew. 
How  comes  it  you  make  old  drips  and 

drops 
Do  duty,  and  there  devotion  stops? 
Leave  SUCli  an  abyss  of  malt  and  hops 
Embellied  in  butts  which  bungs  still 
glue ?  [rage  ! 

You    hate   your   bard  !     A  fig   for  your 
Free  him  from  cellarage! 

T  is  said  I  brew  stiff  drink, 
But  the  deuce  a   flavor  of  grape   is 
there. 


676 


BRITISH    POETS 


Hardly  a  May-go-down,  't  is  just 
A  sort  of  a  gruff  Go-down-it-must — 
No  Merry-go  down,  no  gracious  gust 
Commingles   the    racy   with    Spring- 
tide's rare  ! 
"What    wonder,"   say    you,    "that  we 
cough,  and  blink 
At  Autumn's  heady  drink?" 

Is  it  a  fancy,  friends? 

Mighty  and  mellow  are  never  mixed, 
Though  mighty  and  mellow  be  born  at 

once. 
Sweet   for  the   future, — strong  for  the 

nonce ! 
Stuff  you  should  stow  away,  ensconce 
In  the  deep  and  dark,  to  be  found  fast- 
tixed 
At    the     century's    close  :     such     time 
strength  spends 
A-sweetening  for  my  friends  ! 

And  then— why.  what  you  quaff 
With  a  smack  of   lip   and  a  cluck  of 
tongue. 
Is  leakage  and  leavings— just  what  haps 
From  the  tun  some  learned  taster  taps 
With  a  promise  "Prepare  your  watery 
chaps ! 
Here  's    properest   wine   for  old   and 
young ! 
Dispute   its  perfection  ?     You  make  us 
laugh  ! 
Have     faith,     give    thanks,     but — 
quaff  !  " 

Leakage.  I  say,  or — worse — 

Leavings  suffice,  pot-valiant  souls. 
Somebody,  brimful,  long  ago, 
Frothed  flagon  he  drained  to  the  dregs  ; 

and,  lo, 
Down  whisker  and  beard  what  an  over- 
flow ! 
Lick    spilth    that   has   trickled    from 
classic  jowls, 
Sup  the  single  scene,  sip  the  only  verse — 
Old  wine,  not  new  and  worse  ! 

I  grant  you  :   worse  by  much  ! 

Renounce  that  new  where  you  never 
gained 
One  glow  at  heart,  one  gleam  at  head, 
And   stick   to   the   warrant   of  age   in- 
stead ! 
No  dwarfs-lap  !     Fatten,  by  giants  fed  ! 
You  fatten,  with  oceans  of  drink  un- 
drained  ? 
You  feed — who  would  choke  did  a  cob- 
web smutch 
The  Age  you  love  so  much? 


A  mine  's  beneath  a  moor  : 

Acres  of  moor  roof  fathoms  of  mine 
Which  diamonds  dot  where  you  please 

to  dig  ; 
Yet  who  plies  spade  for  the  bright  and 

big? 
Your  product  is — truffles,  you  hunt  with 
a  pig  ! 
Since    bright-and-big,   when     a   man 
would  dine, 
Suits  badly :    and  therefore  the    Koh- 
i  noor 
May  sleep  in  mine  'neath  moor  I 

Wine,  pulse  in  might  from  me  ! 

It  may    never  emerge  in  must    from 
vat, 
Never  fill  cask  nor  furnish  can, 
Never  end  sweet,  which  strong  began — 
(iod's  gift  to  gladden   the  heart  of  man  ; 

But  spirit  's  at  proof,  I  promise  that  ! 
No  sparing  of  juice  sj^oiis  what  should 
be 

Fit  brewage — mine  for  me. 

Man's  thoughts  and  loves  and  hates  ! 
Earth   is    my    vineyard,    these   grew 
there : 
From   grape  of   the    ground,  I  made  or 

marred 
My  vintage  ;  easy  the  task  or  hard. 
Who  set  it— his  praise  be  my  reward  ! 
Earth's    yield  !     Who    yearn    for   the 
Dark  Blue  Sea's, 
Let  them  "  lay,  pray,  bray  " — the  addle- 
pates  ! 
Mine    be     Man's     thoughts,    loves, 
hates ! 

But  some  one  says,  "  Good  Sir  !  " 

('T  is  a  worthy  versed  in  what  concerns 
The  making  such  labor  turn  out  well,) 
"  You  don't  suppose  that  the  nosegay- 
smell 
Needs  always   come   from   the   grape  ? 
Each  bell 
At  your  foot,  each  bud  that  your  cul- 
ture spurns 
The  very  cowslip  would  act  like  myrrh 
On  the  stiffest  brew — good  Sir  ! 

'•  Cowslips,  abundant  birth 
O'er  meadow    and    hillside,   vineyard 
too, 
— Like  a  schoolboy's  scrawlings  in  and 

out 
Distasteful  lesson-book — all  about 
Greece  and  Rome,  victory  and  rout — 
Love-verses  instead  of  such  vain  ado  ! 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


677 


So,  fancies  frolic  it  o'er  the  earth 

Where  thoughts  have  rightlier  birth. 

"  Nay.  thoughtlings  they  themselves  ; 
Loves,  hates — in   little  and    less  and 
least  ! 
Thoughts?     '  What  is  a  man  beside    a 

mount ! ' 
Loves?     '  Absent— poor  lovers  the  min- 
utes count!' 
Hates?     '  Fie — Pope's  letters  to  Martha 
Blount!' 
These  furnish  a  wine  for  a  children's 
feast : 
Insipid  to  man,  they  suit  the  elves 

Like   thoughts,   loves,  hates,  them- 
selves." 

And,  friends,  beyond  dispute 

I  too  have  the  cowslips  dewy  and  dear. 
Punctual  as  Springtide  forth  peep  they  : 
I  leave  them  to  make  my  meadow  gay. 
But  I  ought  to  pluck  and  impound  them, 
eh? 
Not  let  them  alone,  but  deftly  shear 
And   shred  and   reduce   to — what  may 
suit 
Children,  beyond  dispute  ? 

And,  here  's  May-month,  all  bloom, 

All  bounty  :  what  if  I  sacrifice? 
If  I  out  with  shears  and  shear,  nor  stop 
Shearing  till  prostrate,  lo.  the  crop? 
And  will  you  prefer  it  to  ginger-pop 
When    I've   made    you    wine    of  the 
memories 
Which  leave  as  bare  as  a  churchyard 
tomb 
My  meadow,  late  all  bloom  ? 

Nay,  what  ingratitude 

Should  I  hesitate  to  amuse  the  wits 
That  have  pulled  so  long  at  my  flask, 

nor  grudged 
The  headache  that  paid  their  pains,  nor 

budged 
From  bunghole  before  they  sighed  and 
judged 
"  Too   rough   for    our    taste,    to-day, 
bents 
The  racv  and  right  when  the  years  con- 
clude ! " 
Out  on  ingratitude  ! 

Grateful  or  in  grate — none, 

No  cowslip  of  all-  my  fairy  crew 
Shall  help  to  concoct  what  makes  you 

wink. 
And  goes   to   your   head   till  you  think 

you  think  ! 


I  like  them  alive  :  the  printer's  ink 
Would  sensibly  tell    on  the  perfume 
too. 
I  may  use  up  my  nettles,  ere  I  've  done  ; 
But  of  cowslips — friends  get  none  ! 

Don't  nettles  make  a  broth 

Wholesome  for  blood  grown  lazy  and 
thick? 
Maws  out  of  sorts  make  mouths  out  of 

taste. 
My  Thirty-four  Port — no  need  to  waste 
On  a  tongue  that  's  fur  and  a  palate — 
paste  ! 
A  magnum  for  friends  who  are  sound  ! 
the  sick — 
I  '11  posset   and    cosset   them,   nothing 
loth, 
Henceforward  with  nettle-broth  ! 

1876. 

LA   SAISIAZ 

PROLOGUE 

GOOD,  to  forgive ; 

Best,  to  forget ! 

Living,  we  fret ; 
Dying,  we  live. 
Fretless  and  free, 

Soul,  clap  thy  phiion. 

Earth  have  dominion, 
Body,  o'er  thee  ! 

Wander  at;  will, 

Day  after  day, 

Wander  away, 
Wandering  still — 
Soul  that  canst  soar ! 

Body  may  slumber: 

Body  shall  cumber 
Soul-flight  no  more. 

Waft  of  soul's  wing 
What  lies  above  ? 
Sunshine  and  Love 

Skyblue  and  Spring  !  • 

Body  hides — where? 
Ferns  of  all  feather, 
M<  isses  and  heather, 

Yours  be  the  care  !         1878. 

THE  TWO  POETS  OF  CROISIC 

PROLOGUE 

SUCH  a  starved  bank  of  moss 

Till,  that  May-morn. 
Blue  ran  the  (lash  across  : 

Violets  were  bom  ! 


673 


BRITISH   POETS 


Sky — what  a  scowl  of  cloud 

Till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud: 

Splendid,  a  star ! 

World — how  it  walled  about 

Life  with  disgrace 
Till  God's  own  smile  came  out  : 

That  was  thy  face  ! 

EPILOGUE 

What  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me 

Once  upon  a  time 
— Said  you  found   it  somewhere  (scold 
me  ! ) 

Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme, 
Greek  or  Latin  ?    Greek,  you  said, 
While  your  shoulder  propped  my  head. 

Anyhow  there  's  no  forgetting 
•     This  much  if  no  more, 
That  a  poet  (pray,  no  petting  !) 

Yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore, 
Went  where  suchlike  used  to  go, 
Singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 

Well,  he  had  to  sing,  nor  merely 

Sing  but  play  the  lyre  ; 
Playing  was  important  clearly 

Quite  as  singing  :  I  desire, 
Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind 
For  a  purpose  that's  behind. 

There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention 

Held  the  judges  round, 
— Judges  able,  I  should  mention, 

To  detect  the  slightest  sound 
Sung  or  played  amiss  :  such  ears 
Had  old  judges,  it  appears  ! 

None  the  less  lie  sang  out  boldly, 

Played  in  time  and  tune, 
Till  the  judges,  weighing  coldly 

Each   note's    worth,   seemed,   late   or 
soon. 
Sure  to  smile  "  In  vain  one  tries 
Picking  faults  out :  take  the  prize  !  " 

When,  a  mischief  !     Were  they  seven 

Strings  the  lyre  possessed  ? 
Oh,  and  afterwards  eleven, 

Thank     you !      Well,     sir, — who    had 
guessed 
Such  ill  luck  in  store? — it  happed 
One  of  those  same  seven  strings  snapped. 

All  was  lost,  then!     No  !  a  cricket 

(What  "  cicada  "  ?     Pooh  !) 
—Some  mad  thing  that  left  its  thicket 


For  mere  love  of  music — flew 
With  its  little  heart  on  fire, 
Lighted  on  the  crippled  lyre. 

So  that  when  (Ah,  joy  !)  our  singer 

For  his  truant  string 
Feels  with  disconcerted  finger, 

What  does  cricket  else  but  fling 
Fiery  heart  forth,  sound  the  note 
Wanted  by  the  throbbing  throat? 

Ay  and,  ever  to  the  ending, 

Cricket  chirps  at  need, 
Executes  the  hand's  intending, 

Promptly,  perfectly, — indeed 
Saves  the  singer  from  defeat 
With  her  chirrup  low  and  sweet. 

Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges 

Cry  with  one  assent 
"  Take  the  prize — a  pi'ize  who  grudges 

Such  a  voice  and  instrument? 
Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp, 
So  it  shrilled  us  forth  F  sharp  !  " 

Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature, 

Once  its  service  done  ? 
That  's  no  such  uncommon  feature 

In  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  power  too  spent 
For  aiding  soul-development. 

No  !     This  other,  on  returning 

Homeward,  prize  in  hand, 
Satisfied  his  bosom's  yearning: 

(Sir,  I  hope  you  understand  !) 
— Said  "Some  record  there  must  be 
Of  this  cricket's  help  to  me  !  " 

So,  lie  made  himself  a  statue  : 

Marble  stood,  life-size  ; 
On  the  byre,  he  pointed  at  you, 

Perched  his  partner  in  the  prize  ; 
Never  more  apart  you  found 
Her,  he  throned,  from  him,  she  crowned, 

That  's  the  tale  :  its  application  ? 

Somebody  I  know 
Hopes  one  day  for  reputation 

Through  his  poetry  that  's — Oh, 
All  so  learned  and  so  wise 
And  deserving  of  a  prize  ! 

If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket, 

When  his  statue  's  built, 
Tell  the  gazer  "  Twas  a  cricket 

Helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt 
Sweet  and  low,  when  strength  usurped 
Softness'  place  i'  the  scale,  she  chirped? 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


679 


"  For  as  victory  was  nighest, 

While  I  sang  and  played, — 
With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest, 

Right  alike, — one  string  that  made 
'  Love '  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain 
Never  to  be  heard  again, — 

"  Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered, 

Perched  upon  the  place 
Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered 

'  Love,  Love,  Love,'  whene'er  the  bass 
Asked  the  treble  to  atone 
For  its  somewhat  sombre  drone." 

But  you  don't  know  music  !    Wherefore 

Keep  on  casting  pearls 
To  a — poet  ?     All  I  care  for 

Is — to  tell  him  that  a  girl's 
'•  Love"  comes  aptly  in  when  gruff 
Grows  his  singing.     (There,  enough  !) 

1878. 

TRAY 

Sing  me  a  hero  !     Quench  my  thirst 
Of  soul,  ye  bards  ! 

Quoth  Bard  the  first  : 
"SirOlaf,  the  good  knight,  did  don 
His  helm  and  eke  his  habergeon  "... 
Sir  Olaf  and  his  bard  ! 

"  That  sin-scathed  brow  "  (quoth  Bard 
the  second), 

"That  eye  wide  ope  as  though  Fate 
beckoned 

My  hero  to  some  steep,  beneath 

Which  precipice  smiled  tempting 
death"  .  .  . 

You  too  without  your  host  have  reck- 
oned ; 

"A    beggar  child"     (let   's    hear     this 

third!) 
"  Sat  on  a  quay's  edge  :  like  a  bird 
Sang  to  herself  at  careless  play, 
And  fell  into  the  stream.     '  Dismay  ! 
Help,     you    the     standers-by ! '     "None 

stirred. 

"  Bystanders  reason,  think  of  wives 
And  children  ere  they  risk  their  lives. 
Over  the  balustrade  has  bounced 
A  mere  instinctive  dog,  and  pounced 
Plumb    on    the    prize.     '  How   well   he 
dives  ! 

"'Up  he  comes  with   the    child,   see, 

tight 
In  mouth, alive  too,  clutched  from  quite 
A  depth  of  ten  feet — twelve,  I  bet  ! 


Good  dog  !    What,  off  again  ?    There  's 

yet 
Another  child  to  save?    All  right ! 

"  How  strange  we  saw  no  other  fall ! 
It  's  instinct  in  the  animal. 
Good  dog  !   But  lie's  a  long  while  under : 
If  lie  got  drowned  I  should  not  wonder — 
Strong  current,  that  against  the  wall ! 

"  '  Here  he  comes,  holds  in  mouth  this 

time 
— What  may  the  thing  be  ?    Well,  that 's 

prime  ! 
Now,  did  you  ever?     Reason  reigns 
In  man  alone,  since  all  Tray's  pains 
Have  fished — -the  child's   doll  from  the 

slime  !  ' 

"  And  so,  amid  the  laughter  gay. 
Trotted  my  hero  off, — old  Tray, — 
Till  somebody,  prerogatived 
With  reason,  reasoned  :  'Why  he  dived, 
His  brain  would  show  us,  I  should  say. 

"  '  John,  go  and  catch — or.  if  needs  be, 
Purchase  that  animal  forme  ! 
By  vivisection,  at  expense 
Of  half-an-hour  and  eighteenpence, 
How   brain   secretes    dog's   soul,    we  '11 
see  ! '  "  1879. 

ECHETLOS 

Here  is  a  story,  shall  stir  you  !     Stand 

up,  Greeks  dead  and  gone, 
Who  breasted,  beat  Barbarians,  stemmed 

Persia  rolling  on, 
Did  the  deed  and  saved  the  world,  for 

the  day  was  Marathon  ! 

No  man  but  did  his  manliest,  kept  rank 

and  fought  away 
In    his   tribe   and   file:    up,    back,   out, 

down — was  the  spear-arm  play  : 
Like  a   wind-whipt    branchy  wood,   all 

spear-arms  a-swing  that  day  ! 

But  one  man  kept  no  rank,  and  his  sole 

arm  plied  no  spear, 
As  a  flashing  came   and   went,  and   a 

form  i'  the  van,  the  rear, 
Brightened  the  battle  up,  for  he  blazed 

now  there,  now  here. 

Nor  helmed   nor  shielded,   he!   but,   a 

goat-skin  all  his  wear, 
Like  a  tiller  of  the  soil,  with  a  clown's 

limbs  broad  and  hare, 
Went    he    ploughing    on    and    on:    he 

pushed  with  a  ploughman's  share. 


68o 


BRITISH   POETS 


Did  thf  weak  mid-line  give  way,  as  tun- 
nies on  whom  the  shark 

Precipitates  his  hulk?  Did  the  right- 
wing  halt  when,  stark 

On  his  heap  of  slain  lay  stretched  Kalli- 
machos  Polemarch  ? 

Did  tlie  steady  phalanx  falter  ?  To  the 
rescue,  at  the  need, 

The  clown  was  ploughing  Persia,  clear- 
ing Greek  earth  of  weed, 

As  lie  routed  through  the  Sakian  and 
rooted  up  the  Mede. 

But  the  deed  done,  battle  won, — nowhere 

to  be  descried 
On  the  meadow,  by  the  stream,  at  the 

marsh, — look  far  and  wide 
From  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  no,  to 

the  last  blood-plashed  sea-side, — 

Not  anywhere  on  view  blazed  the  large 

limbs  thonged  and  brown. 
Shearing   and    clearing    still   with   the 

share  before  which — down 
To  the  dust  went  Persia's  pomp,  as  he 

ploughed  for  Greece,  that  clown  ! 

How  spake  the  Oracle?  "Care  fur  no 
name  at  all  ! 

Say  but  just  this  :  '  We  praise  one  help- 
ful whom  we  call 

The  Holder  of  the  Ploughshare.'  The 
great  deed  ne'er  grows  small." 

Not  the  great  name  !     Sing — woe  for  the 

great  name  Miltiades 
And   its   end   at   Paros  isle  !     Woe  for 

Themistokles 
— Satrap  in  Sardls  court  !     Name  not  the 

clown  like  these  !  1880. 

EPILOGUE  TO  DRAMATIC  IDYLS 

"  Touch  him  ne'er  so  lightly,  into  song 
he  broke : 

Soil  so  quick-receptive, — not  one  feather- 
seed, 

Not  one  flower-dust  fell  but  straight  its 
fall  awoke 

Vitalizing  virtue  :  song  would  song  suc- 
ceed 

Sudden  as  spontaneous — prove  a  poet- 
soul  I  " 

Indeed  ? 

Rock 's    the    song-soil    rather,   surface 
hard  and  bare  : 

Sun  and  dew  their  mildness,  storm  and 
frost  their  rage 


Vainly  both  expend, — few  flowers 
awaken  there : 

Quiet  in  its  cleft  broods — what  the  after- 
age 

Knows  and  names  a  pine,  a  nation's 
heritage.1  1880. 

WANTING  IS— WHAT  ? 

Wanting  is — what  ? 
Summer  redundant, 
Blueness  abundant, 
—Where  is  the  blot? 
Beamy  the  world,  yet  a  blank  all  the 

same, 
— Framework  which  waits  for  a  picture 

to  frame  : 
What  of  the  leafage,  what  of  the  flower? 
Roses  embowering   with    naught    they 

embower  ! 
Come   then,  complete   incompletion,   O 

comer, 
Pant  through  the  blueness,  perfect  the 
summer  ! 
Breathe  but  one  breath 
Rose-beauty  above, 
And  all  that  was  death 
Grows  life,  grows  love, 
Grows  love  !  1883. 

ADAM,  LILITH,  AND  EVE 

One  day,  it  thundered  and  lightened. 

Two  women,  fairly  frightened, 

Sank  to  their  knees,  transformed,  trans- 
fixed, 

At  the  feet  of  the  man  who  sat  betwixt ; 

And  "  Mercy  !"  cried  each — "  if  I  tell 
the  truth 

Of  a  passage  in  my  youth  !  " 

Said  This  :  "  Do  you  mind  the  morning 
I  met  your  love  with  scorning  ? 
As  the  worst  of  the  venom  left  my  lips, 
I  thought,  '  If,  despite  this  lie,  he  strips 
The  mask  from  my  soul  with  a  kiss — I 

crawl 
His  slave, — soul,  body,  and  all ! '  " 

Said  that :  "  We  stood  to  be  married  ; 
The  priest,  or  some  one,  tarried  ; 

1  Having  been  criticised  for  speaking  thus  of  li  is 
own  work  (as  well  lie  might,  if  lie  chose).  Drown- 
ing wrote  the  following  lines  in  an  album,  for  an 
American  girl,  at  Venice  : 

Thus  I  wrote  in  London,  musing  on  my  betters, 
Poets  dead  and  gone  ;  and  lo,  the  critics  cried, 
"Out  on   such  a  boast!"  as  if  I  dreamed  that 

fetters 
Binding  Dante  bind  up — me  !  as  if  true  pride 
Were  not  also  humble  I  .  .  .  . 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


68 1 


1  If  Paradise-door  prove  locked  ?  '  smiled 
you. 

I  thought,  as  I  nodded,  smiling  too, 

'  Did  one,  that  's  away,  arrive — nor  late 

Nor  soon  should  unlock  Hell's  gate  ! ' ': 

It  ceased  to  lighten  and  thunder. 

Up  started  both  in  wonder. 

Looked  round  and  saw  that  the  sky  was 

clear. 
Then   laughed    "  Confess   you   believed 

us,  Dear  !  " 
••I  saw  through  the  joke!"   the  man 

replied. 
They  re-seated  themselves  beside. 

1883. 

NEVER  THE  TIME  AND  THE  PLACE 

Never  the  time  and  the  place 

And  the  loved  one  all  together  ! 
This  path — how  soft  to  pace  ! 

This  May — what  magic  weather! 
Where  is  the  loved  one's  face? 
In  a  dream  that  loved  one's  face  meets 
mine, 
But  the  house  is  narrow,  the  place  is 
bleak 
Where,  outside,  rain  and  wind  combine 
With  a  furtive  ear,  if  I  strive  to  speak, 
With   a   hostile  eye  at    my    flushing 
cheek, 
With  a  malice  that  marks  each  word, 
each  sign  ! 

0  enemy  sly  and  serpentine, 
Uncoil  thee  from  the  waking  man  ! 

Do  I  hold  the  Past 

Thus  firm  and  fast 
Yet  doubt  if  the  Future  hold  I  can  ? 
This  path  so  soft  to  pace  shall  lead 
Through  the  magic  of  May  to  herself 

indeed  ! 
Or  narrow  if  needs  the  house  must  be, 
Outside  are  the  storms  and  strangers  : 

we — 
Oh,  close,  safe,  warm,  sleep  I  and  she, 

I  and  she.  1883. 

SONGS  FROM  FERISHTAH'S 
FANCIES 

Round  us  the  wild  creatures,  overhead 

the  trees. 
Underfoot    the    moss-tracks, — life    and 
love  with  these  ! 

1  to  wear  a  fawn-skin,  thou  to  dress  in 

flowers : 
All    the    loni>;    lone    summer-day,   that 
greenwood  life  of  ours! 


Rich-pavilioned,  rather, — still  the  world 

without, — 
Inside— gold-roofed    silk- walled    silence 

round  about ! 
Queen  it  thou  on  purple, — I,  at  watch 

and  ward, 
Couched  beneath  the  columns,  gaze,  thy 

slave,  love's  guard  ! 

So,  for  us  no  world  ?     Let  throngs  press 

thee  to  me  ! 
Up  and  down  auiid  men,  heart  by  heart 

fare  we ! 
Welcome  squalid  vesture,  harsh    voice, 

hateful  face ! 
God  is  soul,  souls  land  thou  :  with  souls 

should  souls  have  place. 


Wish  no  word  unspoken,  want  no  look 

awajr ! 
What  if  words  were  but  mistake,  and 

looks — too  sudden,  say  ! 
Be  unjust  for  once,  Love  !    Bear  it — well 

I  may  ! 

Do  me  justice  always  ?    Bid  my  heart — 

their  shrine — 
Render  back  its  store  of  gifts,  old  looks 

and  wrords  of  thine 
— Oh,  so  all  unjust — the  less  deserved, 

the  more  divine  ? 


Fire  is  in  the  flint :  true,  once  a  spark 

escapes. 
Fire  forgets  the  kinship,  soars  till  fancy 

shapes 
Some   befitting  cradle  where  the  babe 

had  birth — 
Wholly  heaven's  the  product,  unallied 

to  earth. 
Splendors  recognized  as  perfect  in  the 

star  ! 
In  our  flint  their  home  was,  housed  as 

now  they  are. 


Verse-making  was  least  of  my  virtues: 

I  viewed  with  despair 
Wealth  that   never  yet    was  but  might 

be — all  that  verse-making  were 
If  the  life  would  but  lengthen  to  wish, 

let  the  mind  be  laid  bare. 
Sol  said    "To   do   little    is    bad,    to   do 

nothing  is  worse  "' — 
And  made  verse. 


682 


BRITISH   POETS 


Love-making, — how    simple    ;i   matter! 
No  depths  to  explore, 

No  heights  in  a  life  to  ascend  !    No  dis- 
heartening Before, 

No  affrighting  Hereafter, — love  now  will 
be  love  evermore. 

So  I  felt  "  To  keep  silence  were  folly  ■ " 
— all  language  above, 
I  made  love. 


Ask  not  one  least  word  of  praise  ! 

Words  declare  your  eyes  are  bright  ? 
What  then  meant  that  summer  day's 
Silence  spent  in  one  long  gaze  ? 

Was  my  silence  wrong  or  right  ? 

Words  of  praise  were  all  to  seek  ! 

Face  of  you  and  form  of  you. 
Did  they  find  the  praise  so  weak 
When  my  lips  just  touched  your  cheek — 

Touch  which  let  my  soul  come  through? 


"Why     from     the     world,"     Ferishtah 
smiled,  "should  thanks 
Go  to  this  work  of  mine  ?     If  worthy 
praise, 
Praised  let  it  be  and  welcome  :  as  verse 
ranks, 
So  rate  my  verse  :  if  good  therein  out- 
weighs 
Aught   faulty   judged,   judge   justly! 
Justice  says : 
Be  just  to  fact,  or  blaming  or  approving  : 
But — generous?     No,  nor  loving  ! 

"  Loving  !  what  claim  to  love  has  work 
of  mine  ? 
Concede  m}r  life  were  emptied  of  its 
gains 
To  furnish   forth  and  fill  work's  strict 
confine, 
Who  works  so  for  the  world's  sake — 

he  complains 
With     cause    when    hate,    not    love, 
rewards  his  pains. 
I  looked  beyond  the  world  for  truth  and 

beauty : 
Sought,  found,  and  did  my  duty." 

1884. 

WHY  I  AM  A  LIBERAL 

"  Why  ?  "  Because  all  I  haply  can  an;  do, 
All  that  I  am  now,  all  I  hope  to  be. — 
Whence  comes  it  save  from  fortune  sec- 
ting  free 


Body  and  soul  the  purpose  to  pursue, 
God  traced  for  both  ?     If  fetters  not  a 

few, 
Of  prejudice,  convention,  fall  from  me, 
These    shall    I    bid    men — each    in    his 

degree 
Also  God-guided — bear,  and  gayly,  too  ? 

But  little  do  or  can  the  best  of  us  : 
That  little  is  achieved  through  Liberty. 
Who,    then,    dares    hold,    emancipated 

thus, 
His  fellow  shall  continue  bound  ?     Not  I, 
Who  live,  love,  labor  freely,  nor  discuss 
A  brother's  right  to  freedom.     That  is 

"  Why."  1885. 

ROSNY 

Woe,  he  went  galloping  into  the  war, 

Clara,  Clara ! 
Let  us  two  dream  :  shall  he  'scape  with 
a  scar  ? 
Scarcely  disfigurement,  rather  a  grace 
Making  for  manhood  which  nowise  we 
mar : 
See,  while  I  kiss  it,  the  flush  on  his 
face — 

Rosny,  Rosny  ! 

Light  does  he  laugh  :  "  With  your  love 
in  my  soul " 

(Clara,  Clara  !) 
"  How  could  I  other   than — sound,  safe, 
and  whole — 
Cleave  who  opposed  me  asunder,  yet 
stand 
Scatheless     beside     you,    as,    touching 
love's  goal, 
Who  won  the  race  kneels,  craves  re- 
ward at  your  hand — 
Rosny,  Rosny  ?  " 

Ay,  but  if  certain  who  envied  should 
see  ! 

Clara,  Clara, 
Certain  who  simper  :  "  The  hero  for  me 

Hardly  of  life  were  so  chary  as  miss 
Death — death    and    fame — that's   love's 
guerdon  when  She 
Boasts,  proud  bereaved  one,  her  choice 
fell  on  this 

Rosny,  Rosny !  " 

So, — go    on  dreaming, — he    lies  mid  a 

heap 

(Clara,  Clara,) 
Of  the  slain  by  his  hand  :  what  is  death 

but  a  sleep  ? 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


683 


Dead,  with  my  portrait  displayed  on 
his  breast : 
Love  wrought   his   undoing :"  No  pru- 
dence could  keep 
The  love-maddened   wretch  from  his 
fate."     That  is  best, 

Rosny,  Rosny  !  1889. 

POETICS 

"  So  say  the  foolish  ! "    Say  the  foolish 
'so,  Love? 
"Flower  she  is,   my   rose" — or   else, 
"My  very  swan  is  she" — 
Or  perhaps,  "  Yon  maid-moon,    blessing 
earth  below.  Love, 
That  art  thou!  "—to  tliem.  belike  :  no 
such  vain  words  from  me. 

"Hush,    rose,     blush!     no     balm     like 
breath,"  I  chide  it : 
"Bend  thy  neck  its  best,  swan, — hers 
the  winter  curve  !  " 
Be  the  moon  the  moon  :  my  Love  I  place 
beside  it : 
What  is  she?     Her  human  self, — no 
lower  word  will  serve.  1889. 

SUMMUM  BONUM 

ALL  the  breath  and  the   bloom  of  the 
year  in  the  bag  of  one  bee  : 
All  the  wonder  and  wealth  of  the  mine 
in  the  heart  of  one  gem  : 
In  the  core  of  one  pearl  all  the  shade 
and  the  shine  of  the  sea  : 
Breath  and  bloom,  shade  and  shine, — 
wonder,    wealth,    and — how     far 
above  them — 
Truth,  that's  brighter  than  gem, 
Trust,  that's  purer  than  pearl — 
Brightest    truth,    purest   trust     in    the 
universe — all  were  for  me 
In  the  kiss  of  one  girl.       1889. 

A  PEARL,  A  GIRL 

A  simple  ring  with  a  single  stone, 
T<>  the  vulgar  eye  no  stone  of  price: 

Whisper  the  right  word,  that  alone — 
Forth  starts  a  sprite,  like  fire  from  ice, 

And  lo.  you  are   lord    (says  an   Eastern 
scroll)  [sole 

Of  heaven  and  earth,  lord  whole  and 
Through  the  power  in  a  pearl. 

A  woman  ( 't  is  I  this  time  that  say) 
With  little  the  world  counts  worthy 
praise  : 


Utter  the  true  word — out  and  away 

Escapes  her  soul  :  lam  wrapt  in  blaze, 
Creation's  lord,  of  heaven  and  earth 
Lord    whole   and   sole — by    a   minute's 
birth- 
Through  the  love  in  a  girl !        1889. 


MUCKLE-MOUTH   MEG 


"So, 


Frowned  the  Laird  on  the  Lord 
redhanded  I  catch  thee  ? 
Death-doomed    by    our    Law    of    the 
Border ! 
We  've  a  gallows  outside  and  a  chiel  to 
dispatch  thee  : 
Who     trespasses — hangs :    all    's    in 
oi'der." 

He  met  frown  with  smile,  did  the  young 
English  gallant  : 
Then  the   Laird's   dame:  "Nay,  Hus- 
band, I  beg ! 
He 's  comely  :  be  merciful !     Grace  for 
the  callant 
— If    he    marries    our  Muckle-mouth 
Meg  ! 

"  No     mile-wide-mouthed     monster    of 
yours  do  I  marry  : 
Grant  rather  the  gallows !  "  laughed  he. 
"  Foul  fare  kith  and  kin  of  you — why  do 
you  tarry  ?  " 
"  To  tame  your  fierce  temper  !  "  quoth 
she. 

"  Shove  him  quick  in  the  Hole,  shut  him 
fast  for  a  week  : 
Cold,    darkness,    and     hunger    work 
wonders  : 

Who  lion-like  roars  now,  mouse-fashion 
will  squeak, 

And  '  it  rains '  soon  succeed  to  '  it  thun- 
ders.'" 

A  week  did  he   bide  in  the  cold  and  the 
dark 
— Not  hunger  :  for  duly  at  morning 
In  flitted  a  lass,  and  a  voice  like  a  lark 
Chirped,     "  Muckle-mouth    Meg  still 
ye  're  scorning  ? 

"Go hang,  but  here  'sparritch  to  heart- 
en ye  first !  " 
"  Did     Meg's     muckle-mouth     boast 
within  some 
Such  music  as  yours,  mine  should  match 
it  or  burst : 
No  frog-jaws!    So  tell  folk,  my  Win- 
some !  " 


bS4 


BRITISH   POETS 


Soon  week  came  to  end,  and,  from  Hole's 
door  set  wide, 
Out  lie  marched, and  there  waited  the 
lassie  : 
"Yon   gallows,  or  Muckle-mouth  Meg 
for  a  bride  ! 
Consider !     Sky  's    blue    and    turf  's 
grassy  : 

Life   's    sweet :     shall    I    say    ye  wed 
Muckle-mouth  Meg  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  quoth  the  stout  heart :   "  too 
eerie 
The  mouth    that  can   swallow  a  bubbly- 
jock's  egg  ; 

Shall  I  let  it  munch  mine?    Never, 
Dearie  ! " 

"  Not     Muckle-mouth  Meg  ?    Wow,  the 
obstinate  man  ! 
Perhaps  he  would  rather  wed  me  !  " 
"  Ay,  would  he — with  just   for  a  dowry 
your  can  !  " 
"  I  'm  Muckle-mouth  Meg,':  chirruped 
she. 

"  Then  so — so — so— so — "  as  he  kissed  her 
apace — 
"  Will    I   widen    thee    out    till    thou 
turnest 
From  Margaret  Minnikin-mou',  by  God's 
grace, 
To      Muckle-mouth      Meg      in     good 
earnest  !  "  1889. 

DEVELOPMENT 

My  Father    was  a    scholar    and   knew 

Greek. 
When  I  was  five  years  old,  I  asked  him 

once 
"  What  do  you  read  about  ?  " 

"  The  siege  of  Troy." 
"  What  is  a  siege,  and  what  is  Troy  ?  " 

Whereat 
lie  piled  up  chairs  and  tables  for  a  town, 
Set  me  a-top  for  Priam,  called  our  cat 
— Helen,  enticed   away  from  home  (he 

said) 
By   wicked  Paris,  who   couched   some- 
where close 
Under  the  footstool,  being  cowardly, 
But  whom — since   she  was    worth    the 

pains,  poor  puss — 
Towzer  and  Tray, — our   dogs,  the  Atrei- 

dai. — sought 
By  taking  Troy  to  get  possession  of 
— Always  when  great  Achilles  ceased  to 

sulk, 


(My  pony  in  the  stable) — forth  would 
prance 

And  put  to  flight  Hector — our  page-boy's 
self. 

This  taught  me  who  was  who  and  what 
was  what : 

So  far  I  rightly  understood  the  case 

At  five  years  old  ;  a  huge  delight  it 
proved 

And  still  proves — thanks  to  that  in- 
structor sage 

My  Father,  who  knew  better  than'  turn 
straight 

Learning's  full  flare  on  weak-eyed  igno- 
rance. 

Or,  worse  yet,  leave  weak  eyes  to  grow 
sand-blind, 

Content  with  darkness  and  vacuity. 

It  happened,  two  or  three  years  after- 
ward, 

That — I  and  playmates  playing  at  Troy's 
Siege — 

My  Father  came  upon  our  make-believe. 

"How  would  you  like  to  read  yourself 
the  tale 

Properly  told,  of  which  I  gave  you  first 

Merely  such  notion  as  a  boy  could 
bear  ? 

Pope,  now,  would  give  you  the  precise 
account 

Of  what,  some  day,  by  dint  of  scholar- 
ship, 

You  '11  hear  —  who  knows  ?  —  from 
Homer's  very  mouth. 

Learn  Greek  by  all  means,  read  the'  Blind 
Old  Man, 

Sweetest  of  Singers  ' — tuphlos  which 
means  '  blind,' 

Hedistos  which  means  '  sweetest '.  Time 
enough ! 

Try,  anyhow,  to  master  him  some  day  ; 

Until  when,  take  what  serves  for  sub- 
stitute, 

Read  Pope,  by  all  means  !  " 

So  I  ran  through  Pope. 

Enjoyed  the  tale — what  history  so  true  ? 

Also  attacked  my  Primer,  duly  drudged, 

Grew  fitter  thus  for  what  was  promised 
next — 

The  very  thing  itself,  the  actual  words. 

When  I  could  turn — say,  Buttmann  to 
account. 

Time  passed,  I  ripened  somewhat :  one 

fine  day, 
"  Quite  ready  for  the  Iliad,  nothing  less? 
There's  Heine,  where  the  big  books  block 

the  shelf : 


ROBERT    BROWNING 


6«5 


Don't    skip  a    word,    thumb     well    the 
Lexicon  ! " 

I  thumbed  well  and  skipped  nowise  till  I 

learned 
Who    was   who,  what   was   what,  from 

Homer's  tongue, 
And  there  an  end  of  learning.     Had  you 

asked 
The    all-accomplished    scholar,     twelve 

years  old, 
"  Who  was  it  wrote  the  Iliad?'- — what  a 

laugh ! 
"Why,  Homer,  all  the  world  knows  :  of 

his  life 
Doubtless  some  facts   exist :   it  's  every- 
where : 
We  have  not  settled,  though,  his  place  of 

birth  : 
He    begged,  for   certain,  and  was   blind 

beside : 
Seven    cities   claimed   him — Scio,    with 

best  right, 
Thinks  Byron.     What  he  wrote?    Those 

Hymns  we  have. 
Then  there's  the  'Battle  of  the  Frogs 

and  Mice.' 
That's  all— unless  they  dig  '  Margites'  up 
(I'd   like  that)  nothing  more  remains  to 

know." 

Thus    did    jrouth    spend   a    comfortable 

time  ; 
Until — "  What's  this  the  Germans  say  in 

fact 
That   Wolf   found  out    first  ?     It  's  un- 
pleasant work 
Their  chop  and  change,  unsettling  one's 

belief : 
All  the  same,  where  we   live,  we   learn, 

that's  sure." 
So,  I  bent  brow  o'er  Prolegomena. 
And  after  Wolf,  a  dozen  of  his  like 
Proved  there  was  never  any  Troy  at  all, 
Neither    Besiegers   nor   Besieged, — nay, 

worse, — 
No  actual  Homer,  no  authentic  text, 
No  warrant  for  the  fiction  I,  as  fact, 
Had   treasured   in  my  heart  and  soul  so 

long— 
Av,  mark   you  !   and  as  fact   held    still, 

still  hold. 
Spite  of  new  knowledge,  in  my  heart  of 

hearts 
And  sold  of  souls,  fact's  essence  freed  and 

fixed 
From  accidental  fancy's  una  rdian  sheath. 
Assuredlv     fchppocfiforward — thank     my 

stars  i — 


However  it  got  there,  deprive  who 
could — 

Wring  from  the  shrine  my  precious  ten- 
antry, 

Helen,  Ulysses,  Hector  and  his  Spouse. 

Achilles  and  his  Friend  ?— though  Wolf 
—ah,  Wolf ! 

Why  must  he  needs  come  doubting,  spoil 
a  dream  ? 

But  then,  "  No  dream's  worth  waking" — 

Browning  says  : 
And  here  's  the  reason  why  I  tell  thus 

much. 
I,  now  mature  man,  you  anticipate, 
May  blame  my  Father  justifiably 
For   letting   me   dream  out  my   nonage 

thus, 
And  only  by  such  slow  and  sure  degrees 
Permitting   me   to   sift   the  grain  from 

chaff, 
Get    truth    and    falsehood    known    and 

named  as  such. 
Why  did  he  ever  let  me  dream  at  all, 
Not  bid  me  taste  the  story  in  its  strength  ? 
Suppose  my  childhood  was  scarce  quali- 
fied 
To  rightly  understand  mythology, 
Silence  at  least  was  in  his  power  to  keep  : 
I    might    have — somehow — correspond- 
ingly— 
Well,     who    knows    by    what    method, 

gained  my  gains, 
Been  taught,  by  forthrights  not  meand- 

erings, 
My  aim  should  be  to  loathe,  like  Peleus; 

son, 
A  lie   as  Hell's  Gate,  love  my  wedded 

wife, 
Like  Hector,  and  so  on  with  all  the  rest. 
Could  not  I  have  excogitated  this 
Without  believing  such  men  really  were  r 
That   is — he   might   have   put   into   my 

hand 
The  "Ethics"?     In   translation,  if  you 

please, 
Exact,  no  pretty  lying  that  improves 
To  suit  the  modern  taste  :  no  more,  no 

less — 
The  "  Ethics  :  "  't  is  a  treatise  I  find  hard 
To  read  aright  now  that  my  hair  is  gray. 
And  I  can  manage  the  original. 
At   five  years  old — how  ill  had  fared   its 

leaves  ! 
Now.  growing  double  o'er  the  Stagirite, 
At    least    I  soil  no  page  with  bread   and 

milk, 
Nor  crumple,  dogs-ear  and  deface — boj  s' 
way.  1889* 


6S6 


BRITISH    POETS 


EPILOGUE 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the 
sleep-time, 
When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools 

think,  imprisoned — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom 
you  loved  so, 

—Pity  me  ? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so   mis- 
taken ! 
What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the   slothful,    with   the  mawkish, 

the  unmanly  ? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I 
drivel 

— Being — who  ? 


One  who    never    turned    his    back    but 
marched  breast  forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never    dreamed,     though     right     were 

worsted,  wrong  would  triumph, 
Held   we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight 
better, 

Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's 
work-time 
Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer  ! 
Bid  him  forward,   breast  and  back  as 

either  should  be, 
"Strive    and    thrive!"  cry   "Speed, — 
fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here  !  " 

1889. 


CLOUGH 

LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

Editions 

Poems,  with  Memoir  by  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  Ticknor  &  Fields,  1862. — 
Poems  and  Prose  Remains,  with  Memoir  by  Mrs.  Clough,  2  volumes, 
London,  1869.  —  Poems,  1  volume,  The  Macmillan  Company,  1888.  — 
Selections  from  the  Poems,  1  volume,  1894  (Golden  Treasury  Series). 
—  Prose  Remains,  1  volume,  The  Macmillan  Company  (1862),  1888. 

Biography   and   Reminiscences 

Memoirs  by  *  C.  E.  Norton  and  by  Mrs.  Clough,  in  the  editions  above 
mentioned.  —  Shairp  (J.  C),  Portraits  of  Friends. — Stephen  (Leslie), 
Clough;  in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  Vol.  XI,  1887. 

Criticism 

Arnold  (Matthew),  On  Translating  Homer,  §  III;  Last  Words  on  Trans- 
lating Homer,  last  two  pages.  —  *Bagehot  (W.),  Literary  Studies,  Vol. 
II,  1879.  —  Bijvanck  (W.  G.  C),  Poezie  en  Leven  in  de  19de  Eeuw: 
Studien  op  het  Gebied  der  Letterkunde,  Haarlem,  1889.  —  *Brooke  (S.  A.), 
Four  Victorian  Poets,  1908.  —  Dowden  (E.),  Studies  in  Literature:  Trans- 
cendental Movement  in  Literature,  1878.  — Hudson  (W.  H.),  Studies  in 
Interpretation,  1893.  —  *Hutton  (R.  H.),  Literary  Essays,  1871,  1888.  — 
Mabie  (H.  YV),  My  Study  Fire,  Second  Series.  —  Oliphant  (Margaret), 
Huttct:  (R.  H.),  Brief  Literary  Criticisms,  1906:  The  Unpopularity  of 
Clough;  Amiel  and  Clough.  —  Victorian  Age  in  Literature. —  Patmore  (C), 
Principle  in  Art.  —  Perry  (T.  S.),  in  Atlantic  Monthly,  1875,  p.  409.— 
Robertson  (J.  M.),  New  Essays  towards  a  Critical  Method,  1897. — *Sidg- 
wick  (Henry),  Miscellaneous  Essays  and  Addresses,  1905. — Stedman 
(E.  C),  Victorian  Poets,  p.  243-4.  —  Waddington  (S.),  Arthur  Hugh 
Clough,  a  Monograph,  1883.  —  Ward  (T.  H.),  English  Poets,  Vol.  IV. 

Armstrong  (R.  A.),  Faith  aad  Doubt.  —  Macdonald  (G.),  England's 
Antiphon.  —  Scudder  (V.  D.),  Life  of  the  Spirit.  —  Seeburg  (L.),  Ueber 
A.  H.  Clough.  —  Sharp  (Amy),  Victorian  Poets.  —  Swanwick  (A.), 
Poets  the  Interpreters  of  their  Age. 

Tributes  in  Verse 

*  Arnold,  The  Scholar  Gipsv;  Thyrsis.  —  *  Lowell,  Agassiz.  Sectioi' 
III. 

687 


CLOUGH 


IN  A  LECTURE-ROOM 

Away,  haunt  thou  not  me, 

Thou  vain  Philosophy  ! 

Little  hast  thou  bestead. 

Save  to  perplex  the  head, 

And  leave  the  spirit  dead. 

Unto  thy  broken  cisterns  wherefore  go, 

While   from  the  secret   treasure-depths 
below. 

Fed  by  the  skiey  shower, 

And  clouds  that  sink  and  rest  on  hill- 
tops high, 

Wisdom  at  once,  and  Power, 

Are    welling,    bubbling    forth,    unseen, 
incessantly  ? 

Why  labor  at  the  dull  mechanic  oar, 

When  the  fresh  breeze  is  blowing, 

And  the  strong  current  flowing, 

Right  onward  to  the  Eternal  Shore? 
18Jfi.      1849. 

BLANK  MISGIVINGS 

How  often  sit  I,  poring  o'er 

My  strange  distorted  youth, 
Seeking  in  vain,  in  all  my  store, 

One  feeling  based  on  truth  ; 
Amid  the  maze  of  petty  life, 

A  clue  whereby  to  move, 
A  spot  whereon  in  toil  and  strife 

To  dare  to  rest  and  love. 
So  constant  as  my  heart  would  be, 

So  fickle  as  it  must, 
'T  were  well  for  others  as  for  me 

*T  were  dry  as  summer  dust. 
Excitements  come,  and  act  and  speech 

Flow  freely  forth  ; — but  no, 
Nor  they,  nor  aught  beside  can  reach 

The  buried  world  below. 

1S41.     1849. 

To  y.aXov 

I  HAVE  seen  higher,  holier  things  than 
these, 
And  therefore  must  to  these  refuse 
my  heart, 


Yet  am  I  panting  for  a  little  ease ; 
I'll  take,  and  so  depart. 

Ah,   hold !    the   heart   is   prone   to   fall 
away, 
Her  high  and  cherished  visions  to  for- 
get, 
And  if   thou  takest,  how   wilt  thou  re- 
pay 
So  vast,  so  dread  a  debt? 

How   will   the  heart,  which    now  thoy 
trustest,  then 
Corrupt,   yet   in   corruption    mindful 

yet, 

Turn   with    sharp    stings    upon    itself" 

Again, 
Bethink  thee  of  the  debt ! 

— Hast  thou   seen  higher,  holier  things 
than  these, 
And  therefore  must  to  these  thy  heart 
refuse  ? 
With    the    true    best,    alack,    how    ill 
agrees 
That  best  that  thou  would'st  choose  ! 

The  Summum  Pulchrum  rests  in  heaven 
above  ; 
Do  thou,  as  best  thou  may'st,  thy  duty 
do: 
Amid  the  things  allowed  thee  live  and 
love  ; 
Some  day  thou  shalt  it  view. 

1S41.    1849. 

QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two* towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the 
breeze, 

And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 

By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 


688 


CLOUGH 


689 


E'en  so,  but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of    those,    whom   year   by    year   un- 
changed. 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  eacli  rejoicing  steered — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed, 
Or    wist,   what    first   with   dawn   ap- 
peared ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain, 

Brave   barks  !     In   light,  in   darkness 

too, 

Through  winds   and  tides  one  compass 

guides — 

To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze  ;  and  O  great  seas, 
Though    ne'er,  that    earliest    parting 
past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,— 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas  ! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  ! 

1849. 

THE  NEW  SINAI 

Lo,  here  is  God,  and  there  is  God  ! 

Believe  it  not,  O  Man  ; 
In  such  vain  sort  to  this  and  that 

The  ancient  heathen  ran  : 
Though  old  Religion  shake  her  head, 

And  say  in  bitter  grief. 
The  day  behold,  at  first  foretold, 

Of  atheist  unbelief  : 
Take  better  part,  with  manly  heart, 

Thine  adult  spirit  can  ; 
Receive  it  not,  believe  it  not, 

Believe  it  not,  0  Man  ! 

As  men  at  dead  of  night  awaked 

With  cries,  "The  king  is  here," 
Rush    forth    and   greet   whome'er  they 
meel . 

Whoe'er  shall  first  appear  : 
And  still  repeat,  to  all  the  street, 

"  Tis  he, — the  king  is  here;" 
The  long  procession  moveth  on, 

Each  nobler  form  they  see, 
With  changeful  suit  fchey  still  salute 

Ami  cry,  ••  'Tis  he.  'tis  he  !  " 

So,  even  so,  when  nun  were  young, 
And  earth  and  heaven  were  new, 

44 


And  His  immediate  presence  He 

From  human  hearts  withdrew. 
The  soul  perplexed  and  daily  vexed 

With  sensuous  False  and  True, 
Amazed,  bereaved,  no  less  believed, 

And  lain  would  see  Him  too  : 
"He   is!"     the     prophet-tongues     pro 
claimed  ; 

In  joy  and  hasty  fear, 
••  He  is  !  "  aloud  replied  the  crowd, 

"Is  here,  and  here,  and  here." 

"  He  is  !  They  are  !  "  in  distance  seen 

On  yon  Olympus  high. 
In  those  Avernian  woods  abide 

And  walk  this  azure  sky  : 
"They     are!      They    are!" — to     every 
show 

Its  eyes  the  baby  turned, 
Ami  hlazes  sacrificial,  tall, 

On  thousand  altars  burned  : 
'•  They  are  !  They  are  !  " — On  Sinai's  top 

Far  seen  the  lightnings  shone, 
Tin'  thunder  broke,  a  trumpet  spoke, 

And  God  said,  "  I  am  One." 

God  spake  it  out,  "  I,  God,  am  One  ;;' 

The  unheeding  ages  ran. 
And  baby-thoughts  again,  again. 

Have  dogged  the  growing  man  : 
And  as  of  old  from  Sinai's  top 

God  said  that  God  is  One. 
By  Science  strict  so  speaks  He  now 

To  tell  us,  There  is  None  ! 
Earth  goes  by  cliemic  forces  ;  Heaven's 

A  Mecanique  Celeste  ! 
And  heart  and  mind  of  human  kind 

A  watch- work  as  the  rest  ! 

Is  this  a  Voice,  as  was  the  Voice, 

Whose  speaking  told  abroad, 
When   thunder   pealed,   and    mountain 
reeled. 

The  ancient  truth  of  God  ? 
All.  not  the  Voice  ;  'tis  but  the  cloud, 

The  outer-darkness  dense, 
Where  image  none,  nor  e'er  was  seen 

Similitude  of  sense. 
'Tis  hut  the  cloudy  darkness  dense 

'1  hat  wrapt   the  .Mount  around; 
While  in  amaze  the  people  stays, 

To  hear  the  ( Joming  Sound- 
Is  there  no  prophet-soul  the  while 

To  dare,  sublimely  meek, 
Within  the  shroud  of  hlackest  cloud 

The  Deity  t,,  seels  V 
'Midst  atheistic  systems  dark, 

And  darker  hearts'  despair, 
That  soul  has  heard  perchance  His  word, 


690 


BRITISH   POETS 


Ami  on  the  dusky  air 

Ilis  skirls,  us  paused  He  by,  to  see 
Hath  strained  on  their  behalf. 

Who  on  the  plain,  with  dance  amain, 
Adore  the  Golden  Calf. 

Tis  but  the  cloudy  darkness  dense  ; 

Though  blank  the  tale  it  tells. 
No  God,  no  Truth  !  yet  He,  in  sooth, 

Is  there — within  it  dwells  ; 
Within  the  sceptic  darkness  deep 

He  dwells  that  none  may  see, 
Till  idol  forms  and  idle  thoughts 

Have  passed  and  ceased  to  be : 
No  God,  no  Truth  !  ah  though,  in  sooth 

So  stand  the  doctrine's  half  : 
On  Egypt's  track  return  not  back, 

Nor  own  the  Golden  Calf. 

Take  better  part,  with  manlier  heart, 

Thine  adult  spirit  can  ; 
No  God,  no  Truth,  receive  it  ne'er — 

Believe  it  ne'er — O  Man  ! 
But  turn  not  then  to  seek  again 

What  first  the  ill  began  ; 
No  God,  it  saith  ;  ah,  wait  in  faith 

God's  self-completing  plan  ; 
Receive  it  not,  but  leave  it  not, 

And  wait  it  out,  O  man ! 

"  The  Man  that  went  the  cloud  within 

Is  gone  and  vanished  quite  ; 
He  cometh  not,"  the  people  cries, 

"  Nor  bringeth  God  to  sight : 
Lo  these  thy  gods,  that  safety  give, 

Adore  and  keep  the  feast  !  " 
Deluding  and  deluded  cries 

The  Prophet's  brother-Priest: 
And  Israel  all  bows  down  to  fall 

Before  the  gilded  beast. 

Devout,  indeed  !  that  priestly  creed, 

O  Man,  reject  as  sin  ; 
The  clouded  hill  attend  thou  still, 

And  him  that  went  within. 
He  yet  shall  bring  some  worthy  thing 

For  waiting  souls  to  see  : 
Some  sacred  word  that  he  hath  heard 

Their  light  and  life  shall  be  ; 
Some  lofty  part,  than  which  the  heart 

Adopt  no  nobler  can, 
Thou  shalt  receive,  thou  shalt  believe 

And  thou  shalt  do,  O  Man  ! 

IS45.     1869. 

THE  QUESTIONING  SPIRIT 

The  human  spirits  saw  I  on  a  day, 
Sitting  and  looking  each  a  different  way  ; 
And  hardly  tasking,  subtly  questioning, 


Another  spirit  went  around  the  ring 
To  each  and  each  :  and  as  he  ceased  his 

say, 
Each   after  each,  I  heard  them  singly 

sing, 
Some    querulously    high,   some    softly, 

sadly  low, 
We  know  not — what  avails  to  know? 
We  know  not — wherefore  need  we  know? 
Tl  1  is: answer  gave  they  still  unto  his  suing, 
We  know  not,  let  us  do  as  we  are  doing. 
Dost   thou   not  know  that  these  things 

only  seem  ? — 
I  know  not,  let  me  dream  my  dream. 
Are    dust    and    ashes    fit    to    make    a 

treasure  ? — 

I  know  not,  let  me  take  my  pleasure. 
What  shall  avail  the  knowledge  thou  hast 

sought  ? — 
I  know  not.  let  me  think  my  thought. 
What  is  the  end  of  strife?— 
I  know  not,  let  me  live  my  life. 
How  many  days  or  e'er  thou  mean'st  to 

move  ? — - 
I  know  not.  let  me  love  my  love. 
Were  not  things  old  once  new  ? — 
I  know  not,  let  me  do  as  others  do. 
And  when  the  rest  were  over  past, 
I  know  not,  I  will  do  my  duty,  said  the 

last. 

Thy  duty  do?  rejoined  the  voice, 
Ah,  do  it,  do  it,  and  rejoice  ; 
But  shalt  thou  then,  when  all  is  done, 
Enjoy  a  love,  embrace  a  beauty 
Like  these,  that  may  be  seen  and  won 
In  life,  whose  course  will  then  be  run  ; 
Or  wilt  thou  be  where  there  is  none  ? 
I  know  not,  I  will  do  my  duty. 

And  taking  up  the  word  around,  above, 

below, 
Some    querulously    high,    some    softly, 

sadly  low, 
We  know   not,   sang  they   all,  nor  ever 

need  we  know. 
We  know  not,  sang  they,  what  avails  to 

know  ? 
Whereat   the   questioning  spirit,    some 

short  space, 
Though  unabashed,   stood  quiet  in   his 

place. 
But  as  the  echoing  chorus  died  away 
And  to  their  dreams  the  rest  returned 

apace. 
By  the  one   spirit  I  saw  him   kneeling 

low, 
And  in  a  silvery  whisper  heard  him  say  : 


CLOUGH 


691 


Truly,    thou    knovv'st     not,    and    thou 

need'st  not  know  ; 
Hope  only,  hope  thou,  and   believe  al- 

way  ; 
I  also  know  not,  and  I  need  not  know, 
Only    with   questionings   pass  I  to   and 

fro, 
Perplexing  these  that  sleep,  and  in  their 

folly 
Imbreeding  doubt  and  sceptic  melan- 
choly ; 
Till  that,   their  dreams   deserting,  they 

with  me 
Come  all  to  this  true    ignorance    and 

thee.  1847.    1862. 

BETHESDA 

A   SEQUEL 

I  saw  again  the  spirits  on  a  day, 

Where  on  the  earth  in  mournful  case 
they  lay  ; 

Five  porches  were  there,  and  a  pool,  and 
round. 

Huddling  in  blankets,  strewn  upon  the 
ground. 

Tied-up  and  bandaged,  weary,  sore  and 
spent, 

The  maimed  and  halt,  diseased  and  im- 
potent. 

For  a  great  angel  came,  't  was  said,  and 

stirred 
The  pool  at  certain    seasons,   and  the 

word 
Was,  with  this  people  of  the  sick,  that 

they 
Who  in   the   waters    here    their  limbs 

should  lay 
Before  the  motion  on  the  surface  ceased 
Should  of  their  torment  straightway  be 

released. 
So  with  shrunk  bodies  and  with   heads 

down-dropped, 
Stretched  on  the  steps,   and  at  the  pil- 
lars propped, 
Watching  by  day  and  listening  through 

the  night, 
They  filled  the  place,  a  miserable  sight. 

And  I  beheld  that  on  the  stony  floor 
He  too,  that  spoke  of  duty  once  before, 
No  otherwise  than  others  here  to-day, 
Foredone  and  sick  and  sadly  muttering 

lay. 
"  I  know    not,    I  will   do — what  is   it   I 

would  say  : 
What   was  that  word    which   once   suf- 
ficed alone  for  all, 


Which  now  I  seek  in  vain,  and  never 
can  recall  ?  " 

And  then,  as  weary  of  in  vain  renew- 
ing 

His  question,  thus  his  mournful  thought 
pursuing, 

"  I  know  not,  I  must  do  as  other  men 
are  doing." 

But  what  the  waters  of  that  pool  might 

be, 
Of  Lethe  were  they,  or  Philosophy  ; 
And   whether  he,  long  waiting,  did  at- 
tain 
Deliverance  from  the  burden  of  his  pain 
There  with  the   rest  ;   or  whether,  yet 

before, 
Some  more  diviner  stranger  passed  the 

door 
With  his  small  company  into  that  sad 

place, 
And  breathing  hope  into  the  sick  man's 

face,  [go, 

Bade  him  take  up  his  bed,  and  rise  and 
What    the   end   were,   and   whether   it 

were  so, 
Further  than  this  I   saw   not,   neither 

know.  1849.  1862. 

FROM  AMOURS  DE  VOYAGE 

EN  ROUTE 

Over  the  great  windy  waters,  and  over 
the  clear-crested  summits, 
Unto  the  sun  and  the  sky,  and  unto  the 
perfecter  earth, 
Come,  let  us  go, — to  a  land  wherein  gods 
of  the  old  time  wandered, 
Where  every  breath  even  now  changes 
to  ether  divine. 
Come  let  us  go  ;  though  withal  a  voice 
whisper,  "  The  world  that  toe  live  in. 
1 1  'It  ithersoever  we  turn,  still  is  the  same 
narroio  crib  ; 
'Tis  but  to  prove  limitation,  and  measure 
a  cord,  that  we  travel ; 

1  Clough's  long:  poem  in  hexameters,  Tlie 
Bothu  of  Tober-Na-Vuolich, interesting  as  it  is, 
is  i.f  t..n  little  importance  and  poetic  value  in 
proportion  to  its  length,  to  be  included  in  these 
selections  ;  and  no  parts  of  it  are  detachable  as 
ex-tracts.  Some  examples  of  dough's  use  of 
hexameters  (and  elegiacs)  may  however  be  taken 
from  Ids  other  long  poem,  tlie  Amours  de  Voy- 
age, which  suffer  comparatively  little  in  being 
separated  from  their  context,  and  are  equally 
characteristic  of  some  of  Clough's  moods.  They 
are  also  interesting  as  a  contrast  to  Byron's 
<.  hms  on  Rome,  in  Ohilde  Harold  and  elsewhere. 
On  tlio  Amours  <l<-  Voyage,  see  especially  Bage- 
hot's  Essay  on  Clough. 


692 


BRITISH    POETS 


Let  who  would  'scape  and  be  free  go  to 

liis  chamber  and  think  ; 
'Tis    but    to    change    idle   fancies   for 

memories  wilfully  falser  ; 
'Tis  but  to  go  and  have  been." — Come, 

little  bark!  lit  us  go. 

ROME 

Rome  disappoints  me  still ;  but  I  shrink 
and  adapt  myself  to  it. 

Somehow  a  tyrannous  sense  of  a  super- 
incumbent oppression 

Still,  wherever  I  go,  accompanies  ever, 
and  makes  me 

Feel  like  a  tree  (shall  I  say?)  buried 
under  a  ruin  of  brickwork 

Rome,  believe  me,  my  friend,  is  like  its 
own  Monte  Testaceo, 

Merely  a  marvelous  mass  of  broken  and 
castaway  wine-pots. 

2e  gods  !  what  do  I  want  with  this  rub- 
bish of  ages  departed, 

Things  that  Nature  abhors,  the  experi- 
ments that  she  has  failed  in  ? 

What  do  I  find  in  the  Forum  ?  An  arch- 
way and  two  or  three  pillars. 

Well!  but  St.  Peter's?  Alas,  Bernini 
has  filled  it  with  sculpture  ! 

No  one  can  cavil,  I  grant,  at  the  size  of 
the  great  Coliseum. 

Doubtless  the  notion  of  grand  and  capa- 
cious and  massive  amusement, 

This  the  old  Romans  had  ;  but  tell  me, 
is  tins  an  idea? 

Yet  of  solidity  much,  but  of  splendor 
little  is  extant  : 

'■'Brickwork  I  found  thee,  and  marble  I 
left  thee  !  "  their  Emperor  vaunted  ; 

;*  Marble  I  thought  thee,  and  brickwork 
I  find  thee  !  "  the  Tourist  may  answer. 

THE  PANTHEON 

No,  great  Dome  of  Agrippa,  thou  art  not 

Christian  !  canst  not, 
Strip   and   replaster   and   daub   and   do 

what  they  will  with  thee,  be  so  ! 
Here    underneath   the    great    porch   of 

colossal  Corinthian  columns, 
Here  as  I  walk,  do  I  dream  of  the  Chris- 
tian belfries  above  them  ? 
Or,  on  a  bench  as  I  sit  and  abide  for  long 

hours,  till  thy  whole  vast 
Round  grows  dim  as  in  dreams  to  my 

eyes,  I  repeople  thy  niches, 
Not  with  the   Martyrs,  and  Saints,  and 

Confessors,  and  Virgins,  and  children, 
But  wit!)  the  mightier  forms  of  an  older, 

austerer  worship  ; 


And  I  recite  to  myself,  how 

Eager  for  battle  here 
Stood  Vulcan,  here  matronal  Juno, 
And    with    the    bow  to    his  shoulder 
faithful 
He,  who  with  pure  dew  laveth  of  Castaly 
His  flowing  locks,  who  hohleth  of  Lycia 
The  oak  forest  and  the  wood  that  bore 
him, 
Delos'  and  Patara's  own  Apollo. 

ON  MONTORIO'S   HEIGHT 

Tibur  is  beautiful,  too,  and  the  orchard 

slopes,  and  the  Anio 
Falling,  falling  yet,  to  the  ancient  lyri 

cal  cadence  ; 
Tibur  and  Anio's  tide  ;    and  cool  from 

Lucretilis  ever, 
With   the   Digentian  stream,  and    with 

the  Bandusian  fountain, 
Folded  in  Sabine  recesses,  the  valley  and 

villa  of  Horace  : — 
So  not  seeing  I  sang  ;  so  seeing  and  lis- 
tening say  I, 
Here  as  I  sit  by  the  stream,  as  I  gaze  at 

the  cell  of  the  Sibyl. 
Here  with  Albunea's  homeand  the  grove 

of  Tiburnus  beside  me; 
Tivoli  beautiful  is,  and  musical,  O  Tev- 

erone, 
Dashing   from   mountain   to   plain,  thy 

parted  impetuous  waters, 
Tivoli's  waters  and  rocks:  and  fair  unto 

Monte  Gennaro 
(Haunt,   even   yet,    I   must   think,  as  I 

wander  and  gaze,  of  the  shadows, 
Faded  and  pale,  yet  immortal,  of  Faunus, 

the  Nymphs,  and  the  Graces), 
Fair  in  itself,  and  yet  fairer  with  human 

completing  creations, 
Folded  in  Sabine  recesses  the  valley  and 

villa  of  Horace  : — 
So  not  seeing  I  sang  ;  so  now — Nor  see- 
ing, nor  hearing, 
Neither  by  waterfall  lulled,  nor  folded 

in  sylvan  embraces, 
Neither  by  cell  of  the  Sibyl,  nor  stepping 

the  Monte  Gennaro, 
Seated    on    Anio's    bank,   nor    sipping 

Bandusian  waters, 
But  on  Montorio's  height,  looking  down 

on  the  tile-clad  streets,  the 
Cupolas,  crosses,  and  domes,  the  bushes 

and  kitchen-gardens, 
Which,  by  the  grace  of  the  Tibur,  pro- 
claim     themselves      Rome      of      the 

Romans, — 
But  on  Montorio's  height,  looking  forth 

to  the  vapory  mountains, 


CLOUGH 


693 


Cheating  the  prisoner  Hope  with  illu- 
sions of  vision  and  fancy, — 

But  on  Montorio's  height,  with  these 
weary  soldiers  hy  me, 

Waiting  till  Oudinot  enter,  to  reinstate 
Pope  and  Tourist. 

THE  REAL  QUESTION 

Action  will  furnish  belief, — but  will  that 
belief  be  the  true  one  ? 

This  is  the  point,  you  know.  However, 
it  doesn't  much  matter. 

What  one  wants,  I  suppose,  is  to  prede- 
termine the  action. 

So  as  to  make  it  entail,  not  a  chance  be- 
lief, but  the  true  one. 

Out  of  the  question,  you  say  ;  if  a  thing 
isn't  wrong  we  may  do  it. 

Ah  !  but  this  tvrong,  yon  see — but  I  do 
not  know  that  it  matters.  .  .  . 

SCEPTIC  MOODS 

Rome  is  fallen,  I  hear,  the  gallant  Medi- 
ci taken. 
Noble  Manara  slain,  and  Garibaldi  has 

lost  it  Moro  ; — 
Rome  is   fallen  ;  and  fallen,  or   falling, 

heroical  Venice. 
I,  meanwhile,  for  the  loss  of  a  single 

small  chit  of  a  girl,  sit 
Moping  and   mourning   here, — for   her, 

and  myself  much  smaller. 
Whither  depart   the  souls  of  the  brave 

that  die  in  the  battle, 
Die  in  the  lost,  lost  fight,  for  the  cause 

that  perishes  with  them? 
Are  they  upborne  from  the  field  on  the 

slumberous  pinions  of  angels 
Unto  a  far-off  home,    where   the   weary 

rest  from  their  labor, 
And  the  deep  wounds   are   healed,   and 

the  bitter  and  burning  moisture 
Wiped  from  the    generous   eyes?  or    do 

they  linger,  unhappy. 
Pining,  and  haunting  the  grave  of  their 

by-gone  hope  ami  endeavor? 
All  declamation,  alas!  though  I  talk, 

I  care  not  for  home  nor 
Italy;  feebly  and  faintly,  and  hut   with 

tli^  lips,  can  lament  the 
Wreck- of  the  Lombard  youth,   and   the 

victory  of  i  be  oppressor. 
Whither  depart  1  he  brave  ! — God  knows  ; 

I  certainly  do  not. 

ENVOI 

So  go  forth  to  the  world,  to  the  good    re- 
port and  the  evil  ! 


Go,  little  book  !  thy  tale,  is  it  not  evil 
and  good  f 
Go,  and  if  strangers  re  rile,  pass  quietly 
b[l  without  answer. 
Go,  and  if  curious  friends  ask  of  thy 
rearing  and  age. 
Say,  "  I  am  flitting  about   many  years 
from  brain  unto  brain  of 
Feeble  and  restless  youths  born  to  in- 
glorious  days  : 
But,"  sofinish  tin'  word,  "  Iwaswritina 
Rmuan  chamber, 
When  from  Janieulan  heights  thun- 
dered the  cannon  of  France." 

IS4S-IS49.    1858. 

PESCHIERA 

What  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost  ? 
"  Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost. 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all." 

The  tricolor — a  trampled  rag-— 
Lies,  dirt  and  dust ;  the  lines  I  track 
By  sentry  boxes  yellow-black, 
Lead  up  to  no  Italian  flag. 

I  see  the  Croat  soldier  stand 
Upon  the  grass  of  your  redoubts  ; 
The  eagle  with  his  black  wings  flouts 
The  breadth  and  beaut}7  of  your  land. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  although  in  vain, 
O  men  of  Brescia,  on  the  day 
Of  loss  past  hope,  I  heard  you  say 
Your  welcome  to  the  noble  pain. 

You  say.  "  Since  so  it  is, — good-bye 
Sweet  life,  high  hope  ;  but  whatsoe'er 
May  he,  or  must,  no  tongue  shall  dare 
To  tell,  '  The  Lombard  feared  to  die  ! ' " 

You  said  (there  shall  be  answer  fit), 
•'  And  if  our  children  must  obey, 
They  must  :  but  thinking  on  this  day 
'Twill  less  debase  them  to  submit." 

You  said  (Oh  not  in  vain  you  said), 

"  Haste,  brothers,  haste,    while  yet  we 

may  : 
The  hours  ebb  fast  of  this  one  day 
When  blood  may  yet  be  nobly  shed." 

Ah  !  not  for  idle  hatred,  not 
For  honor,  fame,  nor  self-applause, 
But  for  the  glory  of  the  cause, 
You  did,  what  will  not  be  forgot. 

\nd  though  the  stranger  stand, 'tis  true, 

By  force  and  fortune's  right  he  stands; 


694 


BRITISH   POETS 


By  fort  line,  which  is  in  God's  hands, 
And  strength,  which  yet  shall  spring  in 
you. 

This  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  Icrost, 
"  Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all." 

1S49.     1862. 

ALTEEAM  PARTEM 

Or  shall  I  say,  Vain  word,  false  thought, 
Since  Prudence  hath  her  martyrs  too, 
And  Wisdom  dictates  not  to  do. 
Till  doing  shall  be  not  for  nought? 

Not  ours  to  give  or  lose  is  life  : 
Will  Nature,  when  her  brave  ones  fall. 
Remake  her  work  ?  or  songs  recall 
Death's  victim  slain  in  useless  strife  ? 

That  rivers  flow  into  the  sea 

Is  loss  and  waste,  the  foolish  say, 

Nor  know  that  back  they  find  their  way, 

Unseen,  to  where  they  wont  to  be. 

Showers  fall  upon  the  hills,  springs  flow, 
The  river  runneth  still  at  hand, 
Brave  men  are  born  into  the  land, 
And  whence  the  foolish  do  not  know. 

No  !  no  vain  voice  did  on  me  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost, 
"  'T  is  better  to  have  fought  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all." 

1849.     1862. 

IN  THE  DEPTHS 

It  is  not  sweet  content,  be  sure, 

That  moves  the  nobler  Muse  to  song. 
Yet  when  could  truth  come  whole  and 
pure 
From    hearts    that   inly  writhe   with 
wrong  ? 

'T  is  not  the  calm  and  peaceful  breast 
That  sees  or  reads  the  problem  true  ; 

They  only  know,  on  whom  't  has  prest 
Too  hard  to  hope  to  solve  it  too. 

Our  ills  are  worse  than  at  their  ease 
These  blameless  happy  souls  suspect, 

They  only  study  the  disease, 
Alas,  who  live  not  to  detect.      1862. 

THE  LATEST  DECALOGUE 

Thou  shalt  have  one  God  only  ;  who 
Would  be  at  the  expense  of  two? 


No  graven  images  may  be 

Worshipped,  except  the  currency  : 

Swear  nol  at  all  ;  for.  for  thy  curse 

Thine  enemy  is  none  the  worse: 

At  church  on  Sunday  to  attend 

Will  serve  to  keep  the  world  thy  friend  : 

Honor  thy  parents  :  that  is,  all 

From  whom  advancement  may  befall  ; 

Thou  shalt   not   kill ;    but   need'st   not 

strive 
Officiously  to  keep  alive  : 
Do  not  adultery  commit  ; 
Advantage  rarely  comes  of  it : 
Thou  shalt  not  steal ;  an  empty  feat, 
When  it  's  so  lucrative  to  cheat : 
Bear  not  false  witness  ;  let  the  lie 
Have  time  on  its  own  wings  to  fly: 
Thou  shalt  not  covet,  but  tradition 
Approves  all  forms  of  competition. 

1862. 

FROM  DIPSYCHUS 

"  There  is  no  God,"  the  wicked  saith, 

"  And  truly  it  's  a  blessing, 
For  what  He  might  have  done  with  us 

It  's  better  only  guessing." 

"  There  is  no  God,"  a  youngster  thinks, 
"  Or  really,  if  there  may  be, 

He  surely  did  not  mean  a  man- 
Always  to  be  a  baby." 

"There  is  no  God,  or  if  there  is," 
The  tradesman  thinks,  "  't  were  funny 

If  He  should  take  it  ill  in  me 
To  make  a  little  money." 

"  Whether  there  be,"  the  rich  man  says. 

"  It  matters  very  little, 
For  I  and  mine,  thank  somebody, 

Are  not  in  want  of  victual." 

Some  others,  also,  to  themselves, 
Who  scarce  so  much  as  doubt  it, 

Think  there  is  none,  when  they  are  well 
And  do  not  think  about  it. 

But  country  folks  who  live  beneath 

The  shadow  of  the  steeple  ; 
The  parson  and  the  parson's  wife, 

And  mostly  married  people  ; 

Youths  green  and  happy  in  first  love, 

So  thankful  for  illusion  ; 
And  men  caught  out  in  what  the  world 

Calls  guilt,  in  first  confusion  ; 

And  almost  every  one  when  age, 
Disease,  or  sorrows  strike  him, 


CLOUGH 


695 


Inclines  to  think  there  is  a  God, 
Or  something  very  like  Him. 

1849.     1862. 


Our  gaieties,  our  luxuries, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  glee, 
Mere  insolence  and  wantonness, 

Alas  !  they  feel  to  me. 

How  shall  r  laugh  and  sing  and  dance? 

My  very  heart  recoils. 
While  here  to  give  my  mirth  a  chance 

A  hungry  brother  toils. 

The  joy  that  does  not  spring  from  joy 

Which  I  in  others  see, 
How  can  I  venture  to  employ. 

Or  find  it  joy  for  me  ?      1849.     1869. 


This  world  is  very  odd  we  see, 

We  do  not  comprehend  it ; 
But  in  one  fact  we  all  agree, 

God  won't,  and  we  can't  mend  it. 

Being  common  sense,  it  can't  be  sin 

To  take  it  as  I  find  it  ; 
The  pleasure  to  take  pleasure  in  ; 

The  pain,  try  not  to  mind  it. 

These  juicy  meats,  this  flashing  wine, 
May  be  an  unreal  mere  appearance  ; 

Only — for  my  inside,  in  tine, 
They  have  a  singular  coherence. 

Oil  yes,  my  pensive  youth,  abstain  ; 

And  any  empty  sick  sensation, 
Remember,  anything  like  pain 

Is  only  your  imagination. 

Trust  me,  I've  read  your  German  Bage 
To  far  more  purpose  e'er  than  you  did 

You  find  it  in  Ids  wisest  page, 

Whom  God  deludes  is  well  deluded, 
1840.     1869. 


Where    are    the    great,   whom     thou 

would'st  wish  to  praise  thee? 
Where  are  the  pure,  whom  thou  would'st 

choose  to  love  thee? 
Where  are  the  brave,  to  stand  supreme 

above  thee, 
Whose   high    commands     would   cheer, 

whose  chiding  raise  thee  ? 
Seek,  seeker,   in   thyself  ;   submit   to 

find 


In  the  stones,  bread,  and   life  in   the 
blank  mind.  I849.     1862. 


When  the  enemy  is  near  thee, 

Call  on  us  ! 
In  our  hands  we  will  upbear  thee. 
He  shall  neither  scathe  nor  scare  thee^ 
He  shall  fly  thee,  and  shall  fear  thee. 

Call  on  us  I 
Call  when  all  good  friends  have  left  thee, 
Of  all  good  sights  and  sounds  bereft  thee  ; 
Call  when  hope  and  heart  are  sinking, 
And  the  brain  is  sick  with  thinking, 

Help,  O  help  ! 
Call,  and  following  close  behind  thee 
There  shall   haste,   and  there  shall  find 
thee, 

Help,  sure  help. 

When  the  panic  comes  upon  thee, 
When  necessity  seems  on  thee, 
Hope  and  choice  have  all  forgone  thee, 
Fate  and  force  are  closing  o'er  thee, 
And  but  one  way  stands  before  thee — 

Call  on  us  ! 
Oh,  and  if  thou  dost  not  call, 
Be  but  faithful,  that  is  all. 
Go  right  on,  and  close  behind  thee 
There  shall  follow  still  and  find  thee, 

Help,  sure  help. 

1849.     1862. 

SAY  NOT  THE  STRUGGLE  NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labor  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 

And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars  ; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed, 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  break- 
ing, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gam, 
Far    back,    through    creeks  and   inlets 
making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  oidy, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the 

Light,  [slowly, 

In  front,    the    sun    climbs    slow,     how 

But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 

1849.     1862. 


696 


BRITISH  POETS 


EASTER  DAY 

NAPLES,   1849 

Through    the    great   sinful  streets    of 
Naples  as  1  passed, 
With  fiercer  heat  than  flamed  above 
my  head 
My    heart    was   hot    within  liie ;    till  at 
last 
My  brain   was    lightened    when   my 
tongue  had  said — 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 
Christ  is  not  risen,  no — 

He  lies  and  moulders  low  ; 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 

What  though    the    stone    were    rolled 
away,  and  though 
The  grave  found  empty  there? — 
If  not  there,  then  elsewhere  ; 
If  not  where  Joseph  laid  Him  first,  why 
then 
Where  other  men 
Translaid  Him  after,  in   some  humbler 
clay. 
Long  ere  to-day 
Corruption  that  sad  perfect  work  hath 

done, 
Which  here  she    scarcely,    lightly   had 
begun  : 
The  foul  engendered  worm 
Feeds    on   the   flesh   of   the   life-giving 

form 
Of  our  most  Holy  and  Anointed  One. 
He  is  not  risen,  no — 
He  lies  and  moulders  low  ; 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 

What  if   the  women,  ere  the  dawn  was 

gray, 
Saw  one  or  more  great  angels,  as  they 

say 
(Angels,  or  Him  himself)  ?    Yet  neither 

there,  nor  then, 
Nor  afterwards,  nor  elsewhere,  nor  at 

all, 
Hath  He  appeared  to  Peter  or  the  Ten  ; 
Nor  save  in  thunderous  terror,  to  blind 

Saul; 
Save  in  an  after  Gospel  and  late  Creed, 
He  is  not  risen,  indeed, — 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 

Or,  what  if  e'en,  as  runs  a  tale,  the  Ten 
Saw,  heard,  and  touched,  again  and  yet 

again  ? 
What  if  at  Emmaus'  inn,  and  by  Caper- 
naum's Lake, 
Came  One,  the  bread  that  brake — 


Came  One  that  spake  as   never   mortal 

spake, 
And   with   them   ate,   and   drank,    and 
stood,  and  walked  about? 
Ah?  "  some  "  did  well  to  "  doubt  !  " 
Ah  !  the  true  Christ,  while  these  things 

came  to  pass, 
Nor  heard,   nor  spake,  nor  walked,  nor 
lived,  alas ! 
He  was  not  risen,  no — 
He  lay  and  mouldered  lojv, 
Christ  was  not  risen  ! 

As  circulates  in  some  great  city  crowd 
A    rumor     changeful,     vague,     impor- 
tunate, and  loud, 
From  no  determined  centre  or  of  fact 
Or  authorship  exact, 
Which  no  man  can  deny 

Nor  verify ; 
So  spread  the  wondrous  fame  ; 
He  all  the  same 

Lay  senseless,  mouldering,  low  : 
He  was  not  risen,  no — 
Christ  was  not  risen  1 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 

As  of  the  unjust,  also  of  the  just — 

Yea,  of  that  Just  One,  too  ! 
This  is  the  one  sad  Gospel  that  is  true — 

Christ  is  not  risen  I 

Is  He  not  risen,  and  shall  we  not  rise  ? 

Oh.  we  unwise  ! 
What   did  we  dream,  what  wake  we  to 

discover  ? 
Ye   hills,  fall  on  us,  and   ye   mountains, 
cover ! 
In  darkness  and  great  gloom 
Come  ere  we  thought   it  is  our  day  of 

doom  ; 
From   the   cursed   world,  which  is  one 
tomb, 
Christ  is  not  risen  ! 

Eat,  drink,  and  play,  and  think  that  this 

is  bliss : 
There  is  no  heaven  but  this  ; 

There  is  no  hell, 
Save  earth,  which   serves  the  purpose 
doubly  well, 
Seeing  it  visits  still 
With  equalest  apportionment  of  ill 
Both  good  and  bad  alike,  and  brings  to 
one  same  dust 
The  unjust  and  the  just 
With  Christ,  who  is  not  risen. 

Eat,  drink,  and  die,  for  we  are  souls  be- 
reaved : 


CLOUGH 


697 


Of  all   the   creatures  under  heaven's 

wide  cope 
We  are  most  hopeless,  who  had  once 
most  hope,  [lieved. 

And  most  beliefless,  that   had  most  be- 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust  ; 
As  of  the  unjust,  also  of  the  just — 
Yea,  of  that  Just  One  too  ! 
It  is  the  one  sad  Gospel  that  is  true — 
Christ  is  not  risen  I 

Weep  not  beside  the  tomb, 
Ye  women,  unto  whom  [Him  ; 

He   was   great  solace  while   ye   tended 

Ye  who  with  napkin  o'er  the  head 
And  folds  of  linen  round  each  wounded 
limb 
Laid  out  the  Sacred  Dead  : 
And  thou   that    bar'st    Him  in  thy  won- 
dering womb  ; 
Yea,  Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  depart, 
Bind  up  as  best    ye  may   your  own  sad 
bleeding  heart: 

Go  to  your  homes,  your  living  children 
tend. 
Your  earthly  spouses  love  ; 
Set   your   affections  not  on   things 
above, 
Which   moth   and   rust  corrupt,  which 

quickliest  come  to  end  : 
Or  pray,  if   pray    ye  must,  and    pray,  if 

pray  ye  can. 
For  death  ;  since  dead   is   He  whom  ye 
deemed  more  than  man, 
Who  is  not  risen  :  no — 
But  lies  and  moulders  low — 
Who  is  not  risen  ! 

Ye  men  of  Galilee  ! 
Why   stand   ye   looking  up   to  heaven, 

where  Him  ye  ne'er  may  see, 
Neither  ascending  hence,  nor  returning 
hither  again  ? 
Ye  ignorant  and  idle  fishermen! 
Hence  to  your  huts,  and  boats,  and  in- 
land native  shore, 
And  catch  not  men,  but  fish: 
Whate'er  things  ye  might  wish, 
Him  neither  here  nor  there  ye  e'er  shall 
meet  with  more. 
Ye  poor  deluded  youths,  go  home, 
Mend  the  old  nets  ye  left  to  roam, 
Tie  the  split  oar.  patch  the  torn  sail : 
It  was  indeed  an  "  idle  tale" — 

He  was  not  risen  ! 

And,  oh,  good  men  of  ages  yet  to  be, 
Who  shall   believe  because  ye   did   not 
see — 


Oh,  be  ye  warned,  be  wise  ! 
Nor  more  with  pleading  eyes, 
And  sobs  of  strong  desire, 
Unto  the  empty  vacant  void  aspire, 
Seeking  another  and  impossible  birth 
That  is  not  of  your  own,  and  onpy  mother 

earth. 
But  if  there  is  no  other  life  for  you, 
Sit  down  and  be  content,  since  this  must 
even  do ; 
He  is  not  risen  ! 
One  look,  and  then  depart, 
Ye   humble   and    ye    holy   men   of 
heart : 
And  ye  !  ye  ministers  and  stewards  of  a 

Word 
Which  ye  would  preach,  because  another 
heard — 
Ye  worshippers  of  that  ye  do  not 

know. 
Take  these  things  hence  and  go : — 
He  is  not  risen  ! 

Here,  on  our  Easter  Day 
AVe  rise,  we  come,  and  lo  !  we  find  Him 

not, 
( rardener  nor  other,  on  the  sacred  spot  : 
Where  they  have  laid  Him  there  is  none 

to  say  : 
No  sound,  nor  in,  nor  out — no  word 
Of  where  to  seek  the  dead  or  meet  the 

living  Lord. 
There    is    no   glistering  of    an    angel's 

wings, 
There  is  no  voice  of  heavenly  clear  be- 
hest : 
Let  us  go  hence,  and  think  upon  these 
things 
In  silence,  which  is  best. 
Is  He  not  risen  ?     No — 
But  lies  and  moulders  low? 
Christ  is  not  risen  ? 

EASTER    DAY 


So  in  the  sinful  streets,  abstracted  and 

alone, 
I  with  my  secret  self  held  communing 

of  mine  own. 
So   in   the   southern   city     spake    the 

tongue 
Of  one  that  somewhat  overwildly  sung, 
Bui  in  a  later  hour  1  sat  and   heard 
Another      voice     that      spake — another 

graver  word. 
Weep  not.  it  hade,  whatever  hath  been 

said. 
Though  He  be  dead,  He  is  not  dead. 


698 


BRITISH   POETS 


In  the  true  creed 
He  is  yet  risen  indeed  ; 
Christ  is  yet  risen. 

Weep  not  beside  His  Tomb, 

Ye  women  unto  whom 

He  was  great  comfort  and  yet  greater 

grief  ; 
Nor  ye.  ye  faithful  few  that  wont  witli 

Him  to  roam, 
Seek   sadly    what  for  Him  ye  left,   go 

hopeless  to  your  home  ; 
Nor  ye  despair,  ye  sharers  yet  to  be  of 
their  belief  ; 
Though  He  be  dead,  He  is  not  dead, 
Nor  gone,  though  fled, 
Not  lost,  though  vanished  ; 
Though  He  return  not,  though 
He  lies  and  moulders  low  ; 
In  the  true  creed 
He  is  yet  risen  indeed  ; 
Christ  is  yet  risen. 

Sit  if  ye  will,  sit  down  upon  the  ground, 
Yet  not  to   weep  and  wail,  but  calmly 
look  around. 
Whate'er  befell, 
Earth  is  not  hell ; 
Now,  too,  as  when  it  first  began, 
Life  is  yet  life,  and  man  is  man. 
For  all  that  breathe  beneath  the  heaven's 

high  cope, 
Joy  with  grief  mixes,  with  despondence 

hope. 
Hope  conquers  cowardice,  joy  grief  ; 
Or  at  least,  faith  unbelief. 
Though  dead,  not  dead  ; 
Not  gone,  though  fled  ; 
Not  lost,  though  vanished. 
In  the  great  gospel  and  true  creed, 
He  is  yet  risen  indeed  ; 

Christ  is  yet  risen.     1849.     1869. 

HOPE  EVERMORE   AND   BELIEVE! 

Hope  evermore  and  believe,  O  man,  for 
e'en  as  thy  thought 
So    are   the   things  that  thou  see'st ; 
e'en  as  thy  hope  and  belief. 
Cowardly  art  thou  and  timid  ?  they  rise 
to  provoke  thee  against  them  ; 
Hast  thou  courage  ?  enough,  see  them 
exulting  to  yield. 
Yea,  the  rough  rock,  the  dull  earth,  the 
wild  sea's  furying  waters 
(Violent  say'st  thou  and  hard,  mighty 
thou  think'st  to  destroy), 
All  with  ineffable  longing  are  waiting 
their  Invader, 


All,    with  one  varying  voice,  call  to 

him,  Come  and  subdue  ; 
Still  for  their  Conqueror  call,  and,  but 

lor  the  joy  of  being  conquered 
(Rapture  they  will  not  forego),  dare 

to  resist  and  rebel ; 
Still,  when  resisting  and  raging,  in  soft 

undervoice  say  unto  him, 
Fear  not,   retire   not,   O    man ;   hope 

evermore  and  believe. 

Go  from  the  east  to  the  west,  as  the  sun 
and  the  stars  direct  thee, 
Go  with  the  girdle  of  man,  go  and 
encompass  the  earth. 
Not  for  the  gain  of  the  gold ;  for  the 
getting,  the  hoarding,  the  having, 
But  for  the  joy  of  the  deed  ;  but  for 
the  Duty  to  do. 
Go  with    the   spiritual   life,  the   higher 
volition  and  action, 
With  tlie  great  girdle  of  God,  go  and 
encompass  the  earth. 

Go ;  say  not  in   thy  heart,  And   what 
then  were  it  accomplished, 
Were  the  wild  impulse  allayed,  what 
were  the  use  or  the  good  ! 
Go,   when   the   instinct   is   stilled,   and 
when  the  deed  is  accomplished, 
What  thou  hast   done   and   shalt  do, 
shall  be  declared  to  thee  then. 
Go  with  the  sun  and  the  stars,  and  yet 
evermore  in  thy  spirit 
Say  to  thyself :  It  is  good  :  yet  is  there 
better  than  it. 
This  that  I  see  is  not  all,  and  this  that  I 
do  is  but  little  ; 
Nevertheless  it  is  good,  though  there 
is  better  than  it.  1862. 

QUI  LABORAT,  ORAT 

O  only  Source  of  all   our  light  and  life. 
Whom  as  our  truth,  our  strength,  we 
see  and  feel, 
But  whom   the   hours  of  mortal   moral 
strife 
Alone  aright  reveal ! 

Mine    inmost    soul,   before     Thee    inly 
brought, 
Thy  presence  owns  ineffable,  divine  ; 
Chastised     each     rebel  self -en  centered 
thought, 
My  will  adoreth  Thine. 

With   eye    down-dropped,    if   then   this 
earthly  mind 


CLOUGH 


699 


Speechless  remain,  or  speechless  e'en 
depart  ; 
Nor  seek    to    see — for   what  of   earthly- 
kind 
Can  see  Thee  as  Thon  art?— 

If  well-assured  'tis  but  profanely  bold 
In  thought's  abstractest  forms  to  seem 
to  see, 
It  dare  not  dare  the  dread   communion 
hold 
In  ways  unworthy  Thee, 

O  not    unowned,  thou   shalt    unnamed 
forgive, 
In  worldly  walks  the  prayerless  heart 
prepare ; 
And  if  in  work  its  life  it  seem  to  live, 
Shalt  make  that  work  be  prayer. 

Nor  times  shall  lack,  when   while   the 
work  it  plies, 
Unsummoned  powers  the  blinding  film 
shall  part, 
And  scarce   by  happy  tears  made   dim, 
the  eyes 
In  recognition  start. 

But,  as  thou  wiliest,  give  or  e'en  forbear 

The  beatific  supersensual  sight, 
So,    with    Thy    blessing    blessed,    that 
humbler  prayer 
Approach  Thee  morn  and  night. 

1862. 
u/jlvo?   au/j.vos 

O  Thou  whose  image  in  the  shrine 
Of  human  spirits  dwells  divine  ; 
Which    from    that    precinct   once    con- 
veyed, 
To  be  to  outer  day  displayed, 
Doth  vanish,  part,  and  leave  behind 
Mere  blank  and  void  of  empty  mind, 
Which  wilful  fancy  seeks  in  vain 
With  casual  shapes  to  rill  again  ! 

O  Thou  that  in  our  bosom's  shrine 
Dost  dwell,  unknown  because  divine  ! 
T  thought  bo  speak,  I  thought  to  say, 
"  The  light  is  here,"  "  behold  the  way," 
'•The  voire   was    thus,"    and    "  thus  the 

word," 
And  "  thus  I  saw,"  and  "  that  I  heard." — 
But  from  the  Lips  that  half  essa\  ed 
The  imperfect  utterance  fell  unmade. 

0  Thou,  in  that  mysterious  shrine 
Enthroned,  as  T  must  say,  divine  ! 

1  will  not  frame  one  thought  of  what 
Thou  mavest  either  he  or  not. 


I  will  not  prate  of  "  thus  "  and  ■'  so," 
And  be  profane  with  "  yes"  and  "  no," 
Enough  that  in  our  soul  and  heart 
Thou,  whatsoe'er  Thou  may'st  be,  art. 

Unseen,  secure  in  that  high  shrine 
Acknowledged  present  and  divine, 
I  will  not  ask  some  upper  air, 
Some  future  day  to  place  Thee  there  ; 
Nor  say,  nor  yet  deny,  such  men 
And  women  saw  Thee  thus  and  then  : 
Thy  name  was  such,  and  there  or  here 
To  him  or  her  Thou  didst  appear. 

Do  only  Thou  in  that  dim  shrine, 
Unknown  or  known,  remain,  divine  ; 
There,  or  if  not,  at  least  in  eyes 
That  scan  the  fact  that  round  them  lies, 
The  hand  to  sway,  the  judgment  guide, 
In  sight  and  sense  Thyself  divide  : 
Be  Thou  but  there, — in  soul  and  heart, 
I  will  not  ask  to  feel  Thou  art.       1862. 

"THROUGH   A  GLASS  DARKLY" 

What  we,  when  face  to  face  we  see 
The  Father  of  our  souls,  shall  be, 
John  tells  us,  doth  not  yet  appear  ; 
Ah  1  did  he  tell  what  we  are  here  ! 

A  mind  for  thoughts  to  pass  into, 
A  heart  for  loves  to  travel  through, 
Five  senses  to  detect  things  near, 
Is  this  the  whole  that  we  are  here  ? 

Rules  baffle  instincts — instincts  rules, 
Wise  men  are  bad — and  good  are  fools, 
Facts  evil — wishes  vain  appear, 
We  cannot  go,  why  are  we  here? 

O  may  we  for  assurance'  sake, 
Some  arbitrary  judgment  take, 
And  wilfully  pronounce  it  clear, 
For  this  or  that  'tis  we  are  here  ? 

Or  is  it  right,  and  will  it  do, 
To  pace  the  sad  confusion  through. 
And  say  : — -It  doth  not  yet  appear, 
What  we  shall  be,  what  we  are  here? 

Ah  yet.  when  all  is  thought  and  said, 
The  heart  still  overrules  the  head  ; 
Still  what  we  hope  we  must  believe, 
A  ml  what  is  given  us  receive  ; 

Must  still  believe,  for  still  we  hope 
That  in  a  world  of  larger  scope, 
What  here  is  faithfully  begun 
Will  be  completed,  not  undone. 


700 


BRITISH   POETS 


My  child,  we  still  must  think,  when  we 

That  ampler  life  together  see, 

Some  true  result  will  yet  appear 

Of  what  we  are,  together,  here.        1862. 

AH!  YET   CONSIDER   IT  AGAIN! 

"  Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true," 
O  brother  men.  nor  yet  the  new  ; 
Ah  !  still  awhile  the  old  thought  retain, 
And  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

The  souls  of  now  two  thousand  years 
Have  laid  up  here  their  toils  and  fears, 
And  all  the  earnings  of  their  pain, — 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

We !  what  do  we  see  ?  each  a  space 
Of  some  few  yards  before  his  face  ; 
Does  that  the  whole  wide  plan  explain  ? 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

Alas  !  the  great  world  goes  its  way, 
And  takes  its  truth  from  each  new  day  ; 
They  do  not  quit,  nor  can  retain, 
Far  less  consider  it  again.       1851.     1862. 

SONGS  IN  ABSENCE 

Come  home,  come  home  !  and  where   is 

home  for  me,  [sea  ? 

Whose  ship  is  driving  o'er  the  trackless 

To  the   frail  bark   here  plunging   on  its 

way. 
To  the  wild  waters,  shall  I  turn  and  say 
To  the  plunging  bark,  or  to   the  salt  sea 
foam, 
You  are  my  home  ? 

Fields   once  I  walked   in,  faces  once  I 
knew, 

Familiar  things  so  old  my  heart  believed 
them  true, 

These  far,  far  back,  behind   me   lie,  be- 
fore 

The  dark  clouds  mutter,  and   the  deep 
seas  roar, 

And  speak  to  them  that  'neath  and  o'er 
them  roam 

No  words  of  home. 

Beyond  the  clouds,  beyond  the   waves 

that  roar, 
There  may  indeed,  or  may  not  be  a  shore, 
Where   fields  as   green,  and   hands   and 

hearts  as  true, 
The  old  forgotten  semblance  may  renew, 
And  offer  exiles  driven  far  o'er   the  salt 

sea  foam 

Another  home. 


But  toil  and  pain  must  wear  out  many  a 

day, 
And   days  bear  weeks,  and   weeks  bear 

months  away, 
Ere,  if  at  all,  the  weary  traveller  hear, 
With  accents  whispered  in  his  wayworn 

ear, 
A  voice  he  dares  to  listen  to,  say,  Come 
To  thy  true  home. 

Come  home,  come   home  !  and  where   a 
home  hath  he  [sea  ? 

Whose  ship   is  driving  o'er  the   driving 
Through   clouds   that   mutter,  and   o'er 
waves  that  roar,  [shore 

Say,   shall  we  find,  or  shall  we  not,   a 
That  is,  as  is  not  ship  or  ocean  foam, 

Indeed  our  home  ?     1852.     1802. 


Green  fields  of  England  !  wheresoe'er 
Across  this  watery  waste  we  fare, 
Your  image  at  our  hearts  we  bear, 
Green  fields  of  England,  everywhere. 

Sweet  eyes  in  England,  I  must  flee 
Past  where  the  waves'  last  confines  be, 
Ere  your  loved  smile  I  cease  to  see, 
Sweet  eyes  in  England,  dear  to  me. 

Dear  home  in  England,  safe  and  fast 
If  but  in  thee  my  lot  lie  cast, 
The  past  shall  seem  a  nothing  past 
To  thee,  dear  home,  if  won  at  last  ; 
Dear  home  in  England,  won  at  last. 

1852.     1862. 


Come  back,    come   back  !    behold   with 

straining  mast 
And  swelling  sail,  behold   her  steaming 

fast  ; 
With  one  new  sun  to  see  her  voyage  o'er. 
With  morning  light  to  touch  her  native 

shore. 
Come  back  !  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back  !  while  westward 

laboring  by, 
With   sailless  yards,    a  bare   black  hulk 

we  fly. 
See  how  the  gale  we  fight  with  sweeps 

her  back, 
To  our  lost  home,  on  our  forsaken  track. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back  !  across  the  fly 

ing  foam. 
We  hear  faint  far-off  voices  call  us  home  : 


CLOUGH 


701 


Come  back,  ye  seem  to  say  ;  ye  seek  in 

vain  ; 
We   went,    we   sought,   and   homeward 

turned  agaiu. 

Come  back,  come  back. 

Come   back,   come   back ;   and   whither 

back  or  why  ? 
To  fan  quenched  hopes,  forsaken  schemes 

to  try  ; 
Walk  the  old  fields  ;  pace  the  familiar 

street  ; 
Dream  with   the  idlers,  with  the  bards 

compete. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back  ;  and  whither 
and  for  what  ? 

To  finger  idly  some  old  Gordian  knot, 

Unskilled  to  sunder,  and  too  weak  to 
cleave, 

And    with    much    toil   attain    to    half- 
believe. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back ;  yea  back,  in- 
deed, do  go 

Sighs  panting  thick,  and  tears  that  want 
'to  flow  ; 

Fond  fluttering  hopes  upraise  their  use- 
less wings, 

And  wishes  idly  struggle  in  the  strings  ; 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back,  more  eager  than 

the  breeze, 
The  flying  fancies  sweep  across  the  seas, 
And  lighter  far  than  ocean's  flying  foam, 
The  heart's  fond  message  hurries  to  its 

home. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back  ! 

Back  flies  the  foam  ;  the  hoisted  flag 
streams  back  ; 

The  long  smoke  wavers  on  the  home- 
ward track, 

Back  fly  with  winds  things  which  the 
winds  obey, 

The  strong  ship  follows  its  appointed 
way.  1852.     1862. 


SOME  future  day  when  what  is  now  is 
not,  [got, 

When  all  old   faults  and   follies  are  for- 

And  thoughts  of  difference  passed  like 
dreams  away, 

We'll  meet  again,  upon  some  future 
day. 


When  all  that  hindered,  all  that  vexed 

our  love, 
As  tall  rank  weeds  will  climb  the  blade 

above, 
When  all  but  it  has  yielded  to"  decay, 
Well  meet  again  upon  some  future  day. 

When   we    have  proved,   each    on   his 

course  alone, 
The   wider   world,  and   learned   what's 

now  unknown, 
Have  made  life  clear,  and  worked  out 

each  a  way, 
We'll  meet  again, — we  shall  have  much 

to  say. 

With  happier  mood,  and  feelings  born 
anew, 

Our  boyhood's  bygone  fancies  we'll  re- 
view, [play, 

Talk  o'er  old  talks,  play  as  we  used  to 

And  meet  again,  on  many  a  future  day. 

Some  day,  which  oft  our  hearts  shall 
yearn  to  see,  [be, 

In  some  far  year,  though  distant  yet  to 

Shall  we  indeed, — ye  winds  and  waters, 
say  ! — 

Meet  yet  again,  upon  some  future  day  ? 
1852.     1862. 


Where  lies  the  land  to  which   the   ship 

would  go? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels   from? 

Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth 

lace, 

Linked  arm  in  arm,  how   pleasant   here 

to  pace  ; 
Or,  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  north- 
westers rave, 

How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind 
and  wave ! 

The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 

Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land   to    which    the    ship 

would  go  ? 
Far.  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she   travels  from? 

Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  sav 
1852.     1862.' 


702 


BRITISH    POETS 


Were  you  with  me,  or  I  with  you. 
There's  nought,  methinks,   I  might  not 

do; 
Could  venture  here,  and  venture  there, 
And  never  fear,  nor  ever  care. 

To  tilings  before,  and  things  behind, 
Could  turn  my  thoughts,  and   turn  my 

mind, 
On  this  and  that,  day  after  day, 
Could  dare  to  throw  myself  away. 

Secure,  when  all  was  o'er,  to  find 
My  proper  thought,  my  perfect  mind, 
And  unimpaired  receive  anew 
My  own  and  better  self  in  you. 

1853.     1862. 


0  SHIP,  ship,  ship, 

That  travellest  over  the  sea, 
What  are  the  tidings,  I  pray  thee, 

Thou  bearest  hither  to  me  ? 

Are  they  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy, 
That  shall  make  me  seem  to  see 

The  sweet  lips  softly  moving 
And  whispering  love  to  me? 

Or  are  they  of  trouble  and  grief, 
Estrangement,  sorrow,  and  doubt, 

To  turn  into  torture  my  hopes, 
And  drive  me  from  Paradise  out  ? 

O  ship,  ship,  ship, 

That  comest  over  the  sea, 
Whatever  it  be  thou  bringest, 

Come  quickly  with  it  to  me. 

1853.     1869. 

THE  STREAM   OF  LIFE 

O  stream  descending  to  the  sea, 
Thy  mossy  banks  between, 

The  flow'rets  blow,  the  grasses  grow, 
The  leafy  trees  are  green. 

In  garden  plots  the  children  play, 

The  fields  the  laborers  till, 
And  houses  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  thou  descendest  still. 

O  life  descending  into  death, 

Our  waking  eyes  behold, 
Parent  and  friend  thy  lapse  attend, 

Companions  young  and  old. 

Strong  piirposes  our  mind  possess, 

Our  hearts  affections  fill, 
We  toil  and  earn,  we  seek  and  learn, 

And  thou  descendest  stilf. 


0  end  to  which  our  currents  tend, 
Inevitable  sea, 

To  which  we  flow,  what  do  we  know, 
What  shall  we  guess  of  thee? 

A  roar  we  hear  upon  thy  shore, 

As  we  our  course  fulfil  ; 
Scarce  we  divine  a  sun  will  shine 

And  be  above  us  still.  1862. 

"WITH  WHOM  IS   NO  VARIABLE 

NESS,   NEITHER   SHADOW   OF 

TURNING  " 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know 
That,  though  I  perish,  Truth  is  so  : 
That,  howsoe'er  I  stray  and  range, 
Whate'er  I  do,  Thou  dost  not  change. 

1  steadier  step  when  I  recall 

That,  if  I  slip,  Thou  dost  not  fall.  1862. 

ITE  DOMUM  SATURiE,   VENIT 
HESPERUS 

The  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper 

snow 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 

LaPalie), 
The  rainy  clouds  are  filing  fast  below, 
And  wet  will  be  the  path,  and  wet  shall 

we. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,   Provence  and 

La  Palie. 

Ah  dear,  and  where  is  he,  a  year  agone, 
Who  stepped  beside  and  cheered  us  on 

and  on  ? 
My  sweetheart  wanders  far  away  from 

me, 
In  foreign  land  or  on  a  foreign  sea. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 

La  Palie. 

The  lightning  zigzags  shoot  across  the 

sky 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 

LaPalie), 
And     through    the    vale   the    rains    go 

sweeping  by  ; 
Ah  me,  and  when  in  shelter  shall  we  be? 
Home,  Rose,   and  home,    Provence  and 

La  Palie. 

Cold,  dreary  cold,  the  stormy  winds  feel 

they 
O'er  foreign  lands  and  foreign   seas  that 

stray 
(Home.  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 

La  Palie). 


CLOUGH 


7°3 


And  doth  he  e'er,  I  wonder,  bring  to 
mind 

The  pleasant  huts  and  herds  he  left  be- 
hind ? 

And  doth  he  sometimes  in  his  slumbering 
see 

The  feeding  kine,  and  doth  he  think  of 
me, 

My  sweetheart  wandering  whereso'er  it 
be? 

Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 
La  Palie. 

The  thunder  bellows  far  from  snow  to 
snow 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 
La  Palie), 

And  loud  and  louder  roars  the  flood  be- 
low. 

Heigho  !  but  soon  in  shelter  shall  we  be  : 

Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 
La  Palie), 

Or  shall  he  find  before  his  term  be  sped, 
Some  comelier  maid  that  he  shall  wish 

to  wed  ? 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 

La  Palie.) 
For  weary  is  work,  and  weary  day  by  day 
To  have  your    comfort  miles  on   miles 

away. 
Home.  Rose,  and  home,   Provence  and 

La  Palie. 

Or  may  it  be  that  I  shall   find  my  mate, 
And  he  returning  see  himself  too  late  ? 
For  work  we  must,  and  what  we  see,  we 

see, 
And  God  he  knows,  and  what  must  be, 

must  be 
When  sweethearts    wander  far    away 

from  me. 
Home,  Rose,   and  home,  Provence  and 

La  Palie. 

The  sky  behind  is   brightening  up  anew 
(Home,  Rose,  and   home,  Provence  and 

La  Palie), 
The  rain  is  ending,  and  our  journey  too  : 
Heigho  !  aha  !  for  here  at  home  are  we  : — 
In,  Rose,  and  in,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 

1863. 

CURRENTE   CALAMO 

Quick,  painter,  quick,  the  moment  seize 
Amid  the  snowy  Pyrenees; 
More  evanescenl  than  the  snow. 

The  pictures  conic,  are  scon,  and  go: 
Quick,  quick,  <■  ur rente  calamo. 


I  do  not  ask  the  tints  that  fill 
The  gate  of  day  'twixt  hill  and  hill  ; 
I  ask  not  for  the  hues  that  fleet 
Above  the  distant  peaks  ;  my  feet 
Are  on  a  poplar-bordered  road. 
Where  with  a  saddle  and  a  load 
A  donkey,  old  and  ashen-gray, 
Reluctant  works  his  dusty  way. 
Before  him,  still  with  might  and  main 
Pulling  his  rope,  the  rustic  rein, 
A  girl  :  before  both  him  and  me, 
Frequent  she  turns  and  lets  me  see, 
Unconscious,  lets  me  scan  and  trace 
The  sunny  darkness  of  her  face 
And  outlines  full  of  southern  grace. 

Following  I  notice,  yet  and  yet, 
Her  olive  skin,  dark  eyes  deep  set. 
And  black,  and  blacker  e'en  than  jet, 
The  escaping  hair  that  scantly  showed, 
Since  o'er  it  in  the  country  mode, 
For  winter  warmth  and  summer  shade. 
The  lap  of  scarlet  cloth  is  laid. 
And  then,  back-falling  from  the  head, 
A  crimson  kerchief  overspread 
Her  jacket  blue  ;  thence  passing  down, 
A  skirt  of  darkest  yellow-brown, 
Coarse  stuff,  allowing  to  the  view 
The  smooth  limb  to  the  woollen  shoe. 

But  who — here  's  some  one  following 
too, — 
A  priest,  and  reading  at  his  book! 
Read  on,  O  priest,  and  do  not  look  ; 
Consider, — she  is  but  a  child, — 
Yet  might  your  fancy  be  beguiled. 
Read  on,  O  priest,  and  pass  and  go  ! 
But  see,  succeeding  in  a  row, 
Two,  three,  and  four,  a  motley  train, 
Musicians  wandering  back  to  Spain  ; 
With  fiddle  and  with  tambourine, 
A  man  with  women  following  seen. 
What  dresses,  ribbon  ends,  and  flowers  ! 
And, —  sight  to  wonder  at  for  hours, — 
The  man, — to  Phillip  has  he  sat? — 
With  butterfly-like  velvet  hat  ; 
One  dame  his  big  bassoon  conveys, 
On  one  Ins  gentle  arm  he  lavs  ; 
They  stop,  and  look,  and  something  say, 
And  to  "  Espafia"  ask  the  way. 

But   while  I  speak,   and   point   then? 
on, 
Alas  !  my  dearer  friends  are  gone  ; 
The  dark-eyed  maiden  and  the  ass 
Have  had  the  time  the  bridge  to  pass. 
Vainly,  beyond  it  far  descried, 
Allien,  and  peace  with  you  abide, 
( i-i'ay  donkey,  and  your  beauteous  guide 

The  pictures  Come,  t  lie  pictures  go, 

Quick,  quick,  currente  calamo. 

From  Mart  Magno,  1862. 


7°4 


BRITISH  POETS 


COME,  POET,  COME! 

Come.  Poet,  come  i 
A  thousand  laborers  ply  their  task, 
And  \\  hal  it  tends  to  scarcely  ask. 
And  trembling  thinkers  on  the  brink 
Shiver,  and  know  not  how  to  think. 
To  tell  the  purport  of  their  pain, 
And  what  our  .silly  joys  contain  ; 
In  lasting  lineaments  portray 
The  substance  of  the  shadowy  day  ; 
Our  real  and  inner  deeds  rehearse, 
And  make  our  meaning  clear  in  verse: 
Come,  Poet,  come  !  for  but  in  vain 
We  do  the  work  or  feel  the  pain, 
And  gather  up  the  seeming  gain, 
Unless  before  the  end  thou  come 
To  take,  ere  they  are  lost,  their  sum. 

Come,  Poet,  come  ! 
To  give  an  utterance  to  the  dumb, 
And  make  vain  babblers  siient,  conic  ; 
A  thousand  dupes  point  here  and  there, 
Bewildered  by  the  show  and  glare  ; 
And    wise    men    half    have   learned   to 

doubt 
Whether  we  are  not  best  without. 
Come,  Poet ;  both  but  wait  to  see 
Their  error  proved  to  them  in  thee. 

Come,  Poet,  come ! 

In  vain  I  seem  to  call.     And  yet 

Think  not  the  living  times  forget. 

Ages  of  heroes  fought  and  fell 

That  Homer  in  the  end  might  tell ; 

O'er  grovelling  generations  past 

Upstood  the  Doric  fane  at  last ; 

And  countless  hearts  on  countless  years 

Had  wasted  thoughts,   and  hopes,  and 

fears, 
Rude  laughter  and  unmeaning  tears, 
Ere  England  Shakespeare  saw,  or  Rome 
The  pure  perfection  of  her  dome. 
Others,  I  doubt  not,  if  not  we, 
The  issue  of  our  toils  shall  see  ; 
Young  children  gather  as  their  own 
The  harvest  that  the  dead  had  sown, 
The  dead  forgotten  and  unknown. 

1862. 

THE  HIDDEN  LOVE 

O  let  me  love  my  love  unto  myself  alone. 

And  know  my  knowledge  to  the  world 
unknown  ; 

No  witness  to  my  vision  call, 

Beholding,  unbeheld  of  all  ; 

And  worship  Thee,  with  Thee  with- 
drawn apart, 


Whoe'er,  Whate'er  Thou  art, 
Within  the  closest  veil  of  mine  own   in- 
most heart. 

What  is  it  then  to  me 

[f  o1  hers  are  inquisitive  to  see  ? 

Why  should  1  quit  my  place   to  go  and 

ask 
If  other  men  are  working  at  their  task  ? 
Leave  my  own  buried  roots  to  go 
And  see  that  brother  plants  shall  grow  ; 
And  turn  away  from  Thee,  O  Thou  most 

Holy  Light 
To  look  if  other  orbs  their  orbits   keep 

aright, 
Around  their  proper  sun, 
Deserting  Thee,  and  being  undone. 

O  let  me  love  mv  love  unto  myself  alone, 
And  know  my  knowledge  to  the   world 

unknown  ; 
And  worship  Thee,  O  hid  One,  O   much 

sought, 
As  but  man  can  or  ought, 
Within  the  abstracted'st   shrine   of   my 

least  breathed  on  thought. 

Better  it  were,  thou  saj^est,  to  consent ; 

Feast  while  we  may,  and  live  ere  life  be 
.     spent ; 

Close  up  clear  eyes,  and  call  the  un- 
stable sure, 

The  unlovely  lovely,  and  the  filthy  pure  ; 

In  self-belyings,  self-deceivings  roll, 

And  lose  in  Action,  Passion,  Talk,  the 
soul. 

Nay,  better  far  to  mark  off  thus   much 

air, 
And  call    it  Heaven :    place  bliss  and 

glory  there  ;  [sky, 

Fix  perfect  homes  in  the   unsubstantial 
And  say,  what  is  not,  will  be  by-and-bye. 

1869. 

PERCHE  PENS  A  ?  PENSANDO  S'  IN' 
VECCHIA 

To  spend  uncounted  years  of  pain, 

Again,  again,  and  yet  .again, 

In  working  out  in  heart  and  brain 

The  problem  of  our  being  here ; 
To  gather  facts  from  far  and  near, 
Upon  the  mind  to  hold  them  clear, 
And,  knowing  more  may  yet  appear, 
Unto  one's  latest  breath  to  fear, 
The  premature  result  to  draw — 
Is  this  the  object,  end  and  law. 

And  purpose  of  our  being  here? 

1869. 


CLOUGH 


7°5 


LIFE  IS  STRUGGLE 

To    wear  out   heart,    and    nerves,   and 
brain, 

And  give  oneself  a  world  of  pain  ; 
Be  eager,  angry,  fierce,  and  hot, 
Imperious,  supple — God  knows  what, 
For  what's  all  one  to  have  or  not  ; 
O  false,  unwise,  absurd,  and  vain  ! 
For  'tis  not  joy.  it  is  not  gain, 
It  is  not  in  itself  a  bliss, 
Only  it  is  precisely  this 
That  keeps  us  all  alive. 

To  say  we  truly  feel  the  pain, 
And  quite  are  sinking  with  the  strain  ; — 
Entirely,  simply,  undeceived, 
Believe,  and  say  we  ne'er  believed 
The  object,  e'en  were  it  achieved, 
A  thing  we  e'er  had  cared  to  keep  ; 
With  heart  and  soul  to  hold  it  cheap, 
And  then  to  go  and  try  it  again  ; 
O  false,  unwise,  absurd,  and  vain  ! 
O.  'tis  not  joy,  and  'tis  not  bliss, 
Only  it  is  precisely  this 

That  keeps  us  still  alive.  1869. 

SONNETS    ON    THE    THOUGHT    OF 
DEATH 

If  it  is  thou  whose  casual   hand  with- 
draws 
What  it  at  first  as  casually  did  make. 
Say  what  amount  of  ages  it  will  take 
With  tardy  rare  concurrences  of  laws, 
And  subtle  multiplicities  of  cause, 
The  thing  they  once  had   made  us  to  re- 
make ;  [awake, 
May  hopes  dead  slumbering  dare  to  re- 
E'en  after  utmost  interval  of  pause, 
What  revolutions  must  have  passed,  be- 
fore 
The  great  celestial  cycles  shall  restore 
The  starry  sign    whose   present   hour   is 

ne  ; 
What  worse  than  dubious  chances  inter- 
pose, [pose 
With  cloud  and  sunny  gleam  to  recom- 
Tlie  skiey  picture  we  had  gazed  upon. 


But  if  as  not  by  that  the  soul  desired 
Swayed  in    the    judgment,    wisest    men 

have  thoUghl 
Ami  furnishing  the  evidence  it  sought, 
Man's  heart  hath  ever  ferveni  ly  required, 
And  story,  for  that   reason   deemed   in- 
spired, 

45 


To    every    clime,    in    every  age,    hath 

taught ; 
If  in  this  human  complex  there  be  aught 
Not  lost  in  death,  as  not  in  birth  acquired, 
O  then,  though   cold   the   lips   that   did 

convey 
Rich  freights  of  meaning,  dead  each  liv- 
ing sphere 
Where  thought  abode,   and   fancy  loved 

to  play, 
Thou  yet.  we  think,  somewhere  somehow 

still  art, 
And  satisfied  with  that  the  patient  heart 
The  where  and  how   doth   not  desire   to 
hear.  1869. 

IN  A  LONDON  SQUARE 

Put  forth  thy  leaf,  thou  lofty  plane, 

East  wind  and  frost  are  safely  gone  ; 
With  zephyr  mild  and  balmy  rain 

The  summer  comes  serenely  on  ; 
Earth,  air,  and  sun  and  skies  combine 

To  promise  all  that's  kind  and  fair  : — 
But  thou,  O  human  heart  of  mine, 

Be  still,  contain  thyself,  and  bear. 

December  days  were  brief  and  chill, 
The  winds  of   March   were   wild   and 
drear, 
And.  nearing  and  receding  still. 
Spring  never   would,  we   thought,   be 
here. 
The  leaves  that  burst,  the  suns  that  shine, 
Had.  not  theless,  theircertain  date  : — 
And  thou.  O  human  heart  of  mine, 
Be  still,    refrain    thyself,    and    wait. 

1869. 

ALL  IS   WELL 

Whate'f.r     you     dream,     with     doubt 

possessed. 
Keep,  keep  it  snug  within  your  breast. 
And  lay  you  down  and  take  your  rest  ; 
Forget  in  sleep  the  doubt  and  pain, 
And  when  you  wake,  to  work  a.^ain. 
The  wind  it  blows,  the  vessel  goes, 
And  where  and  whither,  no  one  knows. 

'Twill  all  he  well :  no  need  of  care  ; 
Though   how  it    will,    and    when,    and 

where, 
We  cannot  see,  and  can't  declare. 
In  spite  of  dreams,  in  spite  of  thought, 
"i'is  not  in  vain,  and  not  for  nought, 
The  wind  it  blows,  the  ship  it  goes, 
Though   where    and     whither,   no     one 

knows.  1869. 


ARNOLD 

LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

Editions 

Complete  Works,  14  volumes ;  Poetical  Works,  3  volumes  ;  Poetical 
Works,  Globe  Edition,  1  volume ;  Selected  Poems  (Golden  Treasury 
Series),  The  Macmillan  Co.     Letters,  2  volumes,  see  below. 

Biography 

*  Letters  of  Matthew  Arnold,  edited  by  G.  W.  E.  Russell,  2  volumes, 
1895.  Fitch  (Joshua),  Thomas  and  Matthew  Arnold  (Great  Educators 
Series).  Thorne  (W.  IT.),  Life  of  Matthew  Arnold,  1887.  *Garnett 
(R.),  Arnold,  in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography.  Saintsbury- 
(George),  Life  of  Matthew  Arnold  (Modern  English  Writers),  1899.  Pail 
(H.  W.),  Matthew  Arnold  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series),  1902.  Russell 
(G.  W.  E.),  Matthew  Arnold  (Literary  Lives),  1904. 

Reminiscences  and  Early  Criticism 

Farrar  (F.  W.),  Men  I  Have  Known.  Clougii  (A.  H.),  Prose  Remains 
(originally  in  the  North  American  Review,  July,  1853).  *  Roscoe  (W.  C), 
Poems  and  Essays,  Vol.  II.;  The  Classical  School  of  English  Poetry,  Mat- 
thew Arnold,  1859.  *  Swinburne,  Essays  and  Studies  :  Matthew  Arnold's 
New  Poems  (Originally  in  the  Fortnightly  Review,  October,  1867).  For- 
man  (II.  R),  Our  Living  Poets  :  Matthew  Arnold  (Originally  in  Tinsley's 
Magazine,  September,  1868).  Austin  (Alfred),  The  Poetry  of  the  Period 
(Originally  in  Temple  Bar,  August  and  September,  1869).  Whipple 
(E.  P.),  Recollections  :  Matthew  Arnold,  1887. 

Later  Criticism 

Birkf.ll  (Augustine),  Res  Judicata;  Papers  and  Essays.  Burroughs 
(John),  The  Light  of  Day  :  Spiritual  Insight  of  Matthew  Arnold.  Dow- 
den  (Edward),  Transcripts  and  Studies.  GarnETT  (Richard),  Essays  of 
an  Ex- Librarian.  *  Gates  (L.  E.),  Three  Studies  in  Literature.  Gates 
(L.  E.),  Studies  and  Appreciations :  The  Return  to  Conventional  Life. 
Harrison   (Frederic),    The    Choice    of    Books.      Harrison     (Frederic), 

706 


ARNOLD  707 

Tennyson,  Ruskin,  Mill,  and  Other  Literary  Estimates.  Henley 
(W.  E.),  Views  and  Reviews.  Hudson  (W.  IL),  Studies  in  Interpre- 
tation. *  Hutton  (R.  H.),  Literary  Essays.  Modern  Guides  of  English 
Thought  in  Matters  of  Faith.  Mustard  (W.  P.),  Homeric  Echoes  in 
Matthew  Arnold's  Balder.  Nencioni  (E.),  Letteratura  inglese.  Oli- 
phant  (Margaret),  Victorian  Age  of  English  Literature.  Paul  (H.  W.), 
Men  and  Letters:  Matthew  Arnold's  Letters.  Saintsbury  (George),  Cor- 
rected Impressions.  *  Stedman  (E.  C),  Victorian  Poets.  Stephen  (Les- 
lie), Studies  of  a  Biographer.  Traill  (H.  D.),  New  Fiction  and  Other 
Essays  on  Literary  Subjects.  White  (G.),  Matthew  Arnold  and  the 
Spirit  of  the  Age.*     Woodberry  (G.  E.),  Makers  of  Literature. 

Cheney  (J.  V.),  The  Golden  Guess.  Dawson  (W.  IL),  Matthew  Arnold 
and  His  Relation  to  the  Thought  of  Our  Time.  Dawson  (W.  J.),  Makers 
of  English  Poetry.  Dixon  (W.  M.),  English  Poetry:  Blake  to  Browning. 
Duff  (M.  E.  G.),  Out  of  the  Past.  Galton  (A.),  Urbana  Scripta.  *  Gal- 
tox  (A.),  Two  Essays  on  Matthew  Arnold,  with  Some  of  His  Letters  to 
the  Author.  MacArthur  (Henry),  Realism  and  Romance.  Nadal 
(E.  S.),  Essays  at  Home  and  Elsewhere.  Selkirk  (J.  B.),  Ethics  and 
./Esthetics  of  Modern  Poetry:  Modern  Creeds  and  Modern  Poetry.  Sharp 
(Amy),  Victorian  Poets.  Stearns  (F.  P.),  Sketches  from  Concord  and 
Appledore.     S  wax  wick  (A.),  Poets  the  Interpreters  of  Their  Age. 

Tributes  in  Verse 

Bourdillon  (F.  W.),  Sursum  Corda:  To  Matthew  Arnold  in  America. 
Shairp  (J.  O),  Glen  d'Esseray  and  Other  Poems:  Balliol  Scholars,  1840- 
1843.     Truman  (Joseph),  Afterthoughts:  Laleham,  a  Poem. 

Bibliography 
*  Smart  (Thomas  B.),  The  Bibliography  of  Matthew  Arnold,  1892. 

Addenda,  1999 

Criticism:  —  *  Brooke  (S.  A.),  Four  Victorian  Poets,  1908.  Dixon 
(J.  M.),  in  Modern  Poets  and  Christian  Teaching,  Vol.  II,  1906.  *  Dow- 
den  (Edward),  in  Chambers's  New  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature, 
Vol.  Ill,  new  edition,  1904.  Fuller  (Edward).  Arnold,  Newman,  and 
Rossetti;  in  the  Critic,  Sept.,  1904.  Garnett  (R.),  Matthew  Arnold;  in 
the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  Supplement,  Vol.  Ill,  1903. 
*  Huttox  (R.  H.),  Brief  Literary  Criticisms,  1906  (five  essays). 
Mackie  (Alexander),  Nature  Knowledge  in  Modern  Poets,  1906.  Payne 
(W.  M.),  The  Greater  English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907. 
Robertson  (J.  M.),  Modern  Humanists,  1891.  Sidgwtck  (Henry),  Mis- 
cellaneous Essays  and  Addresses,  1905.  *Waeeen  (T.  Herbert),  Essays 
of  Puets  and  Poetry,  Ancient  and  Modern,  1909. 

Tributes  in  Verse:  —  Fanshawe  (Reginald),  Corydon;  An  Elegy  in 
Memory  of  Matthew  Arnold  and  Oxford,  1906.  Robinson  (E.  A.),  The 
Children  of  the  Night:  For  Some  Poems  of  Matthew  Arnold. 


ARNOLD 


QUIET  WORK 

One  lesson,  Nature,  let  me  learn  of  thee, 
One   lesson    which    in    every    wind    is 

blown, 
One  lesson  of  two  duties  kept  at  one 
Though  the  loud    world   proclaim  their 

enmity — 
Of  toil  unsever'd  from  tranquillity! 
Of  labor,  that  in   lasting  fruit  outgrows 
Far    noisier    schemes,  accomplish'd    in 

repose, 
Too  great  for  haste,  too  high  for  rivalry  ! 
Yes,  while  on  earth  a  thousand  discords 

ring, 
Man's   fitful   uproar   mingling   with  his 

toil, 
Still  do  thy  sleepless  ministers  move  on, 
Their  glorious  tasks  in   silence   perfect- 
ing ; 
Still   working,    blaming    still  our  vain 

turmoil. 
Laborers  that   shall  not  fail,  when  man 

is  gone.  1849. 

TO    A  FRIEND 

Who   prop,   thou    ask'st,    in   these   bad 

days,  my  mind? — 
He   much,  the  old   man,  who,  clearest- 

soul'd  of  men, 
Saw  The  Wide  Prospect,  and  the  Asian 

Fen, 
And    Tmolus    hill,    and    Smyrna    bay, 

though  blind. 
Much   lie,    whose   friendship  I  not  long 

since  won, 
That  halting  slave,  who  in  Nicopolis 
Taught  Arrian,  when  Vespasian's  brutal 

son 
Clear'd  Rome  of  what  most  shamed  him. 

But  be  his 
My  special  thanks,  whose  even-balanced 

soul, 
From  first   youth   tested  up  to  extreme 

old  age, 


Business  could   not   make  dull,  nor  pas- 
sion wild  ; 
Who  saw  life  steadily,  and  saw  it  whole  ; 
The  mellow  glory  of  the  Attic  stage, 
Singer  of  sweet  Colonus,  and  its  child, 

1849. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Others  abide  our  question.  Thou  art 
free. 

We  ask  and  ask — Thou  smilest  and  art 
still, 

Out-topping  knowledge.  For  the  lofti- 
est hill, 

Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty,  . 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the 
sea, 

Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwell- 
ing-place, 

Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 

To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality  ; 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sun- 
beams know, 

Self-scbooPd,  self-scann'd,  self-honor'd, 
self- sec  ure, 

Didst  tread  on  earth  unguess'd  at. — 
Better  so ! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must 
endure. 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs 
which  bow, 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious 
brow.  1849. 

THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away; 
Down  and  away  below  ! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow  ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray 
( Children  dear,  let  us  away  ! 
This  way,  this  way  1 


7o8 


ARNOLD 


709 


Call  her  once  before  you  go — 

Call  once  yet ! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know : 

•'  Margaret  !     Margaret  !  " 

Children's  voices  should  be  dear 

(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear  ; 

Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain — 

Surely  she  will  come  again  ! 

Call  her  once  and  come  away  ; 

This  way.  this  way  ! 

"Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay  ! 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 

Margaret !  Margaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down  ; 
Call  no  more  ! 

One  last  look  at  the  white-wall'd  town. 
And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy 

shore, 
Then  come  down  ! 
She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all 

day  : 
Come  away,  come  away  ! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

We    heard    the    sweet    bells    over    the 

bay? 
In  the  caverns  where  we  lay. 
Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep  ; 
Where    the    spent    lights     quiver    and 

gleam. 
Where    the   salt    weed    sways     in     the 

strea  tn , 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round. 
Feed     in     the    ooze    of    their     pasture- 
ground  ; 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine  ; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshul  eye, 
Round  the  world  forever  and  aye? 
When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once]  that  she  went  away? 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  1  he 

sea, 
And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 
She    comb'd     its    bright    hair,   and    she 

tended  it  well. 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off 

bell. 
She   sifjh'd,  she   look'd  up   through  the 

clear  green  sea ; 


She  said  :  "  I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk 

pray 
In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to- 
day. 
'T  will  be  Easter-time  in  the  world — ah 

me  ! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman  !  here 

with  thee." 
I  said  :  "  Go  up,  clear  heart,  through  the 

waves  ; 
Say  thy   prayer,  and  come  back  to  the 

kind  sea-caves  !  '" 
She   smiled,  she   went    up   through    the 

surf  in  the  bay. 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone? 
"The  sea  grows  storm}*,  the  little  ones 

moan  ; 
Long   prayers,''  I  said,  "  in   the    world 

they  say  ; 
Come  ! "  I  said  ;  and  we  rose  through  the 

surf  in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by   the   sandy 

down 
Where    the    sea-stocks    bloom,    to   the 

white-wall'd  town  : 
Through  the  narrow  paved  streets.where 

all  was  still, 
To  the  little   gray  church  on  the  windy 

hill. 
From    the  church    came   a    murni'-.r   of 

folk  at  their  prayers. 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blow- 
ing airs. 
We  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones 

worn  with  rains, 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the 

small  leaded  panes. 
She  sate  by  the  pillar  ;  we  saw  her  clear  : 
"Margaret,  hist!    come    quick,  we  are 

here  ! 
Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "  we  are  long  alone  ; 
The  sea    grows    stormy,  the  little  ones 

moan." 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look, 
For   her   eyes   were   seal'd    to  the  holy 

hook  ! 

Loud  prays  the    priest;  shut  stands  the 

door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more  ! 
(  lome  away,  come  down,  call  no  more  ! 

Down,  down,  down  ! 
I  (own  to  the  depths  of  1  he  sea  ! 
She  sits   at   her   wheel  in  the  humming 

town. 
Singing  most    joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings  :  "  O  joy,  O  joy, 


M' 


BRITISH    POETS 


Fur  tlif  liumraiog  street,  and  the  ohild 
with  its  toy  !  [well ; 

For  the  priest  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy 

For  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 

And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun  !" 

And  SO  she  sings  her  till. 

Singing  must  joyfully, 

Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  band. 

And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 

She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at 
the  sand. 

And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea  ; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare  ; 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 

And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 

And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 

A  long,  long  sigh  ; 

Fur  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mer- 
maiden 

And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away  children  ; 
Come  children,  come  down  ! 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  coldly  ; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door  ; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing  :     "  Here  came  a  mortal, 
But  faithless  was  she  ! 
And  alone  dwell  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 

When  soft  the  winds  blow, 

When  clear  falls  the  moonlight, 

When  spring  tides  are  low  ; 

When  sweet  airs  come  seawai'd 

From  heaths  starr'd  with  broom, 

And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 

On  the  blanch*d  sands  a  gloom  ; 

Up  ilic  still,  glistening  beaches, 

Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie, 

Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 

The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 

We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand  hills, 

At  the  white,  sleeping  town  ; 

At  the  church  on  the  hill-side — 

And  then  come  back  down. 

Singing  :     "  There  dwells  a  loved  one, 

But  cruel  is  she  ! 

She  left  lonely  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea."  1849. 


THE  STRAYED  REVELLER 

THE    PORTICO    OP     CIRCE'S    PALACE 
EVENING 

A  Youth.    Circe 
The  Youth 

Faster,  faster, 

0  Circe,  Goddess, 

Let  the  wild,  thronging  train, 
The  bright  procession 
Of  eddying  forms, 
Sweep  through  my  soul ! 

Thou  standest,  smiling 

Down  on  me!  thy  right  arm, 

Lean'd  up  against  the  column  there. 

Props  thy  soft  cheek  ; 

Thy  left  holds,  hanging  loosely, 

The  dee])  cup,  ivy-cinctured, 

1  held  but  now. 

Is  it,  then,  evening 
So  soon?     I  see,  the  night-dews, 
Cluster'd  in  thick  beads,  dim 
The  agate  brooch-stones 
On  thy  white  shoulder; 
The  cool  night-wind,  too, 
Blows  through  the  portico, 
Stirs  thy  hair.  Goddess, 
Waves  thy  white  robe  ! 

Circe 

Whence  art  thou,  sleeper  ? 

The    Youth 

When  the  white  dawn  first 

Through  the  rough  fir-planks 

Of  my  hut.  by  the  chestnuts, 

Up  at  the  valley-head, 

Came  breaking.  Goddess  ! 

I  sprang  up.  1  threw  round  me 

My  dappled  fawn-skin  ; 

Passing  out,  from  the  wet  turf, 

Where  they  lay,  by  the  hut.  door, 

Isnatch'd  up  my  vine-crown,  my  fir-staff. 

All  drench'd  in  dew — 

Came  swift  down  to  join 

The  rout  early  gather'd 

In  the  town,  round  the  temple, 

Iacchus'  white  fane 

On  yonder  hill. 

Quick  I  pass'd,  following 
The  wood-cutters'  cart-track 
Down  the  dark  valley  ; — I  saw 
On  my  left,  through  the  beeches, 


ARNOLD 


711 


Thy  palace,  Goddess, 

Smokeless,  empty  ! 

Trembling,  I  enler'd  ;  beheld 

The  court  all  silent, 

The  lions  sleeping. 

On  the  altar  this  bowl. 

I  drank,  Goddess  ! 

And  sank  down  here,  sleeping, 

On  the  steps  of  thy  portico. 

Circe 

Foolish  boy  !     Why  tremblest  thou  ? 
Thou  lovest  it,  then,  my  wine  ? 
Wouldst  more  of  it  ?     See,  how  glows, 
Through  the  delicate,  flush'd  marble, 
The  red,  creaming  liquor, 
Strown  with  dark  seeds  ! 
Drink,  then  !     I  elude  thee  not; 
Deny  thee  not  my  bowl. 
Come,  stretch  forth  thy  hand,  then — so  ! 
Drink — drink  again  ! 

The    Youth 

Thanks,  gracious  one  ! 
Ah,  the  sweet  fumes  again  ! 
More  soft,  ah  me, 
More  subtle-winding 
Than  Pan's  flute-music ! 
Faint — faint !     All  me, 
Again  the  sweet  sleep  ! 

Circe 

Hist !  Thou — within  there  ! 
Come  forth,  Ulysses ! 
Art  tired  with  hunting? 
While  we  range  the  woodland, 
See  what  the  day  brings. 

Ulysses 

Ever  new  magic  ! 
I!  i-t  thou  then  lured  hither, 
Wonderful  Goddess,  by  thy  art. 
The  young,  languid-eyed  Ampelus, 
Iacchus'  darling — 
Or  some  youth  beloved  of  Pan, 
Of  Pan  and  the  Nymphs? 
That  In.'  sits,  bending  downward 
His  white,  delicate  neck 
To  the  ivy-wreathed  marge 
Of  thy  cup;  the-bright,  glancing  vine- 
leaves 
Thai  crown  his  hair, 

ing  forward,  mingling 
Willi  the  dark  ivy-plants — 
His  fawn-skin,  half  untied, 
Smear'd  with  red   wine-stains?    Who  is 

he, 
That  lie  sits,  overweigh'd 


By  fumes  of  wine  and  sleep, 

So  late,  in  thy  portico  ? 

What  youth,  Goddess,— what  guest 

Of  Gods  or  mortals  ? 

Circe 

Hist !  he  wakes  ! 

I  lured  him  not  hither,  Ulysses. 

Nay,  ask  him  ! 

The  Youth 

Who  speaks?     Ah,  who  comes  forth 

To  thy  side,  Goddess,  from  within? 

How  shall  I  name  him  ? 

This  spare,  dark-featured, 

Quick-eyed  stranger  ? 

Ah,  and  I  see  too 

His  sailor's  bonnet. 

His  short  coat,  travel-tarnish'd, 

With  one  arm  bare  ! — 

Art  thou  not  he,  whom  fame 

This  long  time  rumors 

The  favor'd  guest  of  Circe,  brought  by 

the  waves  ? 
Art  thou  he,  stranger  ? 
The  wise  Ulysses, 
Laertes'  son  ? 

Ulysses 

I  am  Ulysses. 

And  thou,  too,  sleeper? 

Thy  voice  is  sweet. 

It  may  be  thou  hast  follow'd 

Through  the  islands  some  divine  bard, 

By  age  taught  many  things, 

Age  and  the  Muses  ; 

And  heard  him  delighting 

The  chiefs  and  people 

In  the  banquet,  and  learn'd  his  songs, 

Of  Gods  and  Heroes, 

Of  war  and  arts, 

And  peopled  cities, 

Inland,  or  built 

By  the  gray  sea. — If  so,  then  hail', 

I  honor  and  welcome  thee. 

The  Youth 

The  Gods  are  happy. 
They  turn  on  all  sides 
Their  shining  eyes. 
And  see  below7  them 
The  earth  and  men. 

They  see  Tiresias 

Silling,  staff  in  hand, 
On  the  warm,  grassy 
Asopus  bank, 
His  robe  drawn  over 


712 


BRITISH   POETS 


His  old,  sightless  head, 

Revolving  inly 

The  doom  of  Thebes. 

The}  see  the  (  Vm  aurs 
In  the  upper  glens 
Of  Pelion,  in  the  streams, 
Where  red-berried  ashes  fringe 
The  clear-brown  shallow  pools, 
With  streaming  flanks,  and  heads 
Rear'd  proudly,  snuffing 
The  mountain  wind. 

They  see  the  Indian 
Drifting,  knife  in  hand, 
1 1  is  frail  boat  moor'd  to 
A  t'n uiling  isle  thick-matted 
With  large-leaved,  low-creeping  melon- 
plants, 
And  the  dark  cucumber. 
He  reaps,  and  stows  them, 
Drifting— drifting  : — round  him, 
Round  his  green  harvest-plot, 
Flow  the  cool  lake-waves, 
The  mountains  ring  them. 

They  see  the  Scythian 

On  the  wide  stepp,  unharnessing 

His  wheel'd  house  at  noon.    . 

He  tethers  his   beast   down,  and  makes 

Ins  meal — 
Mares'  milk,  and  bread 
Baked  on  the  embers  ; — all  around 
The      boundless,    waving     grass-plains 

stretch,  thick-starr'd 
With  saffron  and  the  yellow  hollyhock 
And  flag-leaved  iris-flowers. 
Sitting  in  his  cart  [miles, 

He  makes  his  meal ;  before  him,  for  long 
Alive  with  bright  green  lizards, 
And  the  springing  bustard-fowl, 
The  track,  a  straight  black  line, 
Furrows  the  rich  soil ;  here  and  there 
Clusters  of  lonely  mounds 
Topp'd  with  rough-hewn, 
Gray,  rain-blear'd  statues,  overpeer 
The  sunny  waste. 

They  see  the  ferry 
On  the  broad,  clay-laden 
Lone  Chorasmian  stream  ;  thereon, 
With  snort  and  strain, 
Two  horses,  strongly  swimming,  tow 
The  ferry-boat,  with  woven  ropes 
To  either  bow 

Firm  harness'd  by  the  mane  ;   a  chief 
With  shout  and  shaken  spear, 
Stands  at   the  prow,  and  guides   them  ; 
but  astern 


The  cowering  merchants,  in  long  robes. 

Sit  pale  beside  their  wealth 

Of  silk-bales  and  of  balsam-drops, 

Of  gold  and  ivory, 

I  )i  t  urquoise-earth  and  amethyst, 

Jasper  and  chalcedony, 

And  milk-barr'd  onyx-stones. 

The  loaded  boat  swings  groaning 

In  the  yellow  eddies  ; 

The  Gods  behold  them. 

They  see  the  Heroes 

Sitting  in  the  dark  ship 

On  the  foamless,  long-heaving 

Violet  sea, 

At  sunset  nearing 

The  Happy  Islands. 

These  things,  Ulysses, 
The  wise  bards  also 
Behold  and  sing. 
But  oh,  what  labor! 
O  prince,  what  pain  1 

They  too  can  see 
Tiresias  : — but  the  Gods, 
Who  give  them  vision, 
Added  this  law  : 
That  they  should  bear  too 
His  groping  blindness, 
His  dark  foreboding, 
His  scorn'd  white  hairs  ; 
Bear  Hera's  anger 
Through  a  life  lengthen'd 
To  seven  ages. 

They  see  the  Centaurs 

On  Pelion  ; — then  they  feel, 

They  too,  the  maddening  wine 

Swell  their  large  veins   to  bursting  ;  in 

wild  pain 
They  feel  the  biting  spears 
Of  the  grim  Lapithge,  and  Theseus,  drive, 
Drive    crashing    through    their   bones; 

they  feel 
High  on  a  jutting  rock  in  the  red  stream 
Alcmena's  dreadful  son 
Ply  his  bow  ;   such  a  price 
The  Gods  exact  for  song  : 
To  become  what  we  sing. 

They  see  the  Indian 

On  his  mountain  lake  ;  but  squalls 

Make  their  skiff  reel,  and  worms 

In  the  unkind  spring  have  gnawn 

Their  melon-harvest  to  the  heart. — They 

see 
The  Scythian  ;  but  long  frosts 
Parch  them  in  winter-time  on  the  bare 

stepp, 


ARNOLD 


7*3 


Till  they  too  fade  like  grass  ;  they  crawl 
Like  shadows  forth  in  spring. 

They  see  the  merchants 

On  the  Oxus  stream  ; — but  care 

Must   visit    first   them    too,   and    make 

them  pale. 
Whether,  through  whirling  sand. 
A   cloud    of    desert    robber-horse   have 

burst 
Upon  their  caravan  ;  or  greedy  kings, 
In   the    wall'd    cities    the    way    passes 

through, 
Crush'd  them  with  tolls  ;  or  fever-airs, 
On  some  great  river's  marge, 
Mown  them  down,  far  from  home. 

They  see  the  Heroes 

Near  harbor  ; — but  they  share 

Their  lives,  and  former   violent   toil  in 

Thebes. 
Seven-gated  Thebes,  or  Troy  ; 
Or  where  the  echoing  oars 
Of  Argo  first 
Startled  the  unknown  sea. 

The  old  Silenus 

Came,  lolling  in  the  sunshine, 

From  the  dewy  forest-coverts, 

This  way  at  noon. 

Sitting  by  me,  while  his  Fauns 

Down  at  the  water-side 

Sprinkled  and  smoothed 

His  drooping  garland, 

He  told  me  these  things. 

But  I.  Ulysses, 
Sitting  on  the  warm  steps, 
Looking  over  the  valley, 
All  <lay  long,  have  seen. 
Without  pain,  without  labor, 
s  .in. ■limes  a  wild-hair'd  Maenad — 
Sometimes  a  Faun  with  torches — 
And  sometimes,  for  a  moment, 
Passing  through  the  dark  stems 
Flowing-robed,  the  beloved, 
The  desire,  the  divine, 
Beloved  Iacchus. 

Ah,  cool  night-wind,  tremulous  stars  ! 

Ah,  glimmering  water, 

Fitful  earth-murmur, 

I  breaming  woods  ! 

Ah,    golden-haired,    strangely    smiling 

Goddess. 
And  thou,  proved,  much  enduring, 
Wave-toss'd    Wanderer  ! 
Who  can  stand  still  ? 
Ye  fade,  ye  swim,  ye  waver  before  me — 
The  cup  again  ! 


Faster,  faster, 

O  Circe,  Goddess. 

Let  the  wild,  thronging  train, 

The  bright  procession 

Of  eddying  forms, 

Sweep  through  my  soul ! 

MEMORIAL  VERSES 


1840. 


April,  1850 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  cease, 
But  one  such  death  remain'd  to  come  ; 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb— 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb. 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death, 
We  bow'd  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little  ;  but  our  soul 
Had  felt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 
With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  passion  with  eternal  law  ; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watch'd  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  served  for  that  Titauic  strife. 

When  Goethe's    death  was  told,    we 

said  : 
Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 
Physician  of  the  iron  age, 
Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 
He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 
He   read   each    wound,    each   weakness 

clear  ; 
And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place. 
A  nd  said  :  Tliou  ailest  here,  and  here  ! 
He  look'd  on  Europe's  dying  hour 
Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power; 
His    eye   plunged   down    the   weltering 

strife, 
The  turmoil  of  expiring  life — 
He  said  :     The  end,  is  everyicliere, 
Art  still  tuts  truth,  take  refuge  there! 
And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 
'  'auses  of  things,  and  far  below 
His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 
Of  terror,  and  insane  distress, 
And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And   Wordsworth  ! — Ah,     pale     ghosts 

rejoice  ! 
For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 
Been  to  your  shadowy  world  convey'd, 
Since  erst,    at    morn,    some    wandering 

shade 
Heard  the  (dear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through    Hades,     and     the     mournful 

gloom. 


7H 


BRITISH   POETS 


Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us— and  ye, 
Ah.  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we! 
He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 
Had  fallen — on  this  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round  ; 
He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 
He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth, 
Smiles  broke  from  us  and  we  had  ease  ; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again  ; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  returned  ;  for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furl'd, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah  !  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force  ; 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again      find      Wordsworth's      healing 

power? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare, 
And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel : 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear — 
But  who,  ah  1    who,  will  make  us  feel  ? 
The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny, 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly — 
But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by? 

Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave  ! 
Sing  him  thy  best  1  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 

1850. 

SELF-DECEPTION 

Say,  what  blinds  us,  that  we  claim  the 

glory 
Of  possessing  powers  not  our  share? 
— Since  man  woke  on  earth,  he  knows 

his  story, 
But,  before  we  woke  on  earth,  we  were. 

Long,  long  since,  undower'd  yet,  our 
spirit 

Roam'd.  ere  birth,  the  treasuries  of  God  ; 

Saw  the  gifts,  the  powers  it  might  in- 
herit. 

Ask'd  an  outfit  for  its  earthly  road. 

Then,   as    now,   this    tremulous,   eager 

being 
Strain'd  and  long'd  and  grasp'd  each  gift 

it  sa  w  ; 


Then,  as  now,  a  Power  beyond  our  see- 

ing, 
Staved  us  back,  and  gave  our  choice  the 

law. 

Ah,  whose  hand  that  day  through 
Heaven  guided 

Man's  new  spirit,  since  it  was  not  we? 

Ah,  who  swayed  our  choice  and  who  de- 
cided 

AVhat  our  gifts,  and  what  our  wants 
should  be  ? 

For,  alas  !  he  left  us  each  retaining 
Shreds  of  gifts  which  he  refused  in  full. 
Still  these  waste  us  with  their  hopeless 

straining, 
Still  the  attempt  to  use  them   proves 

them  null. 

And  on  earth  we  wander,  groping,  reel- 
ing ; 

Powers  stir  in  us,  stir  and  disappear. 

Ah!  and  he,  who  placed  our  master- 
feeling, 

Fail'd  to  place  that  master-feeling  clear. 

We  but  dream  we  have  our  wish'd-for 

powers, 
Ends  we  seek  we  never  shall  attain. 
Ah  !  some  power  exists  there,  which  is 

ours  ? 
Some  end  is  there,  we  indeed  may  gain  ? 

1852. 

THE  SECOND   BEST 

Moderate  tasks  and  moderate  leisure, 
Quiet  living,  strict-kept  measure 
Both  in  suffering  and  in  pleasure — 
Tis  for  this  thy  nature  yearns. 

But  so  many  books  thou  readest, 
But  so  many  schemes  thou  breedest, 
But  so  many  wishes  feedest, 
That  thy  poor  head  almost  turns. 

And  (the  world  's  so  madly  jangled, 
Human  tilings  so  fast  entangled) 
Nature's  wish  must  now  be  strangled 
For  that  best  which  she  discerns. 

So  it  must  be!  yet,  while  leading 
A  strain'd  life,  while  overfeeding. 
Like  the  rest,  his  wit  with  reading, 
No  small  profit  that  man  earns, 

Who  through  all  he  meets  can  steer  him, 
Can  reject  what  cannot  clear  him, 
Cling  to  what  can  truly  cheer  him  ; 
Who  each  day  more  surely  learns 


ARNOLD 


7J5 


That  an  impulse,  from  the  distance 
Of  his  deepest,  best  existence, 
To   the   words,  "Hope,    Light,    Persist- 
ence," 
Strongly  sets  and  truly  burns. 

1852. 

LYRIC  STANZAS  OF  EMPEDOCLES 

The  out-spread  world  to  span 
A  cord  the  Gods  first  slung, 
And  then  the  soul  of  man 
There,  like  a  mirror,  hung, 
And  bade  the  winds  through  space  im- 
pel the  gusty  toy. 

Hither  and  thither  spins 
The  wind-borne,  mirroring  soul, 
A  thousand  glimpses  wins, 
And  never  sees  a  whole  ; 
Looks  once,  and  drives   elsewhere,  and 
leaves  its  last  employ. 

The  Gods  laugh  in  their  sleeve 
To  watch  man  doubt  and  fear 
Who  knows  not  what  to  believe 
Since  he  sees  nothing  clear. 
And  dares  stamp  nothing  false  where 
he  finds  nothing  sure. 

Is  this,  Pausanias,  so? 
And  can  our  souls  not  strive, 
But  with  the  winds  must  go, 
And  hurry  where  they  drive? 
Is  fate  indeed  so  strong,  man's  strength 
indeed  so  poor  ? 

I  will  not  judge.     That  man, 
Howbeit,  I  judge  as  lost, 
Whose  mind  allows  a  plan, 
Which  would  degrade  it  most; 
And  he  treats  doubt  the  best  who  tries 
to  see  least  ill. 

Be  not,  then,  fear's  blind  slave! 
Thou  art  my  friend  ;  to  thee, 
All  knowledge  that  I  have, 
All  skill  I  wield,  arc  free. 
Ask  not  t  he  latest  news  of  the  last  mir- 
acle, 

Ask  not  what  days  and  nights 
In  l  ranee  Pantheia  lay. 
But  ask  how  thou  such  sights 
Mav'st  see  without  dismay  ; 
Ask  what  most  helps  when  known,  thou 
son  of  Anchitus  1 

What  ?  hate,  and  awe.  and  shame 
Fill  thee  to  see  our  time  ; 


Thou  feelest  thy  soul's  frame 
Shaken  and  out  of  chime  ? 
What  ?  life  and  chance  go  hard  with  thee 
too,  as  with  us  ; 

Thy  citizens,  'tis  said, 
Envy  thee  and  oppress, 
Thy  goodness  no  men  aid, 
All  strive  to  make  it  less  ; 
Tyranny,  pride,    and    lust,   fill  Sicily's 
abodes ; 

Heaven  is  with  earth  at  strife, 
Signs  make  thy  soul  afraid, 
The  dead  return  to  life, 
Rivers  are  dried,  winds  stay'd  ; 
Scarce  can  one  think  in  calm,  so  threat- 
ening are  the  Gods  ; 

And  we  feel,  day  and  night, 
The  burden  of  ourselves — 
Well,  then,  the  wiser  wight 
In  his  own  bosom  delves, 
And  asks   what   ails   him   so,   and   gets 
what  cure  he  can. 

The  sophist  sneers  :  Fool,  take 
Thy  pleasure,  right  or  wrong. 
The  pious  wail  :  Forsake 
A  world  these  sophists  throng. 
Be  neither  saint  nor  sophist-led,  but  be  a 
man  ! 

These  hundred  doctors  try 
To  preach  thee  to  their  school. 
We  have  the  truth  !  they  cry  ; 
And  yet  their  oracle, 
Trumpet  it  as  they  will,  is  but  the  same 
as  thine. 

Once  read  thy  own  breast  right, 
And  thou  hast  done  with  fears  ; 
Man  gets  no  other  light, 
Search  he  a  thousand  years. 
Sink  in  thyself  !  there  ask  what  ails  thee, 
at  that  shrine ! 

What  makesthee  struggle  and  rave  ? 

Why  are  men  ill  at  ease  ? — 
'Tis  that  the  lot  they  have 
Fails  their  own  will  to  please  ; 
For  man   would   make   no   murmuring 
were  his  will  obey'd. 

And  why  is  it,  that  still 
Man  with  his  lot  thus  fights? — 
'Tis  that  he  makes  this  will 
The  measure  of  his  rights, 

And  believes  Nature  outraged  if  his  will's 
gainsaid. 


7 16 


BRITISH   POETS 


Couldsi  thouj  Pausanias,  learn 
How  deep  a  fault  is  1 1  vis  ; 
Couldst  thou  l>ul  once  discern 
Thou  hast  no  right  to  bliss, 
No  title  from  the  Gods  to   welfare  and 
repose ; 

Then  thou  wouldst  look  less  mazed 
"Whene'er  of  bliss  debarr'd, 
Nor  think  the  Gods  were  crazed 
When  thy  own  lot  went  hard. 
But  we  are  all  the  same — the  fools  of  our 
own  woes  1 

For,  from  the  first  faint  morn 
Of  life,  the  thirst  for  bliss 
Deep  in  man's  heart  is  born  ; 
And,  sceptic  as  he  is. 
He  fails  not  to   judge   clear  if  this  be 
quench'd  or  no. 

Nor  is  the  thirst  to  blame. 
Man  errs  not  that  he  deems 
His  welfare  his  true  aim, 
He  errs  because  he  dreams 
The  world  does  but  exist  that  welfare  to 
bestow. 

We  mortals  are  no  kings 
For  each  of  whom  to  sway 
A  new-made  world  up-springs, 
Meant  merely  for  his  play  ; 
No,  we  are  strangers  here  ;  the  world  is 
from  of  old. 

In  vain  our  pent  wills  fret, 
And  would  the  world  subdue. 
Limits  we  did  not  set 
Condition  all  we  do  ; 
Born  into  life  we  are,  and  life  must   be 
our  mould. 

Born  into  life  ! — man  grows 
Forth  from  his  parents'  stem, 
And  blends  their  bloods,  as  those 
Of  theirs  are  blent  in  them  ; 
So  each  new  man  strikes  root  into  a  far 
fore-time. 

Born  into  life  ! — we  bring 
A  bias  with  us  here, 
And,  when  here,  each  new  thing 
Affects  us  we  come  near  ; 
To  tunes  we  did  not  call  our  being  must 
keep  chime. 

Born  into  life  ! — in  vain, 
Opinions,  those  or  these, 
Unalter'd  to  retain 


The  obstinate  mind  decrees  ; 
Experience,  like  a  sea,  soaks  all-effacing 
in. 

Born  into  life  !—  who  lists 
May  what  is  false  hold  dear, 
And  for  himself  make  mists 
Through  which  to  see  less  clear  ; 
The  world  is  what  it  is,  for  all  our  dust 
and  din. 

Born  into  life  ! — 'tis  we, 
And  not  the  world,  are  new  ; 
Our  cry  for  bliss,  our  plea, 
Others  have  urged  it  too — 
Our  wants  have  all  been  felt,  our  errors 
made  before. 

No  eye  could  be  too  sound 
To  observe  a  world  so  vast, 
No  patience  too  profound 
To  sort  what's  here  amass'd  ; 
How  man  may  here  best  live  no  care 
too  great  to  explore. 

But  we — as  some  rude  guest 
Would  change,  where'er  he  roam, 
The  manners  there  profess'd 
To  those  he  brings  from  home — 
We  mark  not   the   world's  course,  but 
would  have  it  take  ours. 

The  world's  course  proves  the  terms 
On  which  man  wins  content; 
Reason  the  proof  confirms — 
We  spurn  it,  and  invent 
A  false  course  for  the   world,  and  for 
ourselves,  false  powers. 

Riches  we  wish  to  get, 
Yet  remain  spendthrifts  still ; 
We  would  have  health,  and  yet 
Still  use  our  bodies  ill  ; 
Bafflers  of  our  own  prayers,  from  youth 
to  life's  last  scenes. 

We  would  have  inward  peace, 
Yet  will  not  look  within  ; 
We  would  have  misery  cease, 
Yet  will  not  cease  from  sin  ; 
We  want  all  pleasant  ends,  but  will  use 
no  harsh  means  ; 

We  do  not  what  we  ought, 
What  we  ought  not,  we  do, 
And  lean  upon  the  thought 
That  chance  will  bring  us  through  ; 
But  our  own  acts,  for  good  or  ill,  are 
mightier  powers. 


ARNOLD 


7i7 


Yet,  even  when  man  forsakes 
All  sin, — is  just,  is  pure, 
Abandons  all  which  makes 
His  welfare  insecure, — 
Other  existences   there  are,  that  clash 
with  ours. 

Like  us,  the  lightning-fires 
Love  to  have  scope  and  play  ; 
The  stream,  like  us.  desires 
An  unimpeded  way  ; 
Like   us,   the   Libyan    wind  delights  to 
roam  at  large. 

Streams  will  not  curb  their  pride 
The  just  man  not  to  entomb, 
Nor  lightnings  go  aside 
To  give  his  virtues  room  ; 
Nor  is  that  wind  less  rough  which  blows 
a  good  man's  barge. 

Nature,  with  equal  mind, 
Sees  all  her  sons  at  play  ; 
Sees  man  control  the  wind, 
The  wind  sweep  man  away  ; 
Allows     the     proudly-riding     and     the 
foundering  bark. 

And,  lastly,  though  of  ours 
No  weakness  spoil  our  lot, 
Though  the  non-human  powers 
Of  Nature  harm  us  not, 
The  ill  deeds  of  other  men  make  often 
our  life  dark. 

What  were  the  .wise  man's  plan? — 
Through  this  sharp,  toil-set  life, 
To  work  as  best  he  can. 
And  win  what's  won  by  strife. — 
But  we  an  easier  way  to  cheat  our  pains 
have  found. 

Seratch'd  by  a  fall,  with  moans 
A.S  children  of  weak  age 
Lend  life  to  the  dumb  stones 
Whereon  to  vent  their  rage, 
And  bend  their  little  lists,  and  rate  the 
senseless  ground  ; 

So,  loath  to  suffer  mute, 
We,  peopling  the  void  air, 
Make  Gods  to  whom  to  impute 
The  ills  we  oughl  to  bear  ; 
With  God  and  Fate  to  rail  at,   suffering 
easily. 

Yet  grant — as  sense  long  miss'd 
Things  that  are  now  perceived, 
And  much  may  still  exist 


Which  is  not  yet  believed — 
Grant  that  the  world  were  full  of  Gods 
we  cannot  see  ; 

All  things  the  world  which  fill 
Of  but  one  stuff  are  spun. 
That  we  who  rail  are  still, 
With  what  we  rail  at,  one  ; 
One   with   the  o'erlabored   Power   that 
through  the  breadth  and  length 

Of  earth,  and  air.  and  sea, 
In  men,  and  plants,  and  stones, 
Hath  toil  perpetually, 
And  travails,  pants,  and  moans  ; 
Fain  would  do  all  things  well,  but  some- 
times fails  in  strength. 

And  patiently  exact 
This  universal  God 
Alike  to  any  act 
Proceeds  at  any  nod. 
And  quietly  declaims    the    cursings  of 
himself. 

This  is  not  what  man  hates, 
Yet  he  can  curse  but  this. 
Harsh  Gods  and  hostile  Fates 
Are  dreams  !  this  only  is 
Is  everywhere  ;  sustains  the  wise,   the 
foolish  elf. 

Not  only,  in  the  intent 
To  attach  blame  elsewhere, 
Do  we  at  will  invent 
Stern  Powers  who  make  their  care 
To    embitter     human     life,    malignant 
Deities  ; 

But,  next,  we  would  reverse 
The  scheme  ourselves  have  spun, 
And  what  we  made  to  curse 
We  now  would  lean  upon, 
And  feign  kind  Gods  who  perfect  wfcaf 
man  vainly  tries. 

Look,  the  world  tempts  our  eye, 
And  \\  e  would  know  it,  all ! 
We  map  the  starry 

We  mine  t  his  earl  hen  ball, 
We  measure    the   sea-tides,  we   number 
the  sea-sands  ; 

We  scrutinise  the  dales 
Of  long-past  human  t  lungs, 
The  bounds  of  effaced  states, 
The  lines  of  deceased  kings  : 
We  search   oul    dead   men's  words,    and 
works  of  dead  men's  hands  •• 


/is 


BRITISH    POETS 


We  shut  our  eyes,  and  muse 
How  our  own  minds  are  made, 
What  springs  of  thought  they  use, 
How  righten'd,  how  betray'd — 
And  spend  our  wit  to  name  what  most 
employ  unnamed. 

But  still,  as  we  proceed 
The  mass  swells  more  and  more 
Of  volumes  yet  to  read. 
Of  secrets  yet  to  explore. 
Our    hair   grows    gray,  our     eyes     are 
dimm'd,  our  heat  is  tamed  ; 

We  rest  our  faculties, 
And  thus  address  the  Gods  : 
"  True  science  if  there  is, 
It  stays  in  your  abodes  ! 
Man's  measures  cannot  mete  the   im- 
measurable All. 

"You  only  can  take  in 
The  world's  immense  design. 
Our  desperate  search  was  sin, 
Which  henceforth  we  resign, 
Sure  only  that  your  mind  sees  all  things 
which  befall." 

Fools  !     That  in  man's  brief  term 
He  cannot  all  things  view, 
Affords  no  ground  to  affirm 
That  there  are  Gods  who  do  ; 
Nor  does  being  weary  prove  that  he  has 
where  to  rest. 

Again. — Our  youthful  blood 
Claims  rapture  as  its  right ; 
The  world,  a  rolling  flood 
Of  newness  and  delight, 
Draws    in   the    enamord   gazer    to   its 
shining  breast  ; 

Pleasure,  to  our  hot  grasp, 
Gives  flowers  after  flowers  ; 
With  passionate  warmth  we  clasp 
Hand  after  hand  in  ours  ; 
Now  do  we  soon  perceive  how  fast  our 
youth  is  spent. 

At  once  our  eyes  grow  clear  ! 
We  see.  in  blank  dismay, 
Year  posting  after  year. 
Sense  after  sense  decay  ; 
Our  shivering  heart  is  mined  by  secret 
discontent ; 

Yet  still,  in  spite  of  truth, 
In  spite  of  hopes  entomb'd, 
That  longing  of  our  youth 


Burns  ever  unconsumed, 
Still   hungrier   for   delight    as  delights 
grow  more  rare. 

We  pause  ;  we  hush  our  heart, 
And  thus  address  the  Gods  : 
"  The  world  hath  fail'd  to  impart 
The  joy  our  youth  forebodes, 
Fail'd   to   till  up  the  void  which  in  our 
breasts  we  bear. 

"  Changeful  till  now,  we  still 
Look'd  on  to  something  new  ; 
Let  us.  with  changeless  will, 
Henceforth  look  on  to  you, 
To  find  with  you  the  joy  we  in  vain  here 
require  !  " 

Fools  !    That  so  often  here 
Happiness  mock'd  our  prayer, 
I  think,  might  make  us  fear 
A  like  event  elsewhere  ; 
Make  us,  not  fly  to  dreams,  but  moderate 
desire. 

And  yet,  for  those  who  know 
Themselves,  who  wisely  take 
Their  way  through  life,  and  bow 
To  what  they  cannot  break, 
Why  should  I  say  that  life   need  yield 
but  moderate  bliss  ? 

Shall  we,  with  temper  spoil'd, 
Health  sapp'd  by  living  ill, 
And  judgment  all  embroil'd 
By  sadness  and  self-will. 
Shall  ire  judge  what  for  man  is  not  true 
bliss  or  is  ? 

Is  it  so  small  a  thing 
To  have  enjoy'd  the  sun, 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring, 
To  have  loved,  to  have   thought,  to 
have  done  ; 
To  have  advanced  true  friends,  and  beat 
down  baffling  foes — 

That  we  must  feign  a  bliss 
Of  doubtful  future  date, 
And,  while  we  dream  on  this, 
Lose  all  our  present  state, 
And  relegate   to  worlds  jet  distant  our 
repose  ? 

Not  much,  I  know,  you  prize 
What  pleasures  may  be  had, 
Who  look  on  life  with  eyes 
Estranged,  like  mine,  and  sad  ; 
And  yet  the  village-churl  feels  the  truth 
more  than  you. 


ARNOLD 


719 


Who's  loath  to  leave  this  life 
Which  to  him  little  yields — 
His  hard-task'd  sunburnt  wife, 
His  often-labor'd  fields, 
The   boors    with    whom   lie   talk'd,   the 
country -spots  he  knew. 

But  thou,  because  thou  hear'st 
Men  scoff  at  Heaven  and  Fate, 
Because  the  Gods  thou  fear'st 
Fail  to  make  blest  thy  state, 
Tremblest,    and    wilt   not  dare  to   trust 
the  joys  there  are  ! 

I  say  :  Fear  not !   Life  still 
Leaves  human  effort  scope. 
But,  since  life  teems  with  ill, 
Nurse  no  extravagant  hope  ; 
Because   thou   must     not    dream,   thou 
need'st  not  then  despair  !     1852. 

CALLICLES'  SONG 

FROM  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA 

THROUGH  the  black,  rushing  smoke- 
bursts, 
Thick  breaks  the  red  flame  ; 
All  Etna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-clothed  frame. 

Not  here,  O  Apollo  ! 

Are  haunts  meet  for  thee. 

But,  where  Helicon  breaks  down 

In  cliff  to  the  sea, 

Where  the  moon-si  lver'd  inlets 
Send  far  their  light  voice 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 
O  speed,  and  rejoice  ! 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks, 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 

Soft  lull'd  by  the  rills. 

Lie  wrapped  in  their  blankets 

Asleep  011  the  hills. 

— What  forms  are  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom? 
What  garments  out  glistening 

The  gold-flower'd  broom  ? 

What  sweet-breathing  presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme  ? 
What  voices  enrapture 
The  night's  balmy  prime? — 


'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,  the  Nine. 
— The  leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows ! 
They  stream  up  again  ! 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 
The  glorified  train  ? — 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain, 
In  the  spring  by  their  road  ; 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode. 

— Whose  praise  do  thev  mention  , 
Of  what  is  it  told  ?— 
What  will  be  for  ever  ; 
What  was  from  of  old. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things;  and  then, 
The  rest  of  immortals, 
The  action  of  men  ; 


The  day  in  his  hotness, 
The  strife  with  the  palm  ; 
The  night  in  her  silence, 
The  stars  in  their  calm. 

THE  YOUTH  OF  NATURE 


1852 


Raised  are  the  dripping  oars, 

Silent  the  boat !  the  lake, 

Lovely  and  soft  as  a  dream, 

Swims  in  the  sheen  of  the  moon. 

The  mountains  stand  at  its  head 

Clear  in  the  pure  June-night, 

But  the  valleys  are  flooded  with  haze. 

Rydal  and  Fairfield  are  there  ; 

In  the  shadow  Wordsworth  lies  dead. 

So  it  is,  so  it  will  be  for  aye. 

Nature  is  fresh  as  of  old, 

Is  lovely  ;  a  mortal  is  dead. 

The  spots  which  recall  him  survive, 
For  he  lent  a  new  life  to  these  hills. 
The  Pillar  still  broods  o'er  the  fields 
Which  border  Ennerdale  Lake, 
And  Egremont  sleeps  by  the  sea. 
The  gleam  of  The  Evening  Star 
Twinkles  on  Grasmere  no  more, 
But  ruin'd  and  solemn  and  gray 
The.  sheepfold  of  Michael  survives  ; 
And,  far  to  the  south,  the  heath 
Still  blows  in  the  Quantock  coombs 
By  the  favorite  waters  of  Ruth. 
These  survive  ! — yet  not  without  pain. 
Pain  and  dejection  to-night, 
Can  I  feel  that  their  poet  is  gone. 


720 


BRITISH   POETS 


He  grew  old  in  an  age  lie  condemn'd. 

He  look'd  on  the  rushing  decay 

Of  the  times  which  had  shelter'd  his 

youth, 
Felt  the  dissolving  throes 
Of  a  social  order  he  loved  ; 
Outlived  his  brethren,  his  peers  ; 
And.  like  the  Theban  seer, 
Died  in  his  enemies'  day. 

(  old  bubbled  the  spring  of  Tilphusa, 
Copais  lay  bright  in  the  moon, 
Helicon  glass'd  in  the  lake 
Its  firs,  and  afar  rose  the  peaks 
Of  Parnassus,  snowily  clear  ; 
Thebes  was  behind  him  in  flames, 
And  t he  clang  of  arms  in  his  ear, 
When  his  awe-struck  captors  led 
The  Theban  seer  to  the  spring. 
Tiresias  drank  and  died. 
Nor  did  reviving  Thebes 
See  such  a  prophet  again. 

Well  may  we  mourn,  when  the  head 

Of  a  sacred  poet  lies  low 

In  an  age  which  can  rear  them  no  more  ! 

The  complaining  millions  of  men 

Darken  in  labor  and  pain  ; 

But  lie  was  a  priest  to  us  all 

Of  the  wonder  and  bloom  of  the  world, 

Which  we  saw  with  his  eyes,  and  were 

glad. 
He  is  dead,  and  the  fruit-bearing  day 
Of  his  race  is  past  on  the  earth  ; 
And  darkness  returns  to  our  eyes. 

For,  oh  !  is  it  you,  is  it  you, 
Moonlight,  and  shadow,  and  lake, 
And  mountains,  that  fill  us  with  jo}% 
Or  the  poet  who  sings  you  so  well  ? 
Is  it  you,  O  beauty,  O  grace, 
O  charm,  O  romance,  that  we  feel, 
Or  the  voice  which  reveals  what  you  are  ? 
Are  ye,  like  daylight  and  sun, 
Shared  and  rejoiced  in  by  all? 
Or  are  ye  immersed  in  the  mass 
Of  matter,  and  hard  to  extract. 
Or  sunk  at  the  core  of  the  world 
Too  deep  for  the  most  to  discern  ? 
Like  stars  in  the  deep  of  the  sky. 
Which  arise  on  the  glass  of  the  sage, 
But  are  lost  when  their  watcher  is  gone. 

"They  are  here  " — I  heard,  as  men  heard 

In  Mysiam  Ida  the  voice 

Of  the  Mighty  Mother,  or  Crete, 

The  murmur  of  Nature  reply — 

"  Loveliness,  magic,  and  grace, 

They  are  here  !  they  are  set  in  the  world. 

They  abide  ;  and  the  finest  of  aoam 


Hath  not  been  thrill'd  by  them  all, 
Nor  the  dullest  been  dead  to  them  quite. 
The  poet  who  sings  them  may  die, 
But  they  are  immortal  and  live, 
For  they  are  the  life  of  the  world. 
Will  ye  not  learn  it,  and  know, 
When  ye  mourn  that  a  poet  is  dead, 
That  the  singer  was  less  than  his  themes, 
Life,  and  emotion,  and  I? 

"  More  than  the  singer  are  these. 

Weak  is  the  tremor  of  pain 

That  thrills  in  his  mourn  fullest  chord 

To  that  which  once  ran  through  his  soul. 

Cold  the  elation  of  joy 

In  his  gladdest,  airiest  song, 

To  that  which  of  old  in  his  youth 

Fill'd  him  and  made  him  divine. 

Hardly  his  voice  at  its  best 

Gives  us  a  sense  of  the  awe, 

The  vastness,  the  grandeur,  the  gloom 

Of  the  unlit  gulf  of  himself. 

"  Ye   know   not   yourselves  ;   and   your 

bards — 
The  clearest,  the  best,  who  have  read 
Most  in  themselves — have  beheld 
Less  than  they  left  unreveal'd. 
Ye    express   not   yourselves ; — can   you 

make 
With  marble,  with  color,  with  word, 
What  charm'd  you  in  others  re-live? 
Can  thy  pencil,  O  artist !  restore 
The  figure,  the  bloom  of  thy  love, 
As  she  was  in  her  morning  of  spring? 
Canst  thou  paint  the  ineffable  smile 
Of  her  eyes  as  they  rested  on  thine  ? 
Can  the  image  of  life  have  the  glow, 
The  motion  of  life  itself? 

"  Yourselves  and  your  fellows  ye  know 

not  ;  and  me, 
The  mateless,  the  one,  will  ye  know  ? 
Will  ye  scan  me,  and  read  me,  and  tell 
Of  the   thoughts   that   ferment   in   my 

breast, 
My  longing,  my  sadness,  my  joy  ? 
Will   ye  claim  for  your  great  ones  the 

gift 
To  have  render'd  the  gleam  of  my  skies, 
To  have  echoed  the  moan  of  my  seas, 
Utter'd  the  voice  of  my  hills  ? 
When   your  great  ones  depart,  will  ye 

say: 
.1//  things  have  suffered  a  loss, 
Nature  is  hid  in  their  grave  9 

"  Race  after  race,  man  after  man, 
Have  thought  that  my  secret  was  theirs, 
Have  dream'd  that  I  lived  but  for  them, 


ARNOLD 


721 


That  they  were  my  glory  and  joy. 
—They  are  dust,  they  are  changed,  they 

are  gone  ! 
1  remain."  1852. 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  he. 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears 

me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 
O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send  : 
"Ye  who   from  my  childhood  up  have 

calm'd  me, 
Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end  ! 

"  Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "  ye  stars,  ye 

waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew  ; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you !  " 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault 
of  heaven, 

Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 

In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  an- 
swer :  [they. 

"  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are  ?    Live  as 

"  Unaff righted  by  the  silence  round 
them, 

Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 

These  demand  not  that  the  things  with- 
out them 

Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their 

shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silver'd  roll  ; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with 

noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"  Bounded  bv  themselves,  and  unregard- 

ful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In    their    own    tasks    all   their   powers 

pouring. 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born   voice  !   long  since,  severely 

clear, 
A  cry  like  thine    in    mine  own  heart    I 
hear  :  [Ik1, 

"  Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know  that 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery  !" 

t'852. 
46 


MORALITY 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 

The  fire  which  in  the  heart  resides  : 

The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still, 

In  mystery  our  soul  abides. 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  will'd 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfill'd. 

With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone  ; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  't  were  done. 
Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return, 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 

Then,  when  the  clouds  are  off  the  soul, 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye, 
Ask.  how  she  view'd  thy  self-control, 
Thy  struggling,  task'd  morality — 

Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air, 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 

And  she,  whose  censure  thou  dost  dread, 
Whose  eye  thou  wast  afraid  to  seek, 
See,  on  her  face  a  glow  is  spread, 
A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek  ! 

"Ah,  child!"  she   cries,  "that   strife 
divine, 

Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mine  ? 

"  There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow — 
I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep  ; 
I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres  and  glow 
In  jo}r,  and  when  I  will,  I  sleep. 
Yet  that  severe,  that  earuestair, 
I  saw,  I  felt  it  once — but  where? 

"  I  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  time, 

Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  space  ; 

I  felt  it  in  some  other  clinic 

1  saw  it  in  some  other  place. 
'Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 
And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God." 

1852. 

A  SUMMER    NIGHT 

Ix  the  deserted,  moon-blanch'd  street, 
How  lonely  rings  the  echo  of  my  feet ! 
Those  windows,  which  1  gaze  ai,  frown, 
Silent  and  white,  unopening  down. 
Repellant  as  the  world  ;— but  see, 
A  break  between  the  housetops  shows 
The  moon  !  and,  lost  behind  her,  fading 

dim 
Into  tin'  dewy  dark  obscurity 
Down  at  the  far  horizon's  rim. 
Doth  a  whole  tract  of  heaven  disclose! 


722 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  to  my  mind  the  thought 

Is  on  ;i  sudden  brought 

Of  a  past  night,  and  a  far  different'scene. 

Headlands  stood    out    into   the  moonlit 

deep 
\s  clearly  as  at  noon  ; 
The  spring-tide's  brimming  flow 
Heaved  dazzlingly  between ; 

Houses,  with  long  white  sweep, 

Girdled  the  glistening  bay  ; 

B  shind,  through  the  soft  air, 

The  bin:?  haze-cradled  mountains  spread 

away, 
The  night  was  far  more  fair — 
But  the  same  restless  pacings  to  and  fro, 
And  the   same   vainly    throbbing   heart 

was  there, 
And  the  same  bright,  calm  moon. 

And  the  calm  moonlight  seems  to  say  : 

H  ist.  thou  then  still  the  old  unquiet  breast, 

Which  neither  deadens  into  rest, 

Nor  ever  feels  the  fiery  glow 

That  whirls  the  spirit  from  itself  away, 

But  fluctuates  to  and  fro, 

Never  by  passion  quite  possessed 

And  never  quite  benumPd  by  the  world's 

sway  f— 
And  I,  I  know  not  if  to  pray 
Still  to  be  what  I  am,  or  yield  and  be 
Like  all  the  other  men  I  see. 

For  most  men  in  a  brazen  prison  live, 

Where,  in  the  sun's  hot  eye, 

With  heads    bent  o'er   their  toil,   they 

languidly 
Their  lives  to  some  unmeaning  taskwork 

give, 
Dreaming  of  nought  beyond  their  prison 

wall. 
And  as,  year  after  year. 
Fresh  products  of  their  barren  labor  fall 
From  their  tired  hands,  and  rest 
Never  yet  conies  more  near, 
Gloom  settles  slowly   down  over  their 

breast  ; 
And  while  they  try  to  stem 
The   waves   of    mournful     thought    by 

which  they   are  pressed, 
Death  in  their  prison  reaches  them, 
Unfreed,  having  seen  nothing,  still  un- 

blest. 

And  the  rest,  a  few, 
Escape  their  prison  and  depart 
On  the  wide  ocean  of  life  anew. 
There  the  freed  prisoner,  where'er   his 
heart 


Listeth,  will  sail  ; 

Nor  doth  he  know  how  there  prevail, 

I  )espotic  on  that  sea, 

Trade-winds  which  crossit  from  eternity" 

Awhile  he  holds  some  false  way,  unde- 

barr'd 
By  thwarting  signs,  and  braves 
The    freshening   wind    and   blackening 

waves 
And  then  the  tempest  strikes  him  ;  and 

between 
The  lightning-bursts  is  seen 
Only  a  driving  wreck, 
And  the  pale  master  on  his  spar-strewn 

deck 
With  anguish 'd  face  and  flying  hair 
Grasping  the  rudder  hard, 
Still  bent  to  make  some  port  he  knows 

not  where, 
Still  standing  for  some  false,  impossible 

shore. 
And  sterner  comes  the  roar 
Of  sea  and  wind,  and  through  the  deep- 
ening gloom 
Fainter  and  fainter  wreck  and  helmsman 

loom, 
And  he  too  disappears,  and  comes  no 

more. 

Is  there  no  life,  but  these  alone  ? 
Madman  or  slave,  must  man  be  one? 

Plainness  and  clearness  without  shadow 

of  stain  ! 
Clearness  divine  ! 
Ye   heavens,  whose  pure   dark  regions 

have  no  sign 
Of  languor,  though  so  calm,  and,  though 

so  great, 
Are  yet  untroubled  and  unpassionate  ; 
Who,   though    so   noble,   share    in  the 

world's  toil, 
And,  though  so  task'd,  keep  free  irom 

dust  and  soil  ! 
I  will  not  say  that  your  mild  deeps  retain 
A  tinge,  it  may  be,  of  their  silent  pain 
Who  have  long'd  deeply  once,  and  long'd 

in  vain — 
Pmt  I  will  rather  say  that  you  remain 
A  world  above  man's  head,  to  let  him 

see 
How  boundless  might  his  soul's  horizons 

be, 
How    vast,   yet   of    what    clear   trans- 
parency ! 
How  it   were  good  to  abide  there,  and 

breathe  free ; 
How  fair  a  lot  to  fill 
Is  left  to  each  man  still !  1852. 


ARNOLD 


723 


THE  BURIED  LIFE 

Light  flows  our  war  of  mocking  words, 

and  yet, 
Behold,  with  tears  mine  eyes  are  wet  ! 
I  feel  a  nameless  sadness  o'er  me  roll, 
Yes,  yes,  we  know  that  we  can  jest, 
We  know,  we  know  that  we  can  smile  ! 
But  there's  a  something  in  this  breast, 
To  which  thy  light  words  bring  no  rest. 
And  thy  gay  smiles  no  anodyne. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  hush  awhile, 
And  turn  those  limpid  eyes  on  mine, 
And  let  me  read  there,  love  !  thy  inmost 

soul. 

Alas !  is  even  love  too  weak 
To  unlock  the  heart,  and  let  it  speak? 
Are  even  lovers  powerless  to  reveal 
To  one  another  what  indeed  they  feel? 
I  knew  the  mass  of  men  conceal'd 
Their  thoughts,  for  fear  that  if  reveal'd 
They  would  by  other  men  be  met 
With  blank  indifference,  or  with  blame 

reproved  : 
I  knew  they  lived  and  moved 
Trick'd  in  disguises,  alien  to  the  rest 
Of   men,  and  alien  to  themselves — and 

yet 
The   same   heart  beats  in  every  human 

breast  ! 

But  we,  my  love  ! — doth  a  like  spell  be- 
numb 

Our  hearts,  our  voices  ? — must  we  too  be 
dumb  ? 

Ah  !  well  for  us,  if  even  we, 
Even  for  a  moment,  can  get  free 
Our  heart,  and  have  our  lips  unchain'd  ; 
For  that   which   seals  them  hath  been 
deep-ordain'd  ! 

Fate,  which  foresaw 
How  frivolous  a  baby  man  would  be — 
By   what  distractions  he  wrould  be  pos- 
sess'd, 
How   he   would   pour   himself  in  eveiy 

strife, 
And  well-nigh  change  hisown  identity — 
That  it  might  keep  from  his  capricious 

play 
His  genuine  self,  and  force  him  to  obey 
Even  in  his  own  despite  his  being's  law. 
Bade  through  the  deep  recesses  of  our 

breast 
The  unregarded  river  of  our  life 
Pursue  with  indiscernible  How  its  way  ; 
And  that  we  should  not  see 
The  buried  si  ream,  and  seem  to  be 


Eddying  at  large  in  blind  uncertainty,. 
Though  driving  on  with  it  eternally. 

But  often,  in  the  world's  most  crowded 

streets, 
But  often,  in  the  din  of  strife, 
There  rises  an  unspeakable  desire 
After  the  knowledge  of  our  buried  life  ; 
A  thirst  to  spend  our  fire  and  restless 

force 
In    tracking    out     our     true,     original 

course  ; 
A  longing  to  inquire 
Into   the  mystery   of  this  heart   which 

beats 
So  wild,  so  deep  in  us — to  know 
Whence  our  lives  come  and  where  they 

go- 

And  many  a  man  in  his  own  breast  then 
delves. 

But  deep  enough,  alas!  none  ever  mines. 

And  we  have  been  on  many  thousand 
lines, 

And  we  have  shown,  on  each,  spirit  and 
power ; 

But  hardly  have  we,  for  one  little  hour, 

Been  on  our  own  line,  have  we  been 
ourselves — 

Hardly  had  skill  to  utter  one  of  all 

The  nameless  feelings  that  course 
through  our  breast, 

But  they  course  on  for  ever  unexpress'd. 

And  long  we  try  in  vain  to  speak  and  act 

Our  hidden  self,  and  what  we  say  and  do 

Is  eloquent,  is  well — but  'tis  not  true  ! 

And  then  we  will  no  more  be  rack'd 

With  inward  striving,  and  demand 

Of  all  the  thousand  nothings  of  the  hour 

Their  stupefying  power ; 

Ah  yes,  and  they  benumb  us  at  our  call ! 

Yet  "still,  from  time  to  time,  vague  and 
forlorn. 

From  the  soul's  subterranean  depth  up- 
borne 

As  from  an  infinitely  distant  land, 

Come  airs,  and  floating  echoes,  and  con- 
vey 

A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 

Only — but  this  is  rare — 

When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 

When,  jaded  witli  the  rush  and  glare 

Of  the  interminable  hours, 

Our  eves  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 

When  our  world-deafen'd  ear 

Is  by  t  he  tones  of  a  loved  voice  caress'd— 

A  holt  is  shot  back   somewhere   in   our 

breast, 
And  a  lost  pulse  of  feeling  stirs  again. 


7=4 


BRITISH   POETS 


The  eye  sinks  inward,  and  l lie  heart  lies 

plain. 
And  what  we  mean,  we    say,  and    what 

we  would,  we  know. 
A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow, 
And  hears  its  winding  murmur  ;  and  he 

sees 
The  meadows  where  it  glides,   the  sun, 

the  breeze. 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 
Wherein  he  doth  for  ever  chase 
That  flying  and  elusive  shadow,  rest. 
An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 
Ami   an   unwonted   calm   pervades   his 

breast. 
And  then  he  thinks  he  knows 
The  hills  where  his  life  rose, 
And  the  sea  where  it  goes.  1852. 

LINES 

WRITTEN   IN  KENSINGTON   GARDENS 

In  this  lone,  open  glade  I  lie, 
Screen'd  by  deep  boughs  on  either  hand  ; 
And  at  its  end,  to  stay  the  eye. 
Those    black-crown'd,.  red-boled    pine- 
trees  stand  ! 

Birds  here  make  song,  each  bird  has  his, 
Across  the  girdling  city's  hum. 
How  green  under  the  boughs  it  is  ! 
How    thick    the   tremulous   sheep-cries 
come  ! 

Sometimes  a  child  will  cross  the  glade 
To  take  his  nurse  his  broken  toy  ; 
Sometimes  a  thrush  flit  overhead 
Deep  in  her  unknown  day's  employ. 

Here  at  my  feet  what  wonders  pass, 
What  endless,  active  life  is  here! 
What  blowing  daisies,  fragrant  grass! 
An  air-stirr'd  forest,  fresh  and  clear. 

Scarce  fresher  is  the  mountain-sod 
Where  the   tired   angler   lies,   stretch'd 

out. 
And,  eased  of  basket  and  of  rod, 
Counts  his  day's  spoil,  the  spotted  trout. 

In  the  huge  world,  which  roars  hard  by, 

Be  others  happy  if  they  can  ! 

But  in  my  helpless  cradle  I 

Was  breathed  on  by  the  rural  Pan. 

I.  on  men's  impious  uproar  hurl'd, 
Think  often,  as  I  hear  them  rave. 
That  peace  has  left  the  upper  world 
And  now  keeps  only  in  the  grave. 


Yet  here  is  peace  for  ever  new  ! 
When  I  who  watch  them  am  away, 
SI  ill  all  things  in  this  glade  go  through 
The  changes  of  their  quiet  day. 

Then  to  their  happy  rest  they  pass! 
The  flowers  upclose,  the  bird's  are  fed, 
The  night  comes  down  upon  the  grass, 
The  child  sleeps  warmly  in  his  bed. 

Calm  soul  of  all  things  !  make  it  mine 
To  feel,  amid  the  city's  jar, 
That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine, 
Man  did  not  make,  and  cannot  mar. 

The  will  to  neither  strive  nor  cry, 
The  power  to  feel  with  others  give  ! 
Calm,  calm  me  more  !  nor  let  me  die 
Before  I  have  begun  to  live.  1852. 

THE  FUTURE 

A  wanderer  is  man  from  his  birth. 
He  was  born  in  a  ship 
On  the  breast  of  the  river  of  Time  ; 
Brimming  with  wonder  and  joy 
He  spreads  out  his  arms  to  the  light, 
Rivets  his  gaze  on  the   banks  of    the 
stream. 

As  what  he  sees  is,  so  have  his  thoughts 

been. 
Whether  he  wakes 
Where  the  snowy  mountainous  pass, 
Echoing  the  screams  of  the  eagles, 
Hems  in  its  gorges  the  bed 
Of  the  new-born  clear- flowing  stream  ; 
Whether  he  first  sees  light 
Where  the  river  in  gleaming  rings 
Sluggishly  winds  through  the  plain  ; 
Whether  in  sound  of  the  swallowing  sea — 
As  is  the  world  on  the  banks, 
So  is  the  mind  of  the  man. 

Vainly  does  each,  as  he  glides, 
Fable  and  dream 

Of  the  lands  which  the  river  of  Time 
Had  left  ere  he  woke  on  its  breast, 
Or  shall  reach  when  his  eyes  have  been 

closed. 
Only  the  tract  where  he  sails 
He  wots  of  ;  only  the  thoughts, 
Raised  by  the  objects  he  passes,  are  his. 

Who  can  see  the  green  earth  any  more 
As  she  was  by  the  sources  of  Time  ? 
Who  imagines  her  fields  as  they  lay 
In  the  sunshine,  unworn  by  the  plough? 
Who  thinks  as  they  thought,        [breast, 
The   tribes    who    then    roam'd    on    her 
Her  vigorous,  primitive  sons  ? 


ARNOLD 


725 


What  girl 

Now  reads  in  her  bosom  as  clear 

As  Rebekah  read,  when  she  sate 

At  eve  by  the  palm-shaded  well  ? 

Who  guards  in  her  breast 

As  deep,  as  pellucid  a  spring 

Of  feeling,  as  tranquil,  as  sure  ? 

What  bard, 
At  the  height  of  his  vision,  can  deem 
Of  God,  of  the  world,  of  the  soul, 
With  a  plainness  as  near, 
As  flashing  as  Moses  felt 
When  he  lay  in  the  night  by  his  flock 
On  the  starlit  Arabian  waste? 
Can  rise  and  obey 
The  beck  of  the  Spirit  like  him? 

This  tract  which  the  river  of  Time 
Now  flows  through  with  us,  is  the  plain. 
Gone  is  the  calm  of  its  earlier  shore. 
Border'd  by  cities  and  hoarse 
With  a  thousand  cries  is  its  stream. 
And  we  on  its  breast,  our  minds 
Are  confused  as  theories  which  we  hear, 
Changing  and  shot  as  the  sights   which 
we  see. 

And  we  say  that  repose  lias  fled 

For  ever  the  eourse  of  the  river  of  Time. 

That  cities  will  crowd  to  its  edge 

In  a  blacker,  incessanter  line  ; 

That  the  din  will  be  more  on  its  banks, 

Denser  the  trade  on  its  stream, 

Flatter  the  plain  where  it  flows, 

Fiercer  the  sun  overhead. 

That  never  will  those  on  its  breast 

See  an  ennobling  sight, 

Drink  of  the  feeling  of  quiet  again. 

But  what  was  before  us  we  know  not, 
And  we  know  not  what  shall  succeed. 

Haply,  the  river  of  Time — 

As  it  grows,  as  the  towns  on  its  marge 

Fling  their  wavering  lights 

On  a  wider,  statelier  stream — 

May  acquire,  if  not  the  calm 

Of  its  early  mountainous  shore, 

Yet  a  solemn  peace  of  its  own. 

And  the  width  of  the  waters,  the  hush 
Of  the  gray  expanse  where  he  floats, 
Freshening  its  current  and  spotted  with 

foam 
As  it  draws  to  the  Ocean,  may  sln'ke 
Peace  to  the   soul    of    the   man   on    its 

breast — 
As  the  pale  wast*'  widens  around  him, 
As  the  hanks  fade  dimmer  away, 


As   the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night- 
wind 
Brings  up  the  stream 
Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea. 

1852. 

STANZAS  IN  MEMORY  OF  THE 
AUTHOR  OF " OBERMANN "  1 

In  front  the  awful  Alpine  track 
Crawls  up  its  rocky  stair  ; 
The  autumn  storm-winds  drive  the  rack, 
Close  o'er  it,  in  the  air. 

1  The  author  of  Obermann,  F-tienne  Pi  vert  de 
Senancour,  has  little  celebrity  in  France,  his  own 
country;  and  out  of  France  he  is  almost  uu^ 
known.  But  the  profound  inwardness,  the  aus- 
tere sinperity,  of  his  principal  work,  Qbgrmann, 
the  delicate  feeling  for  nature  which  it  exhibits, 
and  the  melancholy  eloquence  of  many  passages 
of  it,  have  attracted  and  charmed  some  of  the 
most  remarkable  spirits  of  this  century,  such  as 
George  Sand  and  Sainte-Beuve,  anil  will  probably 
always  find  a  certain  number  of  spirits  whom 
they  touch  and  interest. 

Senancour  was  born  in  1770.  He  was  educated 
for  the  priesthood,  and  passed  some  time  in  the 
seminary  of  St.  Sulpice  ;  broke  away  from  the 
Seminary  and  from  France  itself,  and  passed 
some  years  in  Switzerland,  where  he  married  ; 
returned  to  France  in  middle  life,  and  followed 
thenceforward  the  career  of  a  man  of  letters,  but 
with  hardly  any  fame  or  success.  He  diedan  old 
man  in  184(5,  desiring  that  on  his  grave  might  be 
placed  these  words  only  :  Eternite,  devieus  mon 
asile! 

The  influence  of  Rousseau,  and  certain  affini- 
ties with  more  famous  and  fortunate  authors  of 
his  own  day, — Chateaubriand  and  Madame  de 
Stael,— are  everywhere  visible  in  Senancour. 
But  though,  like  these  eminent  personages,  he 
may  be  called  a  sentimental  writer,  and  though 
Obermunn,  a  collection  of  letters  from  Switzer- 
land treating  almost  entirely  of  nature  and  of 
the  human  soul,  may  be  called  a  work  of  senti- 
ment, Senancmir  has  a  gravity  and  severity 
which  distinguish  him  from  all  other  writers  of 
the  sentimental  school.  The  world  is  witli  him  ii 
his  solitude  far  less  than  it  is  with  them  ;  of  at 
writers  he  is  the  most  perfectly  isolated  and  th« 
least  attitudinizing.  His  chief  work,  too,  has  a 
value  and  p  ever  of  its  own.  apart  from  these 
merits  of  its  author.  The  stir  of  all  the  main 
forces,  by  which  modern  life  is  and  has  been  im- 
pelled, lives  in  the  letters  of  Obermann  ;  the  dis- 
solving agencies  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the 
fiery  storm  of  the  French  Revolution,  the  first 
faint  promise  and  .lawn  of  that  new  world  which 
our  own  time  is  but  more  fully  bringing  to  light, 

—all  these  are  to  be  felt,  almost  to  be  I shed, 

there.  To  me,  indeed,  i1  will  always  seem  that 
theimpressivenessof  this  production  can  hardly 
be  rated  too  high. 

Beside  Obermann  there  is  one  other  of  Se- 
tiancour's  works  which,  for  those  spirits  who 
feel  his  attraction,  is  very  interesting;  its  title 
is,  Libres  Meditations  dun  Solitaire  Xnconnu. 
[Arnold's  note.  The  passage  of  George  Sand 
alluded  to  may  be  found  in  her  Questions  </'  Irt 
et  ili'  Littirature.  Sainte-Beuve  oas  several  times 
written  of  Sena  neon  i'  :  especially  in  his  Portraits 
Contemporains,  Vol.  I.  and  in  Chateaubriand  et 
son  Oroupe  litteraire,  Chap.  1-1.) 


726 


BRITISH   POETS 


Behind  are  the  abandon'd   bat  lis  1 
Mute  in  their  meadows  lone; 
The  leaves  are  on  the  valley-paths, 
The  mists  are  on  the  Rhone — 

The  white  mists  rolling  like  a  sea! 
I  hear  the  torrents  roar. 
— Yes,  Obermann,  all  speaks  of  thee; 
I  feel  thee  near  once  more ! 

I  turn  thy  leaves !     I  feel  their  breath 
Once  more  upon  me  roll ; 
That  air  of  languor,  cold,  and  death, 
Which  brooded  o'er  thy  soul. 

Fly  hence,  poor  wretch,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
Condemn'd  to  cast  about, 
All  shipwreck  in  thy  own  weak  heart, 
For  comfort  from  without ! 

A  fever  in  these  pages  burns 
Beneath  the  calm  they  feign  ; 
A  wounded  human  spirit  turns, 
Here,  on  its  bed  of  pain. 

Yes.  though  the  virgin  mountain-air 
Fresh  through  these  pages  blows  ; 
Though  to  these  leaves  the  glaciers  spare 
The  soul  of  their  white  snows  ; 

Though  here  a  mountain-murmur  swells 
Of  many  a  dark-bough'd  pine  ; 
Though,  as  you  read,  you  hear  the  bells 
Of  the  high-pasturing  kine — 

Yet,  through  the  hum  of  torrent  lone, 
And  brooding  mountain-bee, 
There  sobs  I  know  not  what  ground-tone 
Of  human  agony. 

Is  it  for  this,  because  the  sound 
Is  fraught  too  deep  with  pain, 
That,  Obermann  !  the  world  around 
So  little  loves  thy  strain  ? 

Some  secrets  may  the  poet  tell, 
For  the  world  loves  new  ways  ; 
To  tell  too  deep  ones  is  not  well — 
It  knows  not  what  he  says. 

Yet,  of  the  spirits  who  have  reign'd 
In  this  our  troubled  day, 
I  know  but  two,  who  have  attain'd 
Save  thee,  to  see  their  way. 


1  The  Baths  of  Leuk.  This  poem  was  con- 
ceived,  and  partly  composed,  in  the  valley  going 
down  from  the  foot  of  the  Gemini  Pass  towards 
the  Rhone.     {Arnold.) 


By  England's  lakes,  in  gray  old  age, 
His  quiet  home  one  keeps  ; 
And  one,  the  strong  much-toiling  sage, 
In  German  Weimar  sleeps. 

But  Wordsworth's  eyes  avert  their  ken 
From  half  of  human  fate  ; 
And  Goethe's  course  few  sons  of  men 
May  think  to  emulate. 

For  he  pursued  a  lonely  road, 
His  eyes  on  Nature's  plan  ; 
Neither  made  man  too  much  a  God, 
Nor  God  too  much  a  man. 

Strong  was  he,  with  a  spirit  free 
From  mists,  and  sane,  and  clear; 
Clearer,  how  much  !  than  ours — yet   we 
Have  a  worse  course  to  steer. 

For  though  his  manhood  bore  the  blast 
Of  a  tremendous  time, 
Yet  in  a  tranquil  world  was  pass'd 
His  tenderer  youthful  prime. 

But  we,  brought  forth  and  rear'd  in  hours 
Of  change,  alarm,  surprise — 
What  shelter  to  grow  ripe  is  ours? 
What  leisure  to  grow  wise  ? 

Like  children  bathing  on  the  shore, 
Buried  a  wave  beneath, 
The  second  wave  succeeds,  before 
We  have  had  time  to  breathe. 

Too  fast  we  live,  too  much  are  tried, 

Too  harass'd,  to  attain 

Wordsworth's  sweet  calm,  or  Goethe's 

wide 
And  luminous  view  to  gain. 

And  then  we  turn,  thou  sadder  sage, 
To  thee  !  we  feel  thy  spell ! 
— The  hopeless  tangle  of  our  age, 
Thou  too  hast  scann'd  it  well ! 

Immoveable  thou  sittest,  still 
As  death,  composed  to  bear  ! 
Thy  head  is  clear,  thy  feeling  chill, 
And  ic}r  thy  despair. 

Yes,  as  the  son  of  Thetis  said, 
I  hear  thee  saying  now  : 
Greater  by  far  than  thou  are  dead  ; 
Strive  not  !  die  also  thou  ! 

Ah  !  two  desires  toss  about 

The  poet's  feverish  blood. 

One  drives  him  to  the  world  without, 

And  one  to  solitude. 


ARNOLD 


727 


The  glow,  he  cries,  the  thrill  of  life, 
Where,  where  do  these  abound  ? — 
Not  in  the  world,  not  in  the  strife 
Of  men,  shall  they  be  found. 

He  who  hath    watch'd,  not  shared,  the 

strife, 
Knows  how  the  day  hath  gone. 
He  only  lives  with  the  world's  life, 
Who  hath  renounced  his  own. 

To  thee  we  come,  then  !  Clouds  areroll'd 
Where  thou,  O  seer  !  art  set  ; 
Thy  realm  of  thought  is  drear  and  cold — 
The  world  is  colder  yet ! 

And  thou  hast  pleasures,  too,  to  share 
With  those  who  come  to   thee — 
Balms  floating  on  thy  mountain-air, 
And  healing  sights  to  see. 

How  often,  where  the  slopes  are  green 
On  Jaman,  hast  thou  sate 
By  some  high  chalet-door,  and  seen 
The  summer-day  grow  late  ; 

And  darkness  steal  o'er  the  wet  grass 

With  the  pale  crocus  starr'd, 

And    reach   that   glimmering   sheet   of 

glass 
Beneath  the  piny  sward, 

Lake  Leman's  waters,  far  below  1 
And  watch'd  the  rosy  light 
Fade  from  the  distant  peaks  of  snow  ; 
And  on  the  air  of  night 

Heard  accents  of  the  eternal  tongue 
Through  the  pine  branches  play — 
Listen'd,  and  felt  thyself  grow  young  ! 
Listeu'd  and  wept Away  ! 

Away  the  dreams  that  but  deceive 
And  thou,  sad  guide,  adieu  ! 
I  go,  fate  drives  me  ;  but  I  leave 
Half  of  my  life  with  you. 

We,  in  some  unknown  Power's  employ, 
Move  on  a  rigorous  line  ; 
Can  neither,  when  we  will,  enjoy, 
Nor,  when  we  will,  resign. 

I  in  the  world  must  live  ;  but  thou, 
Thou  melancholy  shade  ! 
Wilt  not,  if  thou  canst  see  me  now, 
Condemn  me,  nor  upbraid. 

For  thou  art  gone  away  from  earth, 
And  place  with  those  dost  claim, 
The  Children  of  the  Second  Birth, 
Whom  the  world  could  not  tame  ; 


And  with  that  small,  transfigured  band, 
Whom  many  a  different  way 
Conducted  to  their  common  land, 
Thou  learn'st  to  think  as  they. 

Christian  and  pagan,  king  and  slave, 
Soldier  and  anchorite, 
Distinctions  we  esteem  so  grave, 
Are  nothing  in  their  sight. 

They  do  not  ask,  who  pined  unseen, 
Who  was  on  action  hurl'd. 
Whose  one  bond  is,  that  all  have  been 
Unspotted  by  the  world. 

There  without  anger  thou  wilt  see 
Him  who  obeys  thy  spell 
No  more,  so  he  but  rest,  like  thee, 
Unsoil'd  ! — and  so,  farewell. 

Farewell  ! — Whether  thou  now  liest  near 
That  rnuch-loved  inland  sea, 
The  ripples  of  whose  blue  waves  cheer 
Vevey  and  Meillerie  : 

And  in  that  gracious  region  bland, 
Where  with  clear-rustling  wave 
The  scented  pines  of  Switzerland 
Stand  dark  round  thy  green  grave, 

Between  the  dusty  vineyard-walls 
Issuing  on  that  green  place 
The  early  peasant  still  recalls 
The  pensive  stranger's  face, 

And  stoops  to  clear  thy  moss-grown  date 
Ere  he  plods  on  again  ; — 
Or  whether,  by  maligner  fate, 
Among  the  swarms  of  men, 

Where  between  granite  terraces 
The  blue  Seine  rolls  her  wave, 
The  Capital  of  Pleasure  sees 
The  hardly-heard-of  grave  ; — ■ 

Farewell !     Under  the  sky  we  part, 
In  the  stern  Alpine  dell. 
O  unstrung  will !     O  broken  heart  ! 
A  last,  a  last  farewelll  1852, 

REQUIESCAT 

Strf.w  on  her  roses,  roses, 

A  nd  never  a  spray  of  yew  ! 
In  quiet  she  reposes  ; 

Ali,  would  that  I  did  too! 

Her  mirth  the  world  required; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 

And  now  they  let  her  be. 


7?8 


BRITISH   POETS 


Her  Life  was  turning,  turning, 

In  mazes  of  heat  ami  sound. 
But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 

Ami  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  oabin'd,  ample  spirit, 

It  llutteiM  ami  lail'd  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  hall  of  death.  1853. 

SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  fill'd  the 

east. 
And  the  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 
Was    liush'd.    and    still    the    men    were 

plunged  in  sleep ; 
Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not  :  all  night  long 
He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  his  bed  ; 
But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his 

tent, 
He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his 

sword, 
And  took  his  horseman's  cloak,  and  left 

his  tent; 
And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog, 
Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran- Wisa's 

tent. 
Through    the   black   Tartar  tents   he 

pass'd,   which  stood 
Clustering  like  beehives  on  the  low  flat 

strand 
Of  Oxus,  where,  the  summer-floods  o'er- 

flow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high 

Pamere ; 
Through  the  black  tents  he  pass'd,  o'er 

that  low  strand. 
And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink — the  spot  where 

first  a  boat, 
Crossing  the  stream  in  summer,  scrapes 

the  land. 
The  men  of  former  times  had  crown'd 

the  top 
With  a   clay   fort;  but  that  was  fall'n, 

and  now 
The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa's  tent, 
A  dome  of  laths,  and  o*er  it  felts  were 

spread. 
And  Sohrab  came  there,  and  went  in,  and 

stood 
Upon  the  thick  piled  carpets  in  the  tent. 
And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his 

bed 
Of  rugs  and  felts,  and  near  him  lav  his 

arms.  [step 

And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though  the 


WTas  dull'd  ;    for  he   slept  light,  an  old 

man's  sleep  ; 
And   he   rose  quickly  on   one  arm,  and 

said  :— 
"  Who  art  thou?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear 

dawn. 
Speak !    is    there    news,    or   any   night 

alarm '?  " 
But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and 

said  : — 
"Thou  know'st  me,  Peran-Wisa!  it  is  I. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 
Sleep  ;    but  I  sleep  not ;   all  night  long 

I  lie 
Tossing  and  wakeful, and  I  come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son, 
In  Samarcand,  before  the  army  march'd; 
And   I   will    tell    thee   what   my   heart 

desires. 
Thou  know';:    if,  since  from  Ader-baijan 

first 
I  came  among  the  Tartars  and  bore  arms, 
I   have   still   served  Afrasiab  well,  and 

shown, 
At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man. 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that  while  I  still 

bear  on 
The  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  through 

the  world. 
And   beat   the  Persians  back  on  every 

field, 
I  seek  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone — 
Rustum,  my  father  ;  who  I  hoped  should 

greet, 
Should  one  day  greet,  upon  some  well- 
fought  field, 
His  not  unworthy,  not  ing.crious  son. 
So  I  long  hoped,  but  him  I  never  find. 
Come   then,    hear   now,   and   grant  nif 

what  I  ask. 
Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day ;  but  I 
Will  challenge    forth  the   bravest  Per 

sian  lords 
To  meet  me,  man  to  man  ;  if  I  prevail, 
Rustum  will  surely  hear  it ;  if  I  fall — 
Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no 

kin. 
Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a  common  fight, 
Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names 

are  sunk  ; 
But   of  a  single    combat   fame    speaks 

clear." 
He  spoke ;  and  Peran-Wisa  took  the 

hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and  sigh'd,  and 

said  : — 
"  O    Sohrab,    an     unquiet     heart    is 

thine  ! 


ARNOLD 


729 


Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar 

chiefs, 
And  share  the  battle's  common  chance 

with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  for  ever 

first, 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk, 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen  ? 
That  were  far  best,  my  son,  to  stay  with 

us 
Unmurmuring  ;  in  our  tents,  while  it  is 

war, 
And  when  't  is  truce,  then  in  Afrasiab's 

towns. 
But,  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all, 
To    seek    out    Rustum — seek    him    not 

through  fight ! 
Seek  him   in  peace,  and  carry  to   his 

arms, 
O  Sohrab,  carry  an  unwounded  son  ! 
But   far   hence  seek  him,  for  he  is  not 

here, 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  I  was  voung, 
When   Rustum    was   in   front  01    every 

fray  ; 
But  now  he   keeps  apart,  and   sits  at 

home. 
In  Seistan,  with  Zal,  his  father  old. 
Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength 

at  last 
Feels  the  abhorr'd  approaches  of  old  age, 
Or   in   some   quarrel   with  the  Persian 

King- 
There   go  ! — Thou    wilt    not  ?    Yet   my 

heart  forebodes 
Danger  or  death    awaits  thee  on  this 

field. 
Fain   would  I  know  thee  safe  and  well, 

though  lost 
To  us  ;  fain  therefore   send  thee  hence, 

in  peace 
To  seek   thy    father,   not    seek    single 

fights 
In  vain  ; — but  who   can   keep  the  lion's 

cub 
From   ravening,  and   who   govern  Rus- 

tum's  son? 
Go,  I   will   grant   thee   what  thy  heart 

desires." 
So  said  he,  and  dropp'd  Sohrab's  hand, 

and  left 
His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he 

lay  ; 
And  o'er   his  chilly  limbs   his   woollen 

coat 
He  pass'd,  and    tied    his   sandals  on  his 

feet, 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and 

he  took 


In   his   right   hand    a    ruler's  staff,    nc 

sword  ; 
And  on  his  head  he  set   his  sheep-skin 

cap 
Black,  glw,sy,  cuiTd,  the  fleece  of  Kara- 

Kul; 
And  raised  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and 

call'd 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 
The  sun  by  this  had  risen,  and  clear'd 

the  fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  glittering 

sands. 
And  from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horse- 
men filed 
Into  the  open  plain  ;  so  Hainan  bade — 
Hainan,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  ruled 
The   host,   and   still   was    in    his   lusty 

prime. 
From   their   black   tents,    long   files   of 

horse,  they  sfeream'd  : 
As  when  some  gray  November  morn  the 

files, 
In  marching  order  spread,  of  long-neck'd 

cranes 
Stream   over   Casbin   and   the  southern 

slopes 
Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries. 
Or  some  frore  Caspian  reed-bed,  south- 
ward bound 
For  the  warm  Persian  sea-board — so  they 

stream'd. 
The  Tartars  of    the  Oxus,   the  King's 

guard, 
First,  with   black   sheep-skin   caps  and 

with  long  spears  ; 
Large  men,  large  steeds  ;  who  from  Bok- 
hara come 
And   Khiva,  and  ferment   the   milk   of 

mares. 
Next,  the  more  temperate  Toorkmuns  of 

the  south, 
The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Salore, 
And  those   from  Attruck  and   the  Cas- 
pian sands ; 
Light  men  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only 

drink 
The   acrid    milk   of    camels,   and  their 

wells. 
And  then  a  swarm  of  wandering  horse, 

who  came 
From  far.  and  a   more  doubtful  service 

own'd  ; 
The     Tartars    of    Ferghana,    from    the 

banks 
Of  the  Jaxartes,  men  with  scanty  beards 
And     close-set     skull-caps;    and     those 

wilder  hordes  [ei'n  waste, 

Who  roam  o'er  Kipchak  and  the  north- 


73° 


BRITISH    POETS 


Kalmucks  and  unkempt  Kuzzaks,  tribes 
who  stray 

Nearest    t lie    Pole,  and    wandering  Kir- 
ghizzes, 

Who  come   on   shaggy    ponies  from  Pa- 
mere  ; 

These   all   filed  out  from  camp  into  the 
plain. 

And    on    the    other    side   the  Persians 
form'd  ; — 

First  a  light  cloud  of  horse,  Tartars  they 
seem'd, 

The  Ilyats  of  Khorassan  ;  and  behind, 

The  royal   troops  of  Persia,  horse  and 
foot, 

Marshall'd  battalions  bright  in  burnish'd 
steel. 

But  Perau-Wisa  with  his  herald  came, 

Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the 
front, 

And  with  his   staff   kept   back  the  fore- 
most ranks. 

And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians, 
saw 

That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back, 

He  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he 
came, 

And  check'd  his  ranks,  and  fix'd  them 
where  they  stotxl. 

And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 

Betwixt  the  silent  hosts,  and  spake,  and 
said : 
' '  Ferood,  and  ye,  Persians  and  Tartars, 
hear  ! 

Let  there  be  truce  between  the  hosts  to- 
day. 

But  choose  a  champion  from  the  Persian 
lords 

To  fight  our  champion  Sohrab,  man  to 
man." 
As,  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June, 

When  the  dew   glistens  on   the  pearled 
ears, 

A  shiver  runs  through  the  deep  corn  for 

joy- 
So,  when  they  heard  what  Peran-Wisa 
said, 

A  thrill   through   all   the  Tartar  squad- 
rons ran 

Of   pride   and   hope   for   Sohrab,  whom 
they  loved. 
But  as  a  troop  of  pedlars,  from  Ca- 
bool, 

Cross  underneath  the  Indian  Caucasus, 

That  vast  sky-neighboring  mountain  of 
milk  snow  ; 

Crossing  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount, 
they  pass  [the  snow, 

Long  flocks  of  travelling  birds  dead  on 


Choked  by  the  air,  and  scarce  can  they 

themselves 
Slake  their  parch'd  throats  with  sugarM 

mulberries — 
In  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their 

breath, 
For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  o'er- 

hanging  snows — 
So  the  pale  Persians   held   their  breath 

with  fear. 
And  to  Ferood  his  brother  chiefs  came 

up 
To  counsel  :  Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And   Feraburz,  who   ruled   the   Persian 

host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  King  ; 
These   came  and   counsell'd,  and  then 

Gudurz  said  : — 
"  Ferood,   shame   bids  us   take  their 

challenge  up, 
Yet  champion  have  we   none  to  match 

this  youth. 
He  has  the   wild  stag's  foot,  the   lion's 

heart; 
But  Rustum  came  last  night ;  aloof  lie 

sits 
And  sullen,   and  has  pitch'd  his  tents 

apart. 
Him  will  I  seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear 
The   Tartar   challenge,   and   this  young 

man's  name. 
Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight. 
Stand   forth   the  while,  and   take   their 

challenge  up." 
So  spake  he  ;  and  Ferood  stood  forth 

and  cried  : — 
"  Old  man,   be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast 

said  ! 
Let  Sohrab  arm,   and  we  will  find  a 

man." 
He  spake :    and  Peran-Wisa    turn'd, 

and  strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to 

his  tent. 
But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gud- 
urz ran, 
And  cross'd  the  camp  which  lay  behind, 

and  reach'd, 
Out  on  the  sands  beyond  it,  Rustum's 

tents. 
Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glitter- 
ing gay,  m 
Just  pitch'd  ;  the  high  pavdion  in  the 

midst 
Was  Rustum's,  and  his  men  lay  camp'd 

around. 
And  Gudurz  enter'd  Rustum's  tent,  and 

found  [but  still 

Rustum  ;    his  morning  meal  was  done, 


ARNOLD 


731 


The    table  stood  before  him,    charged 

with  food — 
A  side  of  roasted   sheep,   and  cakes  of 

bread, 
And  dark  green  melons  ;  and  there  Rus- 

tum  sate 
Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist, 
And  play'd   with  it ;  but  Gudurz  came 

and  stood 
Before  him  ;  and  he  look'd,  and  saw  him 

stand, 
And  with   a  cry  sprang  up  and  dropp'd 

the  bird. 
And  greeted  Gudurz  with   both  hands, 

and  said  : — 
"Welcome!  these  eyes  could  see  no 

better  sight. 
What  news?  but  sit  down  first,  and  eat 

and  drink." 
But  Gudurz   stood   in   the   tent   door, 

and  said  : — 
"  Not  now  !  a  time  will  come  to  eat  and 

drink, 
But  not  to-day  ;  to-day  has  other  needs. 
Tlie  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at 

gaze  ; 
For  from  the  Tartars    is    a  challenge 

brought 
To  pick  a  champion   from   the   Persian 

lords 
To    fight     their     champion — and     thou 

know'st  his  name — 
Sohrab   men   call   him,   but  his  birth  is 

hid. 
O  Rustum,  like  thy  might  is  this  young 

man's ! 
He  has  the    wild   stag's  foot,   the  lion's 

heart  ; 
And  lie  is  young,  and  Iran's  chiefs  are 

old, 
Or  else  too  weak  ;  and  all  eyes  turn  to 

thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Rustum,  or  we 

lose  ! " 
He  spoke  :  but  Rustum  answer'd  with 

a  smile : — 
Go  to  !  if  Iran's  chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older  ;  if  the  young  are  weak,  the 

King 
Errs  strangely  ;    for   the   King,   for  Kai 

Khosroo, 
Himself  is  young,  and  honors  younger 

men, 
And    lets    the    aged    moulder  to  their 

graves. 
Rustum  lie  loves  no  more,  but  loves  the 

young— 
The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab's  vaunts, 

not  I. 


For    what    care  I,     though    all    speak 

Sohrab's  fame? 
For  would  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son, 
And  not   that  one  slight  helpless  girl  I 

have — 
A  son  so  famed,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war, 
And  I  to  tarry  with  the  snow-hair'd  Zal, 
My  father,  whom  the   robber    Afghans 

vex, 
And  clip   his  borders  short,   and  drive 

his  herds, 
And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old 

age. 
There  would  I  go,  and  hang  my  armor 

up, 
And  with  my   great   name   fence   that 

weak  old  man, 
And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I  have 

got, 
And  rest  my  age,  and  hear  of  Sohrab's 

fame, 
And  leave  to  death  the  hosts  of  thank- 
less kings, 
And  with  these  slaughterous  hands  draw 

sword  no  more." 
He    spoke   and   smiled  ;    and   Gudurz 

made  reply  ; — 
"  What     then,   O    Rustum,    will    men 

say  to  this, 
When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth, 

an  d  seeks 
Thee  most  of  all,  and  thou,  whom  most 

he  seeks, 
Hidest  thy  face?    Take  heed  lest  men 

should  say : 
Like  some  old  miser,  Rustum  hoards  his 

fame. 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  toith  younger  men." 
And    greatly    moved,    then    Rustum 

made  reply  : — 
"O  Gudurz,   wherefore  dost  thou  say 

such  words? 
Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to 

say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or 

famed, 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me  ? 
Are  not  they  mortal,  am  not  I  myself  ? 
But  who  for  men  of  nought  would  do 

great  deeds  ? 
Come,    thou    shalt    see    how    Rustum 

hoards  his  fame ! 
But  I  will   fight  unknown,  and  in  plain 

arms  ; 
Lei    not   men   say  of  Rustum,   he  was 

match'd 
In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man." 
He  spoke,  and  frown'd  ;  and  Gudurz 

turn'd,  and  ran 


732 


BRITISH    POETS 


Back  quickly  through  the  uauip  in  fear 

and  joy- 
Fear  at  his  wrath,  but  joy  that  Rustum 

came. 
But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent-door,  and 

call'd 
His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring 

his  arms, 
And  clad   himself  in  steel ;  the  arms  lie 

chose 
Were   plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no 

device, 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold, 
And,  from  the  fluted,  spine  atop,  a  plume 
Of  horsehair  waved,  a  scarlet  horsehair 

plnme. 
So  arm'd,  he  issued  forth  ;  and  Ruksh, 

his  horse, 
Follow'd    him   like  a  faithful  hound  at 

heel — 
Ruksh,     whose      renown     was     noised 

through  all  the  earth, 
The  horse,   whom   Rustum  on    a  foray 

once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him 

home, 
And   rear'd   him  ;    a   bright   bay,    with 

lofty  crest, 
Dight  with  a   saddle-cloth  of  broider'd 

green 
Crusted  with  gold,  and  on  the  ground 

were  work'd 
All   beasts   of  chase,  all   beasts   which 

hunters  know. 
So  follow'd,  Rustum  left  his  tents,  and 

cross'd 
The  camp,  and  to  the  Persian  host  ap- 
pear 'd. 
And   all   the   Persians   knew   him,   and 

with  shouts 
Hail'd  :  but  the  Tartars  knew  not  who 

he  was. 
And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps 

on  shore, 
By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all  day  in  tin;  blue  waves,  at 

night, 
Having   made   up   Ins   tale  of  precious 

pearls, 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands — 
So  dear  to   the   pale   Persians   Rustum 

came. 
And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  ad- 
vanced, 
And  Sohrab  arm'd  in  Hainan's  tent,  and 

came. 
And  as  afield  the  reapers  cut  a  swath 


Djwn   through    the    middle  of  a  rich 

man's  corn, 
And  on  each  side  are  squares  of  stand- 
ing corn, 
And  in  the  midst  a  stubble,  short  and 

bare — 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men, 

with  spears 
Bristling,  and   in  the  midst,    the   open 

sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and 

cast 
His  eyes  toward  the  Tartar  tents,  and 

saw 
Sohrab  come  forth,  and  eyed  him  as  he 

came. 
As  some  rich  woman,  on  a  winter's 

morn, 
Eyes  through  her  silken  curtains  the 

poor  drudge 
Who  with  numb  blacken'd  fingers  makes 

her  fire — 
At  cock-crow,  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn. 
When  the   frost    flowers  the   whiten'd 

window-panes — 
And  wonders  how  she  lives,  and  what 

the  thoughts 
Of  that  poor  drudge  may  be  ;  so  Rus- 
tum eyed 
The  unknown  adventurous  youth,  who 

from  afar 
Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All   the   most   valiant   chiefs  ;   long   he 

perused 
His  spirited  air,  and  wonder'd  who  he 

was. 
For  very  young    he    seem'd,   tenderly 

rear'd  ; 
Like  some  young  cypress,  tall,  and  dark, 

and  straight, 
Which   in   a   queen's    secluded    garden 

throws 
Its  slight  dark   shadow  on  the   moonlit 

turf, 
By  midnight,  to  a  bubbling   fountain's 

sound — 
So    slender    Sohrab    seem'd,   so    softly 

rear'd. 
And  a  deep  pity  enter 'd  Rustum's  soul 
As  he  beheld  him  coming  ;  and  he  stood, 
And  beckon'd  to  him  with  his  hand,  and 

said  : — 
"  O  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  Heaven 

is  soft, 
And  warm,  and  pleasant ;  but  the  grave 

is  cold  ! 
Heaven's  air  is  better  than  the  cold  dead 

grave. 
Behold  me  !  I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron, 


ARNOLD 


733 


And  tried  ;  and  I  have  stood  on  many  a 

field 
Of  blood,  and  I  have  fought  with  many 

a  foe — 
Never  was   that   field   lost,  or  that  foe 

saved. 
0  Sohrab,  wherefore  wilt  thou  _.-:h  on 

death  ? 
Be  govern'd  !  quit  the  Tartar  host,  and 

come 
To  Iran,  and  he  as  my  son  to  me, 
And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die  ! 
There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave   as 

thou." 
So  he  spake,  mildly  ;  Sohrab  heard  his 

voice, 
The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum,  and  he  saw 
His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand, 
Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a 

chief 
Hath   builded  on  the  waste   in   former 

years 
Against   the  robbers;  and  he  saw  that 

head, 
Streak'd  with  its  first  gray  hairs  ; — hope 

filled  his  soul, 
And  he  ran  forward  and  embraced  his 

knees, 
And  clasp'd  his  hand  within  his  own, 'and 

said  :— 
"  O,  by  thy  father's  head!    by  thine 

own  soul  ! 
Art  thou  not  Rustum?  speak  !  art  thou 

not  he?" 
But  Rustum  eyed  askance  the  kneel- 
ing youth, 
And  turn' d  away,  and  spake  to  his  own 

soul : — 
'■  Ah  me.  I  muse  what  this  young  fox 

may  mean  ! 
False,  wily,  boastful,  are   these   Tartar 

boys. 
For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks. 
And  hide  it  not,  but  say  :  Rustum  isliere! 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our 

foes. 
But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight, 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  proffer  court- 
eous gifts 
A  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  andgohis  way. 
And  on  a  feast-tide,  in  Afrasiab's  hall, 
In  Samarkand,  he  will  ai'ise  and  cry  : 
'I    challenged     once,    when     the     two 

armies  canqvd 
Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 
To  cope  with  me  in  single  figh I  ;  but  they 
Shrank,  only  Rustum   dared  ;    then    lie 

and  I  [away.' 

Changed  gifts,  and  went  on  equal  term-, 


So   will  he  speak,  perhaps,  while  meJ 

applaud ; 
Then  were   the  chiefs  of   Iran   shamed 

through  me." 
And  then  he  turn'd,  and  sternly  spake 

aloud  :— 
"  Rise  !     wherefore    dost     thou     vainly 

question  thus 
Of  Rustum  ?     I   am   here,  whom   thou 

hast  call'd 
By   challenge   forth  ;    make    good    thy 

vaunt,  or  yield  ! 
Is  it  with  Rustum   only  thou   wouldst 

fight  ? 
Rash   boy,  men   look  on  Rustum's  face 

and  flee  ! 
For  well  I  know,  that  did  great  Rustum 

stand 
Before  thy  face  this  day,  and  were  re- 

veal'd. 
There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting 

more. 
But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this — 
Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul  : 
Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt 

and  yield, 
Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand, 

till  winds 
Bleach  them,  or  Oxus  with  his  summer- 
floods, 
Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away." 
He  spoke  ;  and  Sohrab  answer'd,   on 

his  feet : — 
"Art   thou   so   fierce?    Thou   wilt   not 

fright  me  so  ! 
I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 
Yet  this  thou   hast  said  well,  did  Rus- 
tum stand 
Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fight- 
ing then. 
But  Rustum  is  far  hence,  and  we  stand 

here. 
Begin  !  thou  art  more  vast,  more  dread 

than  I. 
And  thou  art  proved,  I  know,  and  I  am 

young— 
But  yet  success  sways  with  the  breath 

of  Heaven. 
And   though    thou    thiukest    that   thou 

knowest  sure  [know. 

Thy  victory,  yet  thou  canst  not  surely 
For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea. 
Poised  onthetopofa  huge  wave  of  fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to 

fall. 
And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land, 
( >i-  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea, 
Back  out   to  sea,   to  the   deep  waves  of 

death, 


734 


BRITISH    POETS 


We  know  not.  and  no  search  will  make 

ns  know  ; 
Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour." 
He  spoke,  and  Rust  urn-  answer'd  not, 

hut  hut  I'd 
His    spear  ;   down   from   the     shoulder, 

down  it  came. 
As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk, 
That  long  nas  tower'd  in  the  airy  clouds, 
Drops  like  a  plummet  ;  Sohrab  saw    it 

come, 
And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a  flash  ;  the 

spea  r 
Hiss'd,  and  went  quivering  down  into  the 

sand, 
Which  it   sent   flying  wide  ; — then  Soh- 
rab threw 
In  turn,  and  full  struck  Rustum's  shield  ; 

sharp  rang, 
The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turn'd 

the  spear. 
And  Rustum  seized  his  club,  which  none 

but  he 
Could  wield  ;  an  unlopp'd  trunk  it  was, 

and  huge. 
Still   rough — like   those  which    men  in 

treeless  plains 
To  build  them  boats  fish  from  the  flooded 

rivers, 
Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
By    their    dark    springs,    the    wind   in 

winter-time 
Hath  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wrack, 
And   strewn   the    channels    with    torn 

boughs — so  huge 
The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and 

struck 
One  stroke  ;  but  again  Sohrab  sprang 

aside, 
Lithe  as   the   glancing   snake,   and   the 

club  came 
Thundering  to  earth,    and   leapt   from 

Rustum's  hand. 
And  Rustum  follow'd  his  own  blow,  and 

fell 
To    his    knees,   and    with    his    fingers 

clutch'd  the  sand  ; 
And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheathed 

his  sword, 
And  pierced  the  mighty   Rustum   while 

he  lay 
Dizzy,  and   on   his   knees,   and   choked 

with  sand  ; 
But  he  look'd  on,  and  smiled,  nor  bared 

his  sword, 
But  courteously  drew  back,  and   spoke, 

and  said  : — 
"Thou  strik'st  too  hard  !  that  club   of 

thine  will  float 


Upon   the   summer-floods,  and    not   my 

bones. 
But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth  !  not  wroth 

am  I  ; 
No,  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my 

soul. 
Thou  say'st,  thou  art  not  Rustum  ;  be  it 

so'! 
Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so   touch 

my  soul? 
Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too — 
Have  waded   foremost   in   their   bloody 

waves, 
And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dying 

men  ; 
But   never  was  my  heart  thus  touch'd 

before. 
Are  they  from  Heaven,  these  softenings 

of  the  heart  ? 
O    thou    old    warrior,    let   us   yield   to 

Heaven  ! 
Come,  plant  we  here  in  earth  our  angry 

spears, 
And   make   a   truce,  and   sit  upon  this 

sand, 
And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like 

friends, 
And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum's 

deeds. 
There  are   enough   foes   in   the  Persian 

host, 
Whom  I  may  meet,  and  strike,  and  feel 

no  pang : 
Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom 

thou 
Mayst  fight ;  fight  them,  when  they  con- 
front thy  spear ! 
But  oh,  let  there  be  peace  'twixt  thee 

and  me ! " 
He  ceased,  but  while  he  spake,  Rus- 
tum had  risen, 
And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage ; 

his  club 
He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regain'd  his  spear, 
Whose    fiery   point  •  now   in   his   mail'd 

,  right-hand 
Blazed    bright    and   baleful,   like    that 

autumn-star, 
The  baleful  sign  of  fevers  ;  dust  had  soil'd 
His  stately  crest,  and  dimm'd  his  glit- 
tering arms. 
His  breast  heaved,  his  lips  foani'd,  and 

twice  his  voice 
Was  choked   with  i-age ;  at  last  these 

words  broke  way  : — 
"  Girl !  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with 

thy  hands  ! 
CurPd  minion,  dancer,  coiner  of  sweet 

words  1 


ARNOLD 


735 


Fight,  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no 

more  ! 
Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens   now 
With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art 

wont  to  dance  ; 
But  on  the  Oxus-sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and   with  me,  who  make  no 

play 
Of  war ;  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge, 

and  wine ! 
Remember  all  thy  valor  ;  try  thy  feints 
And  cunning  !  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone  ; 
Because   thou   hast   shamed  me   before 

both  the  hosts 
With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,  and  thy 

girl's  wiles." 
He  spoke,  and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his 

taunts, 
And  he  too   drew   his  sword  ;   at   once 

they  rush'd 
Together,  as  » wo  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come  rushing  down  together  from  the 

clouds, 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west ; 

their  shields 
Dash'd  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,    such   as  that  the    sinewy    wood- 
cutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 
Of  hewing   axes,    crashing   trees — such 

blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hail'd. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars 

took  part 
In  that  unnatural  conflict ;  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  dark'd 

the  sun 
Over  the   fighters'  heads;  and  a  wind 

rose 
Under   their   feet,  and  moaning   swept 

the  plain. 
And  in  a  sandy  whirlwind   wrapp'd  the 

pair. 
In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapp'd,  and 

they  alone  ; 
For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either 

hand 
Stood   in   broad   daylight,   and  the  sky 

was  pure, 
And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But   in   the   gloom   they    fought,    with 

bloodshot  eyes 
And     laboring    breath  ;     first    Rustum 

struck  the  shield 
Which  Sohrab  held   stiff  out;  the  steel- 
spiked  spear 
Rent  the  tough  plates,  butfail'd  to  reach 

the  skin, 


And  Rustum   pluck'd  it  back   with  an- 
gry groan. 

Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rus- 
tum's  helm, 

Nor  clove  its   steel   quite   through ;  but 
all  the  crest 

He  shore  away,  and  that   proud  horse- 
hair plume. 

Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust ; 

And  Rustum  bow'd  his  head  ;  but  then 
the  gloom 

Grew  blacker,   thunder  rumbled  in  the' 
air, 

And   lightnings  rent   the    cloud  ;    and 
Ruksh,  the  horse, 

Who  stood  at  hand,  utter'd   a  dreadful 
cry  ;— 

No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the 
roar 

Of  some  pain'd  desert-lion,  who  all  day 

Hath  trail'd   the  hunter's  javelin  in  his 
side, 

And   comes   at   night  to   die   upon  the 
sand. 

The    two    hosts    heard    that    cry,    and 
quaked  for  fear, 

And    Oxus    curdled    as   it    cross'd    his 
stream. 

But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quail'd  not,  but 
rush'd  on, 

And  struck  again  ;  and  again   Rustum 
bow'd 

His  head  ;  but  this   time   all  the  blade, 
like  glass, 

Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the 
helm, 

And  in  the  hand  the  hilt  remain'd  alone. 

Then  Rustum  raised  his  head  ;  his  dread- 
ful eyes 

Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menac- 
ing spear, 

And  shouted  :  Rustum  ! — Sohrab   heard 
that  shout, 

And  shrank   amazed  ;  back   he  recoil'd 
one  step, 

And  scann'd  with  blinking  eyes  the  ad- 
vancing form  ; 

And  then    lie  stood  bewilder'd  ;   and  he 
dropp'd 

His    covering    shield,     and    the     spear 
pierced  his  side. 

He  reel'd,  and  staggering  back,  sank  to 
the  ground, 

And  then  the  "loom   dispersed,    and  the 

wind    fell. 

And    the    bright   sun   broke   forth,  and 

melted  all 
The  cloud  ;  ami  the  two  armies  saw  the 

pair — 


736 


BRITISH    POETS 


Saw   Rustum   standing,   safe  upon  his 

feet, 
And  Sohrab,    wounded,    on  the  bloody 

?aiul. 
Then,    with     a   bitter  smile,  Rustum 

began  : — 
"  Sohrab,  thou  thought  sst  in  thy  mind 

to  kill 
A  Persian    lord   this   da}',  and  strip  his 

corpse, 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent. 
Or  else  that  the  great   Rustum   would 

come  down 
Himself  to   fight,    and   that    thy   wiles 

would  move 
His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 
And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would 

praise 
Thy  courage   or  thy  craft,   and  spread 

thy  fame. 
To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 
Fool,  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown 

man  ! 
Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and   to  thy  father 

old." 
And,  with  a  fearless  mien,  Sohrab  re- 
plied : — 
"Unknown   thou    art;  yet    thy    fierce 

vaunt  is  vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boast- 
ful man  ! 
No  !  Rustum    slays   me,   and   this  filial 

heart. 
For  were  I  matoh'd  with  ten  such  men 

as  thee, 
And  I  were  that  which  till  to-day  I  was, 
They  should  be   lying   here,  I  standing 

there. 
But  that   beloved   name  unnerved   my 

arm — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in 

thee. 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made 

my  shield 
Fall  ;  and   thy   spear   transfix'd   an  un- 

arm'd  foe. 
And  now7  thou  boastest,  and  insult'st  my 

fate . 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  man,  tremble 

to  hear 
The   mighty   Rustum  shall   avenge   my 

death  ! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the 

world, 
He  shall  avenge  my  death,   and  punish 

thee ! " 
As   when   some  hunter  in  the  spring 

hath  found 


A  1  needing  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest, 

Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake, 

And  pierced   her  with  an  arrow  as  she 
rose, 

And  followed  her  to  find  her  where  she 
fell 

Far  off  ; — anon  her  mate  comes  winging 
back 

From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  de- 
scries 

His  huddling   young  left  sole  ;  at  that, 
he  checks 

His    pinion,    and     with     short    uneasy 
sweeps 

Circles  above  hisej'ry,  with  loud  screams 

Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her   nest ;  but 
she 

Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 

In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 

A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers  —  never 
more 

Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it  ; 

Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 

Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by — 

As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows 
his  loss. 

So  Rustum   knew  not  his  own  loss,  but 
stood 

Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not. 
But,  with  a  cold  incredulous  voice,  he 
said  : — 

"  What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  re- 
venge ? 

The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son." 
And,  with  a  failing  voice,   Sohrab  re- 
plied * — 

"  Ah  yes,  he  had  !  and  that  lost  son  am  I. 

Surely  the  news  will  one   day  reach  his 
ear, 

Reach  Rustum,  where  he   sits,   and  tar- 
ries long, 

Somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  but  far 
from  here 

And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make 
him  leap 

To  arms,  and  cry   for   vengeance   upon 
thee. 

Fierce  man,  bethink  thee,   for  an   only 
son  ! 

What    will  that   grief,    what  will   that 
vengeance  be  ? 

Oh,  could  I  live,   till   I   that   grief   had 
seen  ! 

Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her, 

My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells 

With    that   old   king,    her   father,    who 
grows  gray 

With   age,   and   rules   over  the   valiant 
Koords. 


ARNOLD 


737 


Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp, 
With  spoils  and  honor,  when  the  war  is 

done. 
But  a  dark  rumor  will  be  bruited  up. 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until   it   reach   her 

ear; 
And  then  will   that  defenceless   woman 

learn 
That  Sohrab  will   rejoice   her   sight   no 

more, 
But  fchat  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe, 
By  the  far-distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain." 
He  spoke  ;  and  as  he  ceased,  he   wept 

aloud, 
Thinking  of   her   he   left,  and   his   own 

death. 
He  spoke  ;  but  Rustum  listen'd,  plunged 

in  thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who    spoke,    although    he  call'd  back 

names  he  knew  ; 
For  he  had   had   sure   tidings  that   the 

babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him, 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  ail- 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him    word,    for 

fear 
Rustum  should  seek  the  boy,  to  train  in 

arms 
And  so   he   deem'd   that   either   Sohrab 

took, 
By  a  false  boast,  the   style  of   Rustum's 

son  ; 
Or  that  men  gave  it   him,    to   swell   his 

fame. 
So  deem'd  lie  ;  yet  he  listen'd,  plunged 

in  thought 
And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of    the    bright   rocking   Ocean  sets   to 

shore 
At  the  full  moon  ;  tears  gather'd  in    his 

eyes  ; 
For  he  remetnbev'd  his  own  early  youth, 
And  all   its  bounding    rapture  ;    as,  at 

dawn, 
The  shepherd  from   his   mountain-lodge 

descries 
A  f;ir.  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Through  many   rolling  clouds — so  Rus- 
tum saw 
His  youth  ;  saw  Sohrab's  mother,  in  her 

bloom  ; 
And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved 

well 
His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him    his 

fair  child 
With  joy  :  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they 

led. 

47 


They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer- 
time— 
The  castle,  and   the  dewy  woods,  and 

hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delight- 
ful hills 
In  Ader-baijan.    And  he  saw  that  Youth, 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be   his  own  dear 

son, 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand. 
Like  some  rich  hyacinth  which   by   the 

scythe 
Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut, 
Mowing  the  garden  grass-plots   near   its 

bed, 
And  lies,   a  fragrant  tower    of  purple 

bloom, 
On  the  mown,   dying  grass — so  Sohrab 

lay, 
Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 
And  Rustum  gazed  on   him   with   grief, 

and  said  : — 
"  O  Sohrab.  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 
Whom  Rustum,   wert   thou   his,   might 

well  have  loved. 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thee  false — thou  art  not   Rus- 
tum's son. 
For  Rustum  had  no   son  ;  one   child   he 

had — 
But  one — a  girl ;  who  with  her  mother 

now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams 

of  us — 
Of  us  she  dreams   not,    nor   of   wounds, 

nor  war." 
But  Sohrab  answer'd  him   in   wrath  ; 

for  now 
The  anguish  of  the  deep-fix'd  spear  grew 

fierce, 
And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel, 
And  let  the  blood  flow   free,   and   so   to 

die — 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn 

foe  ; 
And,   rising    sternly    on    one    arm,    lie 

said  : — 
'•  Man,  who  art  thou   who   dost   deny 

my  words  ? 
Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men, 
And  falsehood,  while    I    lived,    was    far 

from  mine. 
I  tell  thee,  priofc'd  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother 

gave, 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she 

bore." 
He  spoke  ;  and  all  the  blood  left  Rus- 

tum's  cheeks, 


73§ 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  his  knees  totter'd,  and  he  smote  his 

hand 
Against    his    breast,    his  heavy  mailed 

hand. 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  dank'd  aloud  ; 
And  to  his  heart  he  press'd   the    other 

hand. 
And  in  a   hollow   voice   he   spake,   and 

said  : — 
"  Sohrab,   that   were  a  proof    which 

could  not  lie  ! 
If  thou  show  this,    then   art  thou   Rus- 

tum's  son." 
Then,  with  weak  hasty  fingers,  Sohrab 

loosed 
His  belt,   and  near  the  shoulder  bared 

his  arm, 
And  show'd   a  sign   in   faint  vermilion 

points 
Prick'd  ;     as    a  cunning    workman,   in 

Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porce- 
lain vase, 
An  emperor's  gift — at  early    morn    he 

paints, 
And  all    day    long,    and,    when    night 

comes,  the  lamp 
Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin 

hands — 
So  delicately  prick'd  the  sign  appear'd 
On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign   of   Rustum's 

seal. 
It  was  that  griffin,  which  of   old   rear'd 

Zal, 
Rustum's  great  father,  whom  they  left 

to  die, 
A  helpless  babe,  among   the   mountain- 
rocks  ; 
Him    that    kind    creature    found,   and 

rear'd,  and  loved — 
Then   Rustum   took   it   for   his  glorious 

sign. 
And   Sohrab   bared   that   image   on  his 

arm, 
And  himself  scann'd  it  long  with  mourn- 
ful eyes, 
And   then  he  touch'd  it  with  his  hand 

and  said : — 
"How  say'st  thou?    Is  that  sign  the 

proper  sign 
Of    Rustum's     son,   or    of    some    other 

man  's?" 
He   spoke ;    but   Rustum   gazed,    and 

gazed,  and  stood 
Speechless ;  and    then    he    utter'd   one 

sharp  cry  : 
O  boy — thy  father  ! — and  his  voice  choked 

there.  [eyes. 

And  then  a  dark  cloud  pass'd  before  his 


And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down 
to  earth. 

But  Sohrab  crawl'd  to  where  he  lay,  and 
cast 

His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  his 
lips. 

And  with  fond  faltering  fingers  stroked 
his  cheeks, 

Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life  ;  and  life 

Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his 
eyes, 

And  they   stood   wide  with  horror  ;  and 
he  seized 

In   both  his   hands  the  dust  which  lay 
around, 

And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirch'd 
his  hair, — 

His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glit- 
tering arms  ; 

And  strong  convulsive  groanings  shook 
his  breast, 

And    his    sobs    choked    him  ;     and    he 
clutch'd  his  sword. 

To  draw  it.  and  for  ever  let  life  out. 

But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held 
his  hands. 

And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spake,  and 
said  : — 
"  Father,  forbear!  for  I  but  meet  to- 
day 

The  doom  which  at  my  birth  was  writ- 
ten down 

In  Heaven,  and  thou  art   Heaven's  un- 
conscious hand. 

Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was 
thou, 

When  first  I   saw  thee  ;  and   thy  heart 
spoke  too, 

I  know  it !  but  fate  trod  those  prompt- 
ings down 

Under  its  iron  heel ;  fate,  fate  engaged 

The  strife,  and  hurl'd  me  on  my  father's 
spear. 

But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this  !  I  find 

My   father  ;    let   me    feel   that    I   have 
found  ! 

Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and 
take 

My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my 
cheeks, 

And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say  *. 
My  son  ! 

Quick  !    quick !    for   number'd   are    my 
sands  of  life, 

And  swift  ;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this 
field 

I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away — 

Sudden,  and   swift,  and  like  a   passing 
wind. 


ARNOLD 


739 


But   it   was   writ   in   Heaven   that   this 

should  be." 
So  said  lie,  and  his  voice  released  the 

heart 
Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth  ; 

he  cast 
His  arms  round  his  son's  neck,  and  wept 

aloud, 
And  kiss'd  him.     And  awe  fell  on  both 

the  hosts, 
When   they   saw   Rustum's  grief ;    and 

Ruksh,  the  horse, 
With  his   head   bowing  to  the   ground 

and  mane 
Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in 

mute  wToe 
First  to  the  one,  then  to  the  other  moved 
His   head,   as  if    inquiring   what   their 

grief 
Might  mean  ;  and   from   his  dark,  com- 
passionate eyes, 
The   hi.i^   warm  tears  roll'd   down,  and 

caked  the  sand. 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice, 

and  said  : — ■ 
"  Ruksh,    now  thou  grievest  ;  but,  O 

Ruksh  ;  thy  feet 
Should  first  have  rotted  on  their  nimble 

joints. 
Or  ere  thev  brought  thy  master  to  this 

field* ! " 
But  Sohrab  look'd  upon  the  horse  and 

said  ; — 
"Is  this,  then,  Ruksh?    How  often,   in 

past  days. 
My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave 

steed, 
My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse  !  and 

said, 
That  I  should  one  day   find  thy  lord  and 

thee. 
Come,    let   me   lay   my   hand  upon  thy 

mane  ! 
O  Ruksh,  thouart  more  fortunate  than  I; 
For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never 

go, 
And  snuff'd  the  breezes  of  my  father's 

Ik  ime, 
And  thou   hast   trod  the  sands  of  Seis- 

fcan, 
And  seen  the  River  of  Helnuind,  and  the 

Lake 
Of  Zirrali ,  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 
Has  often  stroked  thy  neck,  ami  given 

thee  food, 
Corn  in  a   golden    platter   soak'd  with 

wine, 
And  said  ;  0  Ruksh  !  bear  Rustum  irrll .' 

—but  I 


Have  never  known  my  grandsire's  fur- 

row'd  face, 
Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 
Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Hel- 

m und  stream  ; 
But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and 

seen 
Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand, 
Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste, 
And   the   black   Toorkmun   tents  ;    and 

only  drunk 
The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 
Kohik,   and   where    the   Kalmuks   feed 

their  sheep, 
The  northern  Sir  ;  and  this  great  Oxus 

stream, 
The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die." 
Then,  with  a  heavy  groan,  Rustum  be- 

wail'd : — 
"Oh,  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over 

me ! 
Oh,  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll   tumbling   in   the   current  o'er  my 

head  ! " 
But,  with  a  grave  mild  voice,  Sohrab 

replied  : — 
"  Desire  not  that,  my  father  !  thou  must 

live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and 

live, 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and 

die. 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age  ; 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come  !  thou  seest  this  great  host  of 

men 
Which   follow   me  ;    I   pray  thee,   slay 

not  these  ! 
Let  me  entreat   for  them  ;  what  have 

they  done  ? 
They  follow'd  me,  my  hope,  my  fame, 

my  star. 
Let   them   all   cross   the   Oxus   back  in 

peace. 
But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send 

with  them, 
But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for 

me, 
Tin  ai,  and  the  snow-hair'd  Zal,  and  all 

thy  friends. 
Ami    thou    must  lay  me  in  that   lovely 

earl  h, 
Ami    heap  a    stately  mound  above  my 

bones, 
An  I  plain  a  far  seen  pillar  Over  all. 
That   so  the  passing   horseman   on   the 

waste 


74° 


BRITISH    POETS 


May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and 

cry:' 
Sohrab,    the  mighty   Rust  inn's  son,  lies 

there, 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance 

kill! 
And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave." 
And.  with  a  mournful  voice,  Rustum 

replied  : — 
•  Fear   not,  as  thou   hast  said,  Sohrab, 

my  son, 
So  shall  it  be;  for  I  will  burn  my  tents, 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence 

with  me, 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 
And  place  thee  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for 

thee, 
With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my 

friends, 
And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a   stately  mound   above   thy 

bones. 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all, 
And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in   thy 

grave. 
And   I    will    spare   thy   host ;     yea,    let 

them  go  ! 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in 

peace  ! 
What    should   I   do   with    slaying    any 

more  ? 
For   would   that  all    that   I   have   ever 

slain 
Might  be  once  more  alive  ;  my  bitterest 

foes, 
And  they  who  were  call'd  champions  in 

their  time, 
And   through  whose  death  I  won   that 

fame  I  have  — 
And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 
A  poor,  mean   soldier,  and  without  re- 
nown, 
So  thou  might  est  live  too,  my  son,  my 

son  ! 
Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself, 
Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 
Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke 

of  thine, 
Not  thou  of  mine  !  and  I  might  die,  not 

thou  ; 
And  I.  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan  ; 
And  Zal  might  weep   above  my  grave, 

not  thine  ; 
And  say  :  O  son  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 
For  willingly,  I  know,  thou  nieVst  thine 

end ! 
But  now  in  blood  and   battles  was  my 

youth, 
And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age, 


And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood.' 
Then,  at   the   point  of   death,  Sohrab 

replied  :  — 
"  A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful 

man  ! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace  ;  only  not 

now, 
Not  yet  !  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that 

day, 
When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted 

ship. 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Klios- 

roo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea, 
From    laying    thy   dear    master   in   his 

grave." 
And  Rustum  gazed  in  Sohrab's  face, 

and  said  : — 
"Soon   be  that  day,  my  son,  and  deep 

that  sea  ! 
Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure." 
He  spoke  ;  and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him, 

and  took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and 

eased 
His  wound's  imperious  anguish  ;  but  the 

blood 
Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and 

life 
Flow'd  with  the  stream ; — all  down  his 

cold  white  side 
The  crimson  torrent  ran,  dim  now  and 

soil'd, 
Like  the  soil'd  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,   freshly  gather'd,   on   the    native 

bank, 
By  children  whom  their  nurses  call  with 

haste 
Indoors  from   the   sun's   eye  ;   his  head 

droop'd  low, 
His  limbs  grew  slack  ;  motionless,  white, 

he  lay — 
White,  with   eyes    closed ;     only   when 

heavy  gasps, 
Deep  heavy  gasps  quivering  through  all 

his  frame, 
Convulsed   him   back  to  life,  he  open'd 

them, 
And  fix'd   them   feebly  on  his  father's 

face  ; 
Till    now   all   strength   was   ebb'd,  and 

from  his  limbs, 
Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away, 
Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it 

left. 
And  youth,  and  bloom,  and  this  delight- 
ful world. 
So,  on   the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay 

dead : 


ARNOLD 


741 


And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horse- 
man's cloak 

Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead 
son. 

As    those    black    granite    pillars,   once 
high-rear'd 

By  Jemshid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 

His  house,  now  'mid  their  broken  flights 
of  steps 

Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the   moun- 
tain side — 

So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 
And   night  came  down   over  the  sol- 
emn waste, 

And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole 
pair, 

And  darken'd  all ;  and  a  cold  fog,  with 
night, 

Crept    from    the   Oxus.     Soon    a    hum 
arose, 

As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 

Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog  ;  for 
now 

Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took 
their  meal ; 

The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 

Southward,    the   Tartars    by   the    river 
marge  ; 

And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 
But  tlie  majestic  river  floated  on, 

Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of   that   low 
land. 

Into    the     frosty    starlight,   and    there 
moved. 

Rejoicing,  through  the  hush'd  Choras- 
mian  waste, 

Under  the  solitary  moon  ; — lie  flowM 

Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgun  je, 

Brimming,  and  bright,  aud  large  ;   then 
sands  began 

To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his 
streams, 

And  split  his  currents  ;  that  for  many  a 
league 

The   shorn   and   parcell'd   Oxus  strains 
along 

Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy 
isles — 

Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 

In  his  high  moun tain-cradle  in  Pamere, 

A  foil'd  circuitous  wanderer — till  at  last 

The  long'd-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard, 
and  wide 

His    luminous   home   of   waters   opens, 
bright 

And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new- 
bathed  stars 

Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

1853, 


PHILOMELA 

Hark  !  ah,  the  nightingale — 

The  tawny-throated  ! 

Hark,  from  that   moonlit  cedar  what  a 

burst ! 
What  triumph  !  hark  ! — what  pain  ! 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 
Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder'd  brain 
That    wild,    unqueneh'd,    deep-sunken, 

old-world  pain — 
Say,  will  it  never  heal? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
Am.  moonshine,  and  the  dew. 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold. 

Here,   through  the    moonlight   on   this 

English  grass, 
The   unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian 

wild? 
Dost  thou  again  peruse 
With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 
The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's 

shame? 
Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make 

resound 
With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone   Daulis,  and   the  high   Cephissian 

vale  ? 
Listen.  Eugenia — 
How   thick   the   bursts  come  crowding 

through  the  leaves ! 
Again — thou  hearest  ? 
Eternal  passion  ! 
Eternal  pain!  1853. 

THE   SCHOLAR-GIPSY 

Go,  for  thev  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the 

hill  ; 
Go,  shepherd,   and    untie    the   wattled 
cotes ! 
No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  Un- 
fed, 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows   rack  their 
throats. 
Nor  the  cropp'd  herbage  shoot  another 
head. 
But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  tc 
rest, 


742 


BRITISH   FOETS 


And  only   the  white  sheep  are  some- 
times seen 

Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon- 
blanch'd  green, 
Come,  shepherd,  and  again   begin   the 
quest ! 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of 

late — 
In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he 
leaves 
His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen 
cruse, 
And   in    the  sun  all  morning  binds  the 
sheaves, 
Then   here,  at   noon,  comes   back  his 
stores  to  use — 
Here  will  I  sit  and  wait. 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 
The   bleating  of   the  folded  flocks   is 

borne. 
With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in   the 
corn — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 

Screen'd  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half- 

reap'd  field, 
And  here  till  sun-down,  shepherd  !  will 
I  be. 
Through   the  thick   corn   the   scarlet 
poppies  peep, 
And   round  green   roots  and   yellowing 
stalks  I  see 
Pale    pink    convolvulus    in     tendrils 
creep  ; 
And  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  per- 
fumed showers 
Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am 

laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun 
with  shade  ; 
And  the  eye   travels   down  to  Oxford's 
towers. 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's 

book — 
Come,   let  me   read    the  oft-read  tale 
again  ! 
The  story  of  the  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive 
brain, 
Who,    tired   of    knocking   at    prefer- 
ment's door, 
One  summer-morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gipsy- 
lore, 
And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild 
brotherhood, 


And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  lit- 
tle good. 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no 
more. 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country- 
lanes, 
Two  scholars,  whom  at   college  erst  he 
knew, 
Met  him,  and   of   his   way  of  life  en- 
quired ; 
Whereat   he   answer'd,   that  the  gipsy- 
crew, 
His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  de- 
sired 
The  workings  of  men's  bi'ains, 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts 
they  will. 
"  And  I,"  he  said,  "  the  secret  of  their 

ait. 
When  fully  learn'd,  will  to  the  world 
impart  ; 
But  it  needs  heaven-sent   moments  for 
this  skill." 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  return'd  no 

more. — 
But    rumors    hung   about  the  country- 
side, 
That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to 
stray, 
Seen    by  rare    glimpses,    pensive    and 
tongue-tied, 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of 
gray, 
The  same  the  gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in 
spring ; 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in   the   Berk- 
shire moors, 
On  the  warm  ingle-bench,  the  smock- 
f  rock'd  boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering, 

But,  'mid   their   drink   and   clatter,  he 

would  fly. 
And  I  myself  seem  half   to   know  thy 
looks, 
And  put  the  shepherds,  wanderer  !  on 
thy  trace  ; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare 
the  rooks 
I  ask  if  thou  hast   pass'd  their   quiet 
place ; 
Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moor'd  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer- 
heats, 
'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the 
sunshine  fills, 


ARNOLD 


743 


And  watch  the  warm,  green-muffled 
Cuinner  hills, 
And  wonder  if  thou  haurit'st  their  shy 
retreats. 

For  most.    I   know,  thou  lov'st  retired 

ground  ! 
Thee  at  the  ferry  Oxford  riders  blithe, 
Returning   home   on    summer-nights, 
have  met 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab- 
lock-hithe, 
Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  ringers 
wet, 
As  the  punt's  rope  chops  round  ; 
And    leaning    backward   in   a   pensive 
dream,' 
And   fostering   in   thy  lap  a  heap  of 

flowers 
Pluck'd  in  shy  fields  and  distant  Wych- 
wood  bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit 
stream. 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen 

no  more  ! — 
Maidens,  who  from  the  distant  hamlets 
come 
To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in 
May, 
Oft  through   the  darkening  fields  have 
seen  thee  roam. 
Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way. 
Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers — the  frail-leaf  d,  white  anem- 
one, 
Dark  bluebells   drench'd  with  dews  of 
summer  eves, 
■  And     purple     orchises   with     spotted 

leaves — 
But  none  hath   words  she   can  report  of 
thee. 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay- 
time  's  here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine 
flames. 
Men  who  through   those  wide  fields  of 
breezy  grass 
Where  black-wing'd  swallows  haunt  the 
glittering  Thames, 
To  bathe  in  the  abandon'd  lasherpass, 
Have  often  pass'd  thee  near 
Sitting  upon  the  fiver  bank  o'ergrown  : 
Mark'd   thine   outlandish     garb,     thy 

figure  span1. 
Thy   dark    vague    eyes,  and    soft  ab- 
stracted air —  [wast  gone  ! 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou 


At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner 

hills, 
Where  at  her  open  door  the  housewife 
darns. 
Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a 
gate      • 
To   watch   the   threshers  in   the  mossy 
barns. 
Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes 
and  late 
For  cresses  from  the  rills, 
Have  known  thee  eying,  all  an   April- 
day. 
The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding 

kine  ; 
And  mark'd  thee,  when  the  stars  come 
out  and  shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow 
away. 

In   autumn,   on    the    skirts  of   Bagley 

Wood- 
Where  most  the  gipsies  by  the  turf-edged 
way 
Pitch  their  smoked  tents,   and   every 
bush  you  see 
With  scarlet  patches   tagg'd  and  shreds 
of  gray, 
Above  the   forest-ground  called  Thes- 
saly— 
The  blackbird,  picking  food, 
Sees  thee,  nor  stops   his  meal,   nor  fears 
at  all  ; 
So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him 

stray. 
Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  wither'd 
spray, 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  heaven 
to  fall. 

And  once,  in   winter,    on  the   causeway 

chill 
Where  home  through  flooded  fields  foot- 
travellers  go, 
Have  I  not  pass'd  thee  on  the  wooden 
bridge, 
Wrapt  in  thy  cloak   and   battling   with 
the  snow, 
Thy  face  tow'rd  Hinksey  and  its  win- 
try ridge? 
And  thou  hast  climb'd  the  hill, 
And  gain'd  I  Ik'  white  brow  of  the  Cum- 
ner  range  : 
Turn*d  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the 

snowflakes  fall, 
The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ-Church 
hall- 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  seques- 
ter'd  grange. 


744 


BRITISH   POETS 


But  what — I  dream !  Two  hundred  years 

are  flown 
Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford 

halls. 
And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  in- 
scribe 
That  thou  wert    wander'd  from  the  stu- 
dious   walls 
To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  gipsy- 
tribe  ; 
And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiets  churchyard 
laid— 
Some  country -nook,  where  o'er  thy  un- 
known grave 
Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  net- 
tles wave, 
Under   a   dark,     red-fruited   yew-tree's 
shade. 

— No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of 

hours  ! 
For  what  wears  out  the   life  of   mortal 
men  ? 
'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their 
being  rolls  ; 
'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 
Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls 
And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  used   our   nerves   with   bliss 
and  teen, 
And  tired  upon   a   thousand   schemes 

our  wit, 
To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our   worn-out   life,   and   are— what   we 
have  been. 

Thou  hast  not  lived,  why  should'st  thou 

perish,  so? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,   one  business,    one 
desire  ; 
Else  wert  thou    long    since   number'd 
with  the  dead  ! 
Else  hadst  thou   spent,  like  other   men, 
thy  fire  ! 
The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 
And  we  ourselves  shall  go  ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot, 
And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 
And  living  as  thou   liv'st  on   Glanvil's 
page, 
Because   thou    hadst — what   we,    alas  ! 
have  not. 

For  early   didst   thou   leave   the   world, 

with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without. 
Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other 

things  ; 


Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the   languid 
doubt, 
Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much 
been  baffled,  brings. 
O  life  unlike  to  ours  ! 
Who    fluctuate    idly    without    term  or 
scope, 
Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows   for 

what  he  strives, 
And  each  half  lives  a  hundred   differ- 
ent lives ; 
Who  wait  like  thee,   but  not,  like  thee, 
in  hope. 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  heaven  I 

and  we, 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 
Who   never   deeply   felt,    nor   clearly 
wilPd, 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in 
deeds. 
Whose  vague  resolves  never  have  been 
fulflll'd  ; 
For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments 
new  ; 
Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 
And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won 
to-day — 
Ah  !  do  not  we,  wanderer  !  await  it  too  ? 

Yes,  we  await  it  ! — but  it  still  delays, 
A  nd  then  we  suffer  !  and  amongst  us  one, 
Who  most  hassuffer'd,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne  ; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 
Lays  bare  of  wretched  days  ; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth 

and  signs, 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was 

fed, 
And  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and 

how  the  head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 

This  for  our  wisest !  and  we  others  pine, 
And    wish  the     long    unhappy    dream 
would  end, 
And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try 
.to  bear ; 
With  close-lipp'd  patience  for  our  only 
friend, 
Sad   patience,   too    near   neighbor  to 
despair — 
But  none  has  hope  like  thine  ! 
Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the 
woods  dost  stray, 
Roaming    the  country-side,  a    truant 
hoy, 


ARNOLD 


745 


Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 
And  every   doubt   long  blown  by   time 
away. 

0  born  in   days  when  wits  were   fresh 

and  clear, 
And    life   ran    gaily    as    the   sparkling 
Thames  ; 
Before  the  strange  disease  of  modern 
life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims. 
Its  heads  o'ertax'd,  its  palsied  hearts, 
was  rife- 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear  ! 
Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering 
wood ! 
Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From  her   false    friend's  approach  in 
Hades  turn, 
Wave  us  away  and  keep  thy  solitude  ! 

St i  11  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade. 
With  a  free  onward  impulse  brushing 
through, 
By   night,  the  silver'd  branches  of  the 
glade — 
Far  on  the  forest-skirts,  where   none 
pursue, 
On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales 
Freshen  thy  flowers  as  in  former  years 
With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted 
ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightin- 
gales ! 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact 

tiy  ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental 
strife. 
Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet 
spoils  for  rest  ; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own 
fair  life, 
Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 
Soon.  s< ion  thy  cheer  would  die. 
Thy    hopes  grow   timorous,  and  unfix'd 
thy  powers. 
And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shift- 
ing made  ; 
And  then   thy   glad  perennial   youth 
would  fade, 
Fade  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like 
ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and 

smiles ! 
—  As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the 

sea, 


Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 

Lifting  thecool-hair'd  creepers  stealthily, 

The  fringes  of  a  south  ward-facing  brow 

Among  the  ^Egaean  Isles  ; 

And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 

Freighted    with    amber    grapes,  and 

Chian  wine, 
Green,    bursting    figs,    and     tunnies 
steep' d  in  brine — 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient 
home, 

The  young  light-hearted  masters  of  the 

waves — 
And  snatch'd  his  rudder,  and  shook  out 
more  sail ; 
And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  Blue  Midland  waters  with  the 
gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 
To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  western  straits  ;  and  unbent 
sails 
There,    where    down     cloudy     cliffs, 

through  sheets  of  foam, 
Shy    traffickers,    the    dark     Iberians 
come  ; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 

1853. 

FROM   BALDER  DEAD 

SECTION   III 

The  Gods  held  talk  together,  group'd  in 

knots, 
Round  Balder's  corpse,  which  they  had 

thither  borne; 
And  Hermod  came  down  tow'rds  them 

from  the  gate. 
And  Lok,  the  father  of  the  serpent,  first 
Beheld  him  come,  and  to  his  neighbor 

spake  : — 
"  See,   here   is    Hermod,   who   comes 

single  back 
From  Hell ;  and  shall  I  tell  thee  how  he 

seems? 
Like  as  a  farmer,  who  hath  lost  his  dog, 
Some   morn,  at   market,  in   a   crowded 

town — 
Through   many   streets   the   poor  beast 

runs  in  vain, 
And  follows  this  man  after  that,   for 

hours  ; 
And,  late  at  evening,  spent  and  panting, 

falls 
Before    a    stranger's    threshold,   not    his 

home, 
With  flanks  a-tremble,  and  his  slender 

tonirue 


746 


BRITISH  POETS 


Hangs  quivering  out  between  his  duet- 

smear'd  jaws, 
And  piteously  lie  eyes  the  passers  by ; 
But  home  his  master  comes  to  his  own 

farm. 
Far  in  the  country,  wondering  where  he 

is — 
So    Hennod    conies    to-day  unfollow'd 

home." 
And  straight  his  neighbor,  moved  with 

wrath,  replied  : — 
"Deceiver!   fair  in  form,  but    false  in 

heart ! 
Enemy,  mocker,  whom,  though  Gods, 

we  hate- 
Peace,   lest  our  father  Odin  hear  thee 

gibe  ! 
Would  I  might  see  him  snatch  thee  in 

his  hand, 
And  bind  thy  carcase,  like  a  bale,  with 

cords, 
And  hurl  thee  in  a  lake,  to  sink  or  swim  ! 
If  clear  from  plotting  Balder's  death,  to 

swim  ; 
But  deep,  if  thou  devisedst  it,  to  drown, 
And  perish,  against  fate,  before  thy  day." 
So  they  two  soft  to  one  another  spake. 
But  Odin  look'd  toward  the  land,  and  saw 
His  messenger  ;  and  he  stood  forth,  and 

cried. 
And    Hermod    came,    and    leapt    from 

Sleipner  down. 
And  in  his  father's  hand  put  Sleipner's 

rein, 
And  greeted  Odin  and  the  Gods,  and 

said  : — 
"Odin,   my  father,  and  ye,  Gods  of 

Heaven  ! 
Lo,  home,  having  perform'd  your  will,  I 

come. 
Into  the  joyless  kingdom  have  I  been, 
Below,    and   look'd   upon    the   shadowy 

tribes 
Of  ghosts,  and   communed   with   their 

solemn  queen  ; 
And  to  your  prayer  she  sends  you  this 

reply  : 
Show  her  through  all  the  world  the  signs 

of  grief! 
Fails  but  one  tiling  to  grieve,  there  Balder 

stops  ! 
Let  Gods,  men,  brutes,  beweep  him ;  plants 

and  stones : 
So  shall  she  knoio  your  loss  was  dear  in- 
deed, 
And  bend  her  heart  and  give  you  Balder 

back. " 
He  spoke  ;   and  all  the  Gods  to  Odin 

look'd  ; 


And    straight   the   Father   of   the    ages 

said  : — 
"  Ye  Gods,  these  terms  may  keep  an- 
other day. 
But  now,  put  on  your  arms,  and  mount 

your  steeds. 
And   in   procession   all  come  near,  and 

weep 
Balder  ;  for  that  is  what  the  dead  desire. 
When  ye  enough  have  wept,  then  build 

a  pile 
Of  the  heap'd  wood,  and  burn  his  corpse 

with  fire 
Out  of  our  sight ;  that  we  may  turn  from 

grief, 
And    lead,   as    erst,   our    daily   life    in 

Heaven." 
He   spoke,  and  the  Gods  arm'd  ;  and 

Odin  donn'd 
His  dazzling  corslet  and  his  helm  of  gold, 
And  led  the  way  on  Sleipner;  and  the 

rest 
Follow'd,  in  tears,  their  father  and  their 

king. 
And  thrice  in  arms  around  the  dead  they 

rode, 
Weeping  ;  the  sands  were  wetted,  and 

their  arms, 
With  their  thick-falling  tears — so  good  a 

friend 
They   mourn'd   that   day,  so  bright,  so 

loved  a  God. 
And   Odin   came,   and   laid   his   kingly 

hands 
On  Balder's  breast,  and  thus  began  the 

wail  : — ■ 
"  Farewell,  O  Balder,  bright  and  loved, 


my  son 


In   that  great  day,  the  twilight  of  the 

Gods, 
When  Muspel's  children  shall  beleaguer 

Heaven, 
Then  we  shall  miss  thy  counsel  and  thy 

arm." 
Thou  earnest  near  the  next,  O  warrior 

Thor  ! 
Shouldering  thy  hammer,  in  thy  chariot 

drawn. 
Swaying    the    long-hair'd    goats    with 

silver'd  rein  ; 
And  over   Balder's   corpse  these  words 

didst  say  : — 
"Brother,  thou  dwellest  in  the  dark- 
some land, 
And   talkest   with  the  feeble  tribes  of 

ghosts, 
Now,  and    1    know  not   how    they  prize 

thee  there —  [and  mourn'd. 

But   here,  I  know,  thou  wilt  be  miss'd 


ARNOLD 


74/ 


For  haughty  spirits  and  high  wraths  are 

rife 
Among  the   Gods  and   Heroes   here   in 

Heaven, 
As  among  those  whose  joy  and  work  is 

war  ; 
And  daily  strifes  arise,  and  angry  words. 
But   from   thy  lips,  O  Balder,  night  or 

day, 
Heard  no  one  ever  an  injurious  word 
To  God  or  Hei'o.  but  thou  keptest  back 
The   others,  laboring   to   compose  their 

brawls. 
Be  ye  then  kind,  as  Balder  too  was  kind  ! 
For  we  lose  him,  who  smoothed  all  strife 

in  Heaven." 
He  spake,  and  all  the  Gods  assenting 

wail'd. 
And  Freya  next  came  nigh,  with  golden 

tears ; 
The  loveliest  Goddess  she  in  Heaven,  by 

all 
Most  honor'd  after  Frea.  Odin's  wife. 
Her  long  ago  the  wandering  Oder  took 
To   mate,  but   left  her  to  roam  distant 

lands  ; 
Since  then  she  seeks  him,  and  weeps  tears 

of  gold. 
Names    hath    she    many  ;    Vanadis    on 

earth 
They  call   her,   Freya  is  her  name  in 

Heaven  ; 
She  in  her  hands  took  Balder's  head,  and 

spake  : — 
"  Balder,  my  brother,  thou  art  gone  a 

road 
Unknown  and  long,  and  haply  on  that 

way 
My  lon^-iost  wandering  Oder  thou  hast 

met, 
For   in   the   paths  of  Heaven  he  is  not 

found. 
01),  if  it  be  so,  tell  him  what  thou  wast 
To  his  neglected  wife,  ami  what  he  is, 
And  wring  lii^  heart  with  shame,  to  hear 

thy  word  ! 
For  ne,  my  husband,  left  me  here  to  pine, 
Not  Ioii.lc  a  wife,  when  his  unquiet  heart 
First   drove    him  from  me  into  distant 

lands  ; 
Since   then  I  vainly  seek  him  through 

the  world. 
And  weep  from  shore  to  shore  my  golden 

tears. 
But   neither  god  nor  mortal  heeds  my 

pain. 
Thou  only.  Balder,  wast  for  ever  kind, 
To  take  my  hand,  and  wipe  my  tears, 

and  say  : 


Weep  not,  O  Freya.  weep  do  golden  tears! 
One  day  the  wandering  Oder  will  ret  urn.' 
Or   thou   wilt  find   him  in  thy  faithfuu 

search 
On  some  great  road,  or  resting  in  an  inn, 
Or  at  a  ford,  or  sleeping  by  a  tree. 
So  Balder  said  ; — but  Oder,  well  I  know, 
My  truant  Oder  I  shall  see  no  more 
To  the  world's  end  ;  and  Balder  now  is 

gone. 
And  I  am  left  uncomforted  in  Heaven." 
She  spake  ;  and  all  the  Goddesses  be- 

wail'd. 
Last  from  among  the  Heroes  one  came 

near, 
No  God.  but  of  the  hero-troop  the  chief — 
Regner,  who  swept  the  northern  sea  with 

fleets, 
And  ruled  o'er  Denmark  and  the  heathy 

isles, 
Living ;    but    Ella    captured    him    and 

slew  ; — 
A  king  whose  fame  then  fill'd  the  vast  of 

Heaven. 
Now  time  obscures  it,  and  men's  later 

deeds. 
He    last    approach'd    the    corpse,    and 

spake,  and  said  : — 
"  Balder,  there  yet  are  many  Scalds 

in  Heaven 
Still  left,    and    that    chief    Scald,   thy 

brother  Brage, 
Whom     we   may  bid    to  sing,   though 

thou  art  gone. 
And  all  these  gladly,   while  we  drink, 

we  hear, 
After  the  feast  is  done,  in  Odin's  hall  ; 
But  they  harp  ever  on  one  string,  and 

wake 
Remembrance  in  our  soul  of  wars  alone, 
Such    as    on   earth    we    valiantly   have 

waged, 
And    blood,    and    ringing    blows,    and 

violent  death. 
But   when   thou  sangest,   Balder,  thou 

didst  strike 
Another  note,  and,  like  a  bird  in  spring, 
Thy  voice  of  joyance   minded   us,   and 

youth. 
And  wife,  and  children,  and  our  ancient 

home. 
Yes,  and  I,   too,   remember'd  then   no 

more 
My  dungeon,  where  the  serpents  stung 

mi'  dead. 
Nor  Ella's  victory  on  the  English  coast — 
But  I  heard   Tliora   laugh   in  Gothland 

Isle, 
And  saw  my  shepherdess  Aslauga,  tend 


;43 


BRITISH    POETS 


Her  flock  along   the   white   Norwegian 

beach. 
Tears  started  to  mine  eyes  with  yearn- 
ing joy, 
Therefore   with  grateful  heart  I  mourn 

thee  dead." 
So  Regner  spake,  and  all  the  Heroes 

groan'd.  ' 

But  now  the  sun  had  pass'd  the  height 

of  Heaven, 
And  soon  had  all  that  day  been  spent  in 

wail ; 
But  then  the  Father  of  the  ages  said  : — 
'•  Ye   Gods,   there   well   may    be   too 

much  of  wail  ! 
Bring  now  the  gather'd  wood  to  Balder's 

ship  ; 
Heap  on  the  deck  the  logs,  and  build  the 

pyre." 
But  when  the  Gods  and  Heroes  heard, 

they  brought 
The  wood  to  Balder's  ship,  and  built  a 

pile, 
Full  the  deck's  breadth,  and  lofty ;  then 

the  corpse 
Of  Balder  on  the  highest  top  they  laid, 
With  Nanna  on   his   right,   and   on   his 

left 
Hoder,  his  brother,  whom  his  own  hand 

slew. 
And  they  set  jars  of  wine  and  oil  to  lean 
Against  the  bodies,   and  stuck  torches 

near, 
Splinters  of  pine-wood,  soak'd  with  tur- 
pentine ; 
And  brought  his  arms  and  gold,  and  all 

his  stuff. 
And  slew  the  dogs  who  at  his  table  fed, 
And   his   horse,   Balder's    horse,    whom 

most  he  loved, 
And  placed  them  on  the  pyre,  and  Odin 

threw 
A  last  choice  gift  thereon,  his  golden 

ring. 
The  mast  they  fixed,  and  hoisted  up  the 

sails, 
Then  they  put  fire  to  the  wood ;  and 

Thor  [stern 

Set  his  stout  shoulder  hard  against  the 
To  push  the  shipthrough  the  thick  sand  ; 

sparks  flew 
From  the  deep  ti-ench  she  plough'd,  so 

strong  a  God 
Furrow'd  it  ;  and  the  water  gurgled  in. 
And  the  ship  floated  on  the  waves,  and 

rock'd. 
But  in  the  hills  a  strong  east-wind  arose, 
And  came  down  moaning   to  the  sea  ; 

first  squalls 


Ran  black  o'er  the  sea's  face,  then  steady 

rush'd 
The  breeze,  and  fill'd  the  sails,  and  blew 

the  fire. 
And  wreathed  in  smoke  the  ship  stood 

out  to  sea. 
Soon  witli   a  roaring  rose  the  mighty 

fire, 
And  the  pile  crackled  ;  and  between  the 

logs 
Sharp  quivering  tongues  of  flame  shot 

out,  and  leaped, 
Curling  and  darting,  higher,  until  they 

lick'd 
The  summit  of  the  pile,  the  dead,  the 

mast, 
And  ate  the  shrivelling   sails  ;  but  still 

the  ship 
Drove  on,    ablaze  above  her  hull  with 

fire. 
And  the  Gods  stood  upon  the  beach,  and 

gazed. 
And   while   they   gazed,  the   sun    went 

lurid  down 
Into   the   smoke-wrapt  sea,   and    night 

came  on. 
Then   the   wind   fell,    with   night,   and 

there  was  calm  ; 
But  through  the  dark  they  watch'd  the 

burning  ship 
Still  carried  o'er  the  distant  waters  on, 
Farther  and  farther,  like  an  eye  of  fire. 
And  long,  in  the  far  dark,  blazed  Balder's 

pile ; 
But   fainter,  as  the  stars  rose  high,  it 

flared, 
The  bodies  were  consumed,  ash  choked 

the  pile. 
And  as,  in  a  decaying  winter-fire, 
A  charr'd  log,  falling,  makes  a  shower 

of  sparks — 
So  with  a  shower  of  sparks  the  pile  fell 

in, 
Reddening  the  sea  around  ;  and  all  was 

dark. 
But  the  Gods  went  by  starlight  up  the 

shore 
To  Asgard,  and  sate  down  in  Odin's  hall 
At  table,  and  the  funeral-feast  began. 
All  night  they  ate  the   boar  Serimner's 

flesh, 
And    from     their    horns,    with     silver 

rimm'd,  drank  mead, 
Silent,  and  waited  for  the  sacred  morn. 
And  morning  over  all  the  world  was 

spread . 
Then  from  their  loathed  feasts  the  Qods 

arose.  [ride 

And  took  their  horses,  and  set  forth  to 


ARNOLD 


749 


O'er  the  bridge  Bifrost,  where  is  Heim- 

dall"s  watch. 
To  the  ash  Igdrasil,  and  Ida's  plain  ; 
Thor  came  on  foot,    the  rest  on  horse- 
back rode. 
And   they   found   Mimir   sitting   by  his 

fount 
Of  wisdom,  which  beneath  the  ashtree 

springs  ; 
And  saw  the  Nornies  watering  the  roots 
Of    that     world-shadowing    tree     with 

honey-dew. 
There   came   the   Gods,   and   sate  them 

down  on  stones  ; 
And  thus  the  Father  of  the  ages  said  : — 
"  Ye  Gods,  the  terms  ye  know,  which 

Hermod  brought. 
Accept  them  or  reject  them  !  both  have 

grounds. 
Accept  them,  and  thev  bind  us,  unful- 

fill'd, 
To  leave  for  ever  Balder  in  the  grave, 
An   unrecover'd    prisoner,   shade    witli 

shades. 
But  how,  ye  say,  should   the   fulfilment 

fail  ? — 
Smooth  sound  the   terms,  and   light   to 

be  fulfill'd  ; 
For  dear-beloved   was  Balder  while   he 

lived 
In  Heaven   and   earth,  and   who   would 

grudge  him  tears  ? 
But   from   the   traitorous   seed   of  Lok 

they  come, 
These  terms,  and  I  suspect  some  hidden 

fraud. 
Bethink    ye,    Gods,    is  there     no   other 

way  ? — 
Speak,  were  not  this  a  way,  the  wav  for 

Gods? 
If  I,  if  Odin,  clad  in  radiant  arms, 
Mounted  on  Sleipner,  with   the   warrior 

Th^r 
Drawn  in   his  car  beside   me,  and   my 

sons, 
All  the  strong  brood  of  Heaven,  to  swell 

my  train. 
Should  make  irruption  into  Hela's  realm, 
And  set  the  fields  of  gloom  ablaze   with 

light. 
Ami    bring  in  triumph  Balder  back  to 

Heaven  ? " 
He  spake,  and  his  fierce  sons  applauded 

loud. 
But  Prea,  mother  of  the  Gods,  arose, 
Daughter  and    wife   of   Odin  ;  thus    she 

said  : — 
"  Odin,  thou  whirlwind,  what  a  threat 

is  this ! 


Thou  threatenest   what   transcends   thy 

might,  even  thine. 
For  of  all  powers  the  mightiest  far  art 

thou. 
Lord  over   men  on  earth,  and  Gods  in 

Heaven  ; 
Yet  even   from  thee  thyself  hath  been 

withheld 
One  thing — to   undo  what  thou  thyself 

hast  ruled. 
For  all  which  hath  been  fixt,  was  fixt 

by  thee. 
In   the    beginning,   ere   the   Gods   were 

born. 
Before  the  Heavens  were    budded,  thou 

didst  slay 
The  giant  Ymir,  whom  theabvss  brought 

forth. 
Thou  and  thv  brethren  fierce,  the  sons 

of  Bor, 
And  cast  his  trunk  to  choke  the  abysmal 

void. 
But  of  his  flesh  and  members  thou  didst 

build 
The  earth  and   Ocean,  and   above  them 

Heaven. 
And    from    the   flaming   world,    where 

Muspel  reigns, 
Thou   sent'st   and     fetched'st   fire,    and 

madest  lights, 
Sun,  moon,  and   stars,  which  thou  hast 

hung  in  Heaven, 
Dividing  clear  tl>e   paths  of   night  and 

day. 
And  Asgard  thou  didst  build,  and  Mid- 

gard  fort ; 
Then  me  thou  mad'st ;  of   us  t/ie  Gods 

were  born. 
Last,  walking  by  the  sea,  thou  foundest 

spars 
Of  wood,   and   framed'st   men,  who   till 

the  earth, 
Or  on  the  sea,  the  field  of  pirates,  sail. 
And  all   the   race   of   Ymir   thou   didst 

drown, 
Save  one,  Bergelmer  ; — he  on  shipboard 

fled 
Thy  deluge,  and   from    him   the   giants 

sprang. 
But  all  that   brood   thou   hast   removed 

far  off, 
And  set   bv   Ocean's   utmost   marge   to 

dwell  : 
But  Hela  into  Niflheim  thou  threw'st, 
And  gav'st  her  nine  unlighted  worlds  to 

rule, 
A  qUeen,  and  empire  over  all  the  dead. 
That  empire  wilt  thou  now  invade,  light 

up 


75° 


BRITISH    POETS 


Her  darkness,  from  her  grasp  a  subject 
tear?— 

Try  it ;  but  1,  for  one,  will  not  applaud. 
Nor  do  I  merit,  Odin,  thou should'st  slight 
Me  and  my  words,  though  thou   be  first 

in  Heaven  ; 
For  I  too  am  a  Goddess,  born  of  thee, 
Thine  eldest,  and   of   me   the   Gods   are 

sprung ; 
And  all  that  is  to  come  I  know,  but  lock 
In  mine  own  breast,  and   have   to   none 

reveal'd. 
Come  then  !  since   Hela  holds  by   right 

her  prey, 
But    offers    terms  for    his    release    to 

Heaven, 
Accept  the  chance  ;  thou  canst  no  more 

obtain. 
Send  through  the  world  thy  messengers  ; 

entreat 
All  living  and  unliving  things  to  weep 
For  Balder  ;  if  thou   haply   thus  may'st 

melt 
Hela,  and  win  the   loved   one   back   to 

Heaven." 
She  spake,  and  on  her  face  let  fall  her 

veil, 
And    bovv'd   her   head,   and    sate   with 

folded  hands. 
Nor  did  the   all-ruling   Odin   slight   her 

word  ; 
Straightway   he    spake,    and    thus   ad- 

dress'd  the  Gods  ; 
"Go   quickly   forth   through   all   the 

world,  and  pray 
All  living  and  unliving  things  to  weep 
Balder,  if  haply  he  may  thus  be   won." 
When  the  Gods  heard,  they  straight 

arose,  and  took 
Their  horses,  and  rode  forth  through  all 

the  world  ; 
North,  south,  east.    west,    they   struck, 

and  roam'd  the  world 
Entreating  all  things   to   weep   BaLler"s 

death. 
And  all  that  lived,  and  all  without   life, 

wept. 
And  as  in  winter,  when  the  frost  breaks 

up, 
At     winter's     end,    before    the    spring 

begins, 
And    a    warm    west-wind    blows,    and 

thaw  sets  in — 
After  an  hour  a  dripping  sound  is  heard 
In  all  the  forests,  and  the    soft-strewn 

snow 
Under  the  trees   is   dibbled   thick   with 

holes,  [shuffle  down  ; 

And    from    tro  boughs   the   siiowloads 


And,  in  fields  sloping  to  the  south,  dark 

plots 
Of  grass    peep    out    amid  surrounding 

snow, 
And  widen,  and  the  peasant's  heart  is 

glad — 
So  through  the  world  was  heard  a  drip- 
ping noise 
Of  all  things  weeping  to  bring  Balder 

back ; 
And  there  fell  joy  upon  the  Gods  to  hear. 
But  Hermod  rode   with  Niord,  whom 

he  took 
To  show  him  spits  and  beaches  of  the  sea 
Far   off,    where   some   unwarn'd   might 

fail  to  weep — 
Niord,  the  God  of  storms,  whom   fishers 

know  ; 
Not  born   in   Heaven  ;  he   was   in   Van- 

heim  rear'd, 
With  men,  but  lives  a  hostage   with  the 

Gods ; 
He  knows  each   frith,  and  every  rocky 

creek 
Fringed    with    dark   pines,   and    sands 

where  seafowl  scream — 
They  two  scour'd  every  coast,  and  all 

tilings  wept. 
And  they  rode  home  together,  through 

the  wood 
Of  Jarnvid,  which  to  east  of  Midgardlies 
Bordering  the  giants,  where   the   trees 

are  iron  ; 
There  in  the  wood  before  a  cave  they 

came, 
Where  sate,  in  the  cave's  mouth,  askinny 

bag, 
Toothless  and  old  ;  she  gibes  the  passers 

by. 
Thok  is  she  call'd,  but  nowLok  wore  her 

shape ; 
She  greeted  them  the  first,  and  laugh'd, 

and  said  : — 
"  Ye  Gods,  good  lack,  is  it  so  dull  in 

Heaven, 
That  ye  come  pleasuring  to  Thok's  iron 

wood  ? 
Lovers    of    change  ye    are,    fastidious 

sprites. 
Look,  as  in'  some  boor's  yard  a  sweet- 

breath'd  cow, 
Whose   manger   is   stuff'd   full   of  good 

fresh  hay, 
Snuffs  at  it  daintily,  and  stoops  her  head 
To  chew  the  straw,  her  litter,  at  her  feet— 
So  ye  grow  squeamish,  Gods,  and  sniff 

at  Heaven  ! " 
She  spake  ;  but  Hermod  answer'd  her 

and  said  : — 


ARNOLD 


751 


'•  Tliok,  not  for  gibes  we  come,  we  come 

for  tears. 
Balder  is  dead,  and  Hela  holds  her  prey, 
But  will  restore,  if  all  things  give  him 

tears. 
Begrudge  not  thine  !   to  all  was  Balder 

dear." 
Then,  with   a   louder    laugh,  the   hag 

replied  : — 
'•Is   Balder  dead?  and   do  ye  come  for 

tears  ? 
Thok    with   dry    eyes    will    weep    o'er 

Balder's  pyre. 
Weep  him  all  other  things,  if  weep  they 

will— 
I  weep  him  not !  let  Hela  keep  her  prey." 
She  spake,  and  to  the  cavern's  depth 

she  fled. 
Mocking;  and  Hermod  knew   their  toil 

was  vain. 
And  as  seafaring  men,  who  long  have 

wrought 
In  the  great  deep  for  gain,  at  last  come 

home, 
And  towards  evening  see  the  headlands 

rise 
Of   their   dear  country,   and  can  plain 

descry 
A  fire  of  wither'd  furze  which  boys  have 

lit 
Upon  the   cliffs,   or   smoke   of   burning 

weeds 
Out   of  a  till'd  field   inland  ; — then  the 

wind 
Catches  them,  and  drives  out  again  to 

sea  : 
And  they  go  long  days   tossing  up  and 

down 
Over  the  gray  sea-ridges,  and  the  glimpse 
Of  port  they  had  makes  bitterer  far  their 

toil- 
So  the  Gods'  cross  was  bitterer  for  their 

joy. 
Then,  sad  at  heart,  to  Niord  Hermod 

spake  : — 
••  li  is  the  accuser  Lok,  who  flouts  us  all ! 
Ride  back,  and  tell  in  Heaven  this  heavy 

news ; 
I  must  again  below,  to  Hela's  realm." 
He  spoke  :  and  Niord  set  forth  back  to 

Heaven. 
But  northward   Hermod  rode,  the  way 

below, 
The  way  he  knew  ;  and  traversed  Giall's 

stream. 
And  down  to  Ocean  groped,  and  cross'd 

the  ice. 
And' came  beneath  the  wall,  and  found 

the  grate 


Still  lifted  ;  well   was  his   return   fore- 
known. 
And  once  more  Hermod  saw  around  him 

spread 
The  jovless  plains,  and  heard  the  streams 

of  Hell. 
But   as   he   enter'd,   on    the    extremest 

bound 
Of  Niflheim,   he  saw  one  ghost  come 

near, 
Hovering,  and  stopping  oft,  as  if  afraid — 
Hoder,  the  unhappy,  whom  his  own  hand 

slew. 
And     Hermod     look'd,    and    knew    his 

brother's  ghost, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  and  sternly 

said  :— 
"Hoder,  ill-fated,  blind  in  heart  and 

eyes ! 
Why  tarriest  thou  to  plunge  thee  in  the 

gulf 
Of  the  deep  inner  gloom,  but  flittest  here, 
In  twilight,  on  the  lonely  verge  of  Hell, 
Far  from  the   other   ghosts,  and  Hela's 

throne? 
Doubtless  thou  fearest  to  meet  Balder 'a 

voice. 
Thy  brother,  whom  through  folly  thou 

didst  slay." 
He  spoke  ;    but  Hoder  answer'd  him, 

and  said  : — 
"Hermod   the   nimble,   dost  thou   still 

pursue 
The  unhappy  with  reproach,  even  in  the 

grave  ? 
For   this  I  died,   and   fled   beneath  the 

gloom, 
Not  daily  to  endure  abhorring  Gods, 
Nor   with   a   hateful    presence    cumber 

Heaven  ; 
And  canst  thou  not,  even  here,  pass  pity- 
ing by? 
No  less  than  Balder  have  I  lost  the  light 
Of  Heaven,  andcommunion  with  my  kin; 
I  too  had  once  a  wife,  and  once  a  child. 
And   substance,  and   a  golden  house  in 

Heaven — ■ 
But  all  I  left  of  my  own  act,  and  fled 
Below,  and  dost  thou  hate  me  even  here? 
Balder  upbraids  me  not.  nor  hates  at  all, 
Though    he  has  cause,  have  any  cause  ; 

but  he, 
When  that  with  downcast  looks  I  hither 

came, 
Stretch'd    forth    his  hand,  and  with  be- 
nignant voice, 
Welcome,   he  said,   if  there  be  welcome 

here, 
Brother  and  fellow-sport  of  Lok  with  me  ! 


752 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  not  to  offend  thee,  Hermod,  nor  to 

force 
My  hated  converse  on  thee,  came  I  up 
From  the  deep  gloom,  where  1  will  now 

return  ; 
But  earnestly  I  long'd  to  hover  near. 
Not  too  far  off,  when  that  thou  earnest  by; 
To  feel  the  presence  of  a  brother  God, 
And    hear    the    passage  of  a  horse  of 

Heaven, 
For  the  last  time — for  here  thou  com'st 

no  more." 
He  spake,  and  turn'd  to  go  to  the  inner 

gloom. 
But  Hermod  stay'd  him  with  mild  words, 

and  said  : — ■ 
"  Thou  doest  well  to  chide  me,  Hoder 
blind  ! 
Truly  thou  say'st,  the  planning   guilty 

mind 
Was  Lok's ;  the   unwitting   hand  alone 

was  thine. 
But   Gods  are   like   the  sons  of  men  in 

this 
When   they  have  woe,    they  blame  the 

nearest  cause. 
Howbeit  stay,   and    be  appeased  !   and 

tell: 
Sits  Balder  still  in  pomp  by  Hela's  side. 
Or  is  he  mingled  with   the  unnumber'd 

dead  ?  " 
And  the   blind   Hoder  answer'd  him 

and  spake  : — 
"  His  place  of  state   remains  by  Hela's 

side, 
But   empty  ;    for   his   wife,    for   Nanna 

came 
Lately  below,  and   join'd  him  ;  and  the 

paii- 
Frequent  the  still  recesses  of  the  realm 
Of  Hela,  and  hold  converse  undisturb'd. 
But    they    too,     doubtless,    will     have 

breathed  the  balm, 
Which    floats    before    a    visitant    from 

Heaven, 
And  have  drawn  upward  to  this  verge  of 

Hell." 
He  spake  ;  and,  as  he  ceased,   a  puff 

of  wind 
Roll'd  heavily  the  leaden  mist  aside 
Round  where  they  stood,   and  they   be- 
held two  forms 
Make  toward   tliem  o'er   the  stretching 

cloudy  plain. 
And  Hermod  straight   perceived   them, 

who  they  were 
Balder  and  Nanna  ;  and  to  Balder  said  : — 
"  Balder,  too  truly  thou  foresaw'st    a 

snare  I 


Lois  triumphs  still,  and  Hela   keeps  her 

prey. 
No  more  to  Asgard  shalt  thou  come,  nor 

lodge 
In  thy  own  house.  Breidablik,  nor  enjoy 
The  love  all  bear  toward  thee,  nor  train 

up 
Forset,  thy  son,  to  be  beloved  like  thee. 
Here  must  thou  lie,  and  wait  an  endless 

age. 
Therefore  for  the   last  time,  O  Balder, 

hail !  " 
He  spake  ;  and  Balder  answer'd  him, 

and  said  : — 
"  Hail    and    farewell  !    for    here     thou 

com'st  no  more. 
Yet  mourn  not  for  me,  Hermod,  when 

thou  sitt'st 
In    Heaven,    nor    let    the    other   Gods 

lament, 
As  wholly  to  be  pitied,  quite  forlorn. 
For  Nanna  hath  rejoin'd  me.  who,  of  old, 
In  Heaven,  was  seldom  parted  from  my 

side  ; 
And  still  the  acceptance  follows  me, 

which  crown'd 
My  former  life,  and  cheers  me  even  here. 
The  iron  frown  of  Hela  is  relax'd 
When  I  draw  nigh,  and  the   wan   tribes 

of  dead 
Love  me,  and  gladly  bring  for  my  award 
Their  ineffectual  feuds  and  feeble  hates — 
Shadows    of    hates,    but  they   distress 

them  still." 
And   the    fleet-footed  Hermod   mads 

reply  :— 
"  Thou  hast  then  all  the  solace   death 

allows, 
Esteem  and  function  ;  and  so  far  is  well. 
Yet  here  thou  liest,  Balder,  underground, 
Rusting  for  ever  ;  and  the  years  roll  on, 
The  generations  pass,  the  ages  grow, 
And  bring  us  nearer  to  the  final  day 
When  from  the  south  shall   march   the 

fiery  band 
And   cross   the  bridge   of  Heaven,  with 

Lok  for  guide, 
And   Fenris   at   his   heel    with    broken 

chain  ; 
While  from  the   east   the   giant   Rymer 

steers 
His  ship,  and  the  great  serpent  makes  to 

land  ; 
And  all  are   marshall'd   in   one   flaming 

square 
Against  the   Gods,   upon    the   plains  of 

Heaven. 
I  mourn  thee,  that  thou  canst   not   help 

us  then." 


ARNOLD 


753 


He  spake  ;  but  Balder   answer'd    him, 

and  said  : — 
"  Mourn  not  for  me  !     Mourn,  Hermod, 

for  the  Gods  ; 
Mourn  for  the  men  on  earth,  the  Gods 

in  Heaven, 
Who  live,  and  with   their  eyes  shall  see 

that  day  ! 
The  day  will  come,  when  fall  shall  As- 

gard's  towers, 
And   Odin,    and   his   sons,  the    seed    of 

Heaven  ; 
But  what  were  I,  to  save   them  in  that 

hour  ? 
If   strength  might  save  them,  could  not 

Odin  save, 
My  father,   and   his  pride,    the   warrior 

Thor, 
Vidar  the  silent,  the  impetuous  Tyr? 
I,  what  were  I,  when  these  can   nought 

avail  ? 
Yet,  doubtless,  when   the  day  of  battle 

comes, 
And   the  two  hosts  are   marshall'd,  and 

in  Heaven 
The    golden-crested    cock   shall    sound 

alarm, 
And  his  black  brother-bird   from   hence 

reply, 
Ami  bucklers  clash,  and  spears  begin  to 

pour — 
Longing    will   stir   within    my    breast, 

though  vain. 
But  not  to  me  so  grievous,  as,  I  know, 
To  other  Gods  it  were,  is  my  enforced 
Absence  from  fields  where  I  could  noth- 
ing aid  ; 
For  lam  long  since  weary  of  your  storm 
Of  carnage,  and  find,  Hermod,   in   your 

life 
Something  too  much  of  war  and   broils, 

which  make 
Life  one  perpetual  fight,  a  bath  of  blood. 
Mine  eyes   are   dizzy    with   the   arrowy 

hail ; 
Mine  ears  are   stunn'd  with  blows,  and 

sick  for  calm. 
Inactive  therefore  let  me  lie,  in  gloom, 
I  hiarm'd,  inglorious  :  I  attend  the  course 
Of  ages,  and  my  late  return  to  light, 
In  times  less  alien  to  a  spirit  mild. 
1  n  new-recover'd  seats,  the  happier  day." 
He  spake  ;  and  the  fleet  Hermod  thus 

replied  : — 
'•  Brother,  what  seats  are   these,  what 

happier  day? 
Tell  me,   that   I   may   ponder   it    when 

gone."  [him  :  — 

And  the  ray-crowned  Balder  answer'd 


"Far  to  the  south,  beyond  the  blue, 
there  spreads 

Another  Heaven,  the  boundless — no  one 
yet 

Hath  reach'd  it  ;  there  hereafter  shall 
arise 

The  second  Asgard,  with  another  name. 

Thither,  when  o'er  this  present  earth 
and  Heavens 

The  tempest  of  the  latter  days  hath 
swept. 

And  they  from  sight  have  disappear'd, 
and  sunk, 

Shall  a  small  remnant  of  the  Gods  re- 
pair ; 

Hoder  and  I  shall  join  them  from  the 
grave. 

There  re-assembling  we  shall  see  emerge 

From  the  bright  Ocean  at  our  feet  an 
earth 

More  fresh,  more  verdant  than  the  last, 
with  fruits 

Self-springing,  and  a  seed  of  man  pre- 
served, 

Who  then  shall  live  in  peace,  as  now  in 
war. 

But  we  in  Heaven  shall  find  again  with 
joy 

The  ruin'd  palaces  of  Odin,  seats 

Familiar,  halls  where  we  have  supp*d  of 
old  ; 

Re-enter  them  with  wonder,  never  fill 

Our  eyes  with  gazing,  and  rebuild  with 
tears. 

And  we  shall  tread  once  more  the  well- 
known  plain 

Of  Ida,  and  among  the  grass  shall  find 

The  golden  dice  wherewith  we  play'd  of 
yore  ; 

And  that  will  bring  to  mind  the  former 
life 

Ami  pastime  of  the  Gods,  the  wise  dis- 
course 

Of  Odin,  the  delights  of  other  days. 

0  Hermod.  pray  that  thou  may'st  join 

us  then  ! 
Such  for  the  future  is  my  hope  ;  mean- 
while, 

1  rest  the  thrall  of  Hela,  and  endure 
Death,  and  the  gloom  which  round  me 

even  now 
Thickens,  and  to  its  inner  gulf  recalls. 
Farewell,   for   longer  speech  is  not   al- 

Low'd!" 
He   spoke,  and   waved   farewell,   and 

gave  his  hand 
To  Nanna  ;  and  she  gave  their  brother 

blind  [the  three 

Her  hand,  in  turn,   for  guidance  ;  and 


754 


BRITISH   POETS 


Departed  o'er  the  cloudy  plain,  ami  soon 
Faded  from  sight  into  the  interior  gloom. 
But  Hermod  stood  beside  his  drooping 

horse, 
Mute,  gazing  after  them  in  tears  ;  and 

tain. 
Fain  hud  he  follow'd  their  receding  steps, 
Though  they  to  death  were  bound,  and 

he  to  Heaven, 
Then  ;  but  a  power  he  could  not  break 

withheld. 
And  as  a  stork  which  idle  boys  have 

trapp'd, 
And  tied  him  in  a  yard,  at  autumn  sees 
Flocks  of  his  kind   pass  flying  o'er   his 

head 
To  warmer  lands,  and  coasts  that  keep 

the  sun  ; — 
He  strains  to  join  their  flight,  and  from 

his  shed 
Follows  them  with  a  long  complaining 

cry- 
So  Hermod   gazed,  and  yearn'd  to  join 

his  kin. 

At  last  he  sigh'd,  and  set  forth  back 
to  Heaven.  1855. 

STANZAS    FROM  THE  GRANDE 

CHARTREUSE 

Through  Alpine  meadows  soft-suffused 
With  rain,  where  thick  the  crocus  blows, 
Past  the  dark  forges  long  disused, 
The  mule-track  from  Saint  Laurent  goes. 
The  bridge  is  cross'd,  and  slow  we  ride, 
Through  forest,  up  the  mountain-side. 

The  autumnal  evening  darkens  round, 
The  wind  is  up,  and  drives  the  rain  ; 
While,  hark  !  far  down,  with  strangled 

sound 
Doth  the  Dead  Guier's  stream  complain, 
Where     that   wet    smoke,    among    the 

woods. 
Over  his  boiling  cauldron  broods. 

Swift  rush  the  spectral  vapors  white 
Past  limestone  scars  with  ragged  pines, 
Showing — then      blotting      from      our 

sight  ! — 
Halt — through  the  cloud-drift  something 

shines  ! 
High  in  the  valley,  wet  and  drear, 
The  huts  of  Courrerie  appear. 

Strike  leftward !  cries  our  guide  ;   and 

higher 
Mounts  up  the  stony  forest-way. 
At  last  the  encircling  trees  retire  ; 


Look  !    through   the   showery   twilight 

gray 
What  pointed  roofs  are  these  advance  ? — 
A  palace  of  the  Kings  of  France? 

Approach,  for  what  we  seek  is  here  ! 
Alight,  and  sparely  sup.  and  wait 
For  rest  in  this  outbuilding  near  ; 
Then  cross  the   sward  and   reach   that 

gate. 
Knock ;    pass    the  wicket !    Thou    art 

come 
To  the  Carthusians'  world-famed  home. 

The  silent  courts,  where  night  and  day 
Into  their  stone-carved  basins  cold 
The  splashing  icy  fountains  play — 
The  humid  corridors  behold  ! 
Where,  ghostlike  in  the  deepening  night 
Covvl'd    forms    brush    by   in    gleaming 
white. 

The  chapel,  where  no  organ's  peal 
Invests  the  stern  and  naked  prayer — 
With  penitential  cries  they  kneel 
And  wrestle  :  rising  then,  with  bare 
And  white  uplifted  faces  stand, 
Passing  the  Host  from  hand  to  hand  ; 

Each  takes,  and  then  his  visage  wan 
Is  buried  in  his  cowl  once  more. 
The  cells  ! — the  suffering  Son  of  Man 
Upon  the  wall— the  knee-worn  floor — 
And  where  they  sleep,  that  wooden  bed, 
Which  shall  their  coffin  be,  when  dead  ! 

The  library,  where  tract  and  tome 
Not  to  feed  priestly  pride  are  there, 
To  hymn  the  conquering  march  of  Rome, 
Nor  yet  to  amuse,  as  ours  are  ! 
They  paint  of  souls  the  inner  strife, 
Their  drops  of  blood,  their  death  in  life. 

The  garden,  overgrown — yet  mild, 
See,  fragrant  herbs  are  flowering  there  ! 
Strong  children  of  the  Alpine  wild 
Whose  culture  is  the  brethren's  care  ; 
Of  human  tasks  their  only  one, 
And  cheerful  works  beneath  the  sun. 

Those  halls,  too,  destined  to  contain 
Each  its  own  pilgrim-host  of  old, 
From  England,  Germany,  or  Spain — 
All  are  before  me  !     I  behold 
The  House,  the  Brotherhood  austere  I 
— And  what  am  I,  that  I  am  here  ? 

For  rigorous  teachers  seized  my  youth, 
And  purged   its  faith,   and   trimm'd  its 
fire, 


ARNOLD 


755 


Show'd  me  the  high,  white  star  of  Truth, 
There  bade  me  gaze,  and  there  aspire. 
Even    now   their    whispers    pierce    the 

gloom  ; 
What  dost  thou  in  tltis  living  tomb  ? 

Forgive  me,  masters  of  the  mind  ! 

At  whose  behest  I  long  ago 

So  much  unlearnt,  so  much  resign'd — 

I  come  not  here  to  be  your  foe  ! 

I  seek  these  anchorites,  not  in  ruth, 

To  curse  and  to  deny  your  truth  ; 

Not  as  their  friend,  or  child,  I  speak  ! 
But  as,  on  some  far  northern  strand, 
Thinking  of  his  own  Gods,  a  Greek 
In  pity  and  mournful  awe  might  stand 
Before  some  fallen  Runic  stone — 
For  both  were  faiths,  and  both  are  gone. 

Wandering   between   two    worlds,    one 

dead, 
The  other  powerless  to  be  born, 
With  nowhere  yet  to  rest  my  head, 
Like  these,  on  earth  I  wait  forlorn. 
Their  faith,  my  tears,  the  world  deride — 
I  come  to  shed  them  at  their  side. 

Oil,  hide  me  in  your  gloom  profound, 

Ye  solemn  seats  of  holy  pain  ! 

Take  me,    cowl'd   forms,   and  fence  me 

round 
Till  I  possess  my  soul  again  ; 
Till  free  my  thoughts  before  me  roll, 
Not  chafed  by  hourly  false  control ! 

For  the  world  cries  your  faith  is  now 

But  a  dead  time's  exploded  dream  ; 

My  melancholy,  sciolists  say, 

Is  a  pass'd  mode,  an  outworn  theme — 

As  if  the  world  had  ever  had 

A  faith,  or  sciolists  been  sad  ! 

Ah,  if  it  be  pass'd.  take  away. 
At  least,  the  restlessness,  the  pain  ; 
Be  man  henceforth  no  more  a  prey 
To  these  out-dated  stings  again ! 
The  nobleness  of  grief  is  gone — 
Ah,  leave  us  nut  l lie  fret  alone! 

But — if  you  cannot  give  usease — 
Last  of  the  race  of  them  who  grieve 
Here  leave  us  to  die  out  with  these 
Last  'if  the  people  who  believe  ! 
Silent,  while  years  engrave  the  brow  ; 
Silent — the  best  are  silent  now. 

Achilles  ponders  in  his  tent, 

The  kings  of  modern  thought  are  dumb  ; 

Silent  they  are,  though  not  content, 


And  wait  to  see  the  future  come. 
They  have  the  grief  men  had  of  yore, 
But  they  contend  and  cry  no  more. 

Our  fathers  water'd  with  their  tears 
This  sea  of  time  whereon  we  sail, 
Their  voices  were  in  all  men's  ears 
We  pass'd  within  their  puissant  hail. 
Still  the  same  ocean  round  us  raves, 
But  we  stand  mute, and  watch  the  waves. 

For  what  avail'd  it,  all  the  noise 
And  outcry  of  the  former  men  ? — 
Say,  have  their  sons  achieved  more  joys, 
Say,  is  life  lighter  now  than  then  ; 
The  sufferers  died,  they  left  their  pain — 
The  pangs  which  tortured  them  remain. 

What  helps  it  now,  that  Byron  bore, 
With  haughty  scorn  which  mock  'd  the 

smart, 
Through  Europe  to  the  iEtolian  shore 
The  pageant  of  his  bleeding  heart  ? 
That  thousands  counted  every  groan, 
And  Europe  made  his  woe  her  own  ? 

What  boots  it,  Shelley  !  that  the  breeze 
Carried  thy  lovely  wail  away, 
Musical  through  Italian  trees 
Which    fringe    thy   soft   blue  Spezzian 

bay? 
Inheritors  of  thy  distress 
Have  restless  hearts  one  throb  the  less  ? 

Or  are  we  easier,  to  have  read, 
O  Ohermann  !  the  sad,  stern  page, 
Which   tells   us   how   thou   hidd'st  thy 

head 
From  the  fierce  tempest  of  thine  age 
In  the  lone  brakes  of  Fontainebleau, 
Or  chalets  near  the  Alpine  snow  ? 

Ye  slumber  in  your  silent  grave  ! — 
The  world,  which  for  an  idle  day 
Grace  to  your  mood  of  sadness  gave, 
Long  since  hath  flung  her  weeds  away. 
The  eternal  trifle*  breaks  your  spell  ; 
But  we — we  learned  your  lore  too  well ! 

Years  hence,  perhaps,  may  dawn  an  age, 
More  fortunate,  alas!  than  we, 
Which  without  hardness  will  be  sage, 
And  gay  without  frivolity. 
Sons  of  the  world,  oh,  speed  those  years; 
But,  while  we  wait,  allow  our  tears  1 

Allow  them!  We  admire  with  awe 
The  exulting  thunder  of  your  race: 
You  give  the  universe  your  law, 


756 


BRITISH    POETS 


You  triumph  over  time  and  space  ! 
Your  pride  of  life,  your  tireless  powers, 
We  laud  them,  but  they  are  not  ours. 

We  are  like  children  rear'd  in  shade 
Beneath  some  old-world  abbey  wall, 
Forgotten  in  a  forest-glade. 
And  secret  from  the  eyes  of  all. 
Deep,  deep  the  greenwood  round  them 

waves. 
Their  abbey,  and  its  close  of  graves  ! 

But,  where  the  road  runs  near  the  stream, 
Oft  through  the  trees  they  catch  a  glance 
Of  passing  troops  in  the  sun's  beam — 
Pennon,  and  plume,  and  flashing  lance  ! 
Forth  to  the  world  those  soldiers  fare, 
To  life,  to  cities,  and  to  war  ! 

And  through  the  wood,  another  way, 
Faint  bugle-notes  from  far  are  borne. 
Where  hunters  gather,  staghounds  bay, 
Round  some  fair  forest-lodge  at  morn. 
Gay  dames  are  there,  in  sylvan  green  ; 
Laughter    and    cries — those    notes   be- 
tween ! 

The  banners  flashing  through  the  trees 
Make  their  blood  dance  and  chain  their 

eyes ; 
That  bugle-music  on  the  breeze 
Arrests  them  with  a  charin'd  surprise. 
Banner  by  turns  and  bugle  woo  : 
Ye  shy  recluses,  follow  too  ! 

O  children,  what  do  ye  reply  ? — 
"  Action  and  pleasure,  will  ye  roam 
Through  these  secluded  dells  to  cry 
And  call  us? — but  too  late  ye  come  ! 
Too  late  for  us  your  call  ye  blow, 
Whose  bent  was  taken  long  ago. 

"  Long  since  we  pace  this  shadow'd  nave  ; 
We  watch  those  yellow  tapers  shine, 
Emblems  of  hope  over  the  grave, 
In  the  high  altar's  depth  divine  ; 
The  organ  carries  to  our  ear 
Its  accents  of  another  sphere. 

"  Fenced  early  in  this  cloistral  round 

Of  reverie,  of  shade,  of  prayer, 

How  should  we  grow  in  other  ground  ? 

How  can  we  flower  in  foreign  air  ? 

— Pass,  banners,  pass,  and  bugles,  cease  ; 

And  leave  our  desert  to  its  peace  !  " 

1855.1 


1  In  Fraser's  Magazine.    First  included  in  Ar- 
nold's Poetical  Works  in  1867. 


FROM    SWITZERLAND 
ISOLATION.      TO  MARGUERITE 

We  were  apart ;  yet,  day  by  day, 
I  bade  my  heart  more  constant  be. 
I  bade  it  keep  the  world  away, 
And  grow  a  home  for  only  thee  ; 
Nor  fear'd  but  thy  love  likewise  grew, 
Like  mine,  each  day,  more  tried,  more 
true. 

The   fault   was  grave !      I   might  have 

known. 
What  far  too  soon,  alas  !  I  learn'd — 
The  heart  can  bind  itself  alone. 
And  faitli  may  oft  be  unreturn'd. 
Self-sway'd  our  feelings  ebb  and  swell — 
Thou  lov'st  no  more  ; — Farewell  !    Fare- 
well ! 

Farewell ! — and  thou,  thou  lonely  heart, 
Which  never  yet  without  remorse 
Even  for  a  moment  didst  depart 
From  thy  remote  and  sphered  course 
To  haunt  the  place  where  passionsreign — 
Back  to  thy  solitude  again  ! 

Back  !  with  the  conscious  thrill  of  shame 
Which  Luna  felt,  tbat  summer-night, 
Flash  through  her  pure  immortal  frame, 
When  she  forsook  the  starry  height 
To  hang  over  Endymioirs  sleep 
Upon  the  pine-grown  Latmian  steep. 

Yet  she,  chaste  queen,  had  never  proved 
I  low  vain  a  thing  is  mortal  love, 
Wandering  in  Heaven,  far  removed. 
But  thou  hast  long  had  place  to  prove 
This   truth — to   prove,  and  make   thine 

own  : 
"  Thou  hast  been,  shalt  be,  art,  alone." 

Or,  if  not  quite  alone,  yet  they 
Which  touch  thee  are  unmating  things — 
Ocean  and  clouds  and  night  and  day  ; 
Lorn  autumns  and  triumphant  springs  ; 
And  life,  and  others'  joy  and  pain, 
And  love,  if  love,  of  happier  men. 

Of  happier  men — for  they,  at  least, 
Have  dream'd  two  human  hearts   might 

blend 
In  one.  and  were  through  faith  released 
From  isolation  without  end 
Prolong'd  ;  nor  knew,  although  not  less 
Alone  than  thou,  their  loneliness. 

1857. 


ARNOLD 


757 


TO     MARGUERITE— CONTINUED 

Yes  !  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled, 
With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 
Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 
We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 
The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 
And   then    their   endless    bounds    they 
know. 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollows  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 
And  in  their  glens  on  starry  nights, 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing  ; 
And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour— 

Oh  !  then  a  longing  like  despair 

Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent  ; 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent ! 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain — 

Oh,  might  our  marges  meet  again  ! 

Who  order'd,  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,  cool'd  ? 
Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire  ? — 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled  ! 
And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumb'd,  salt,  estranging  sea. 
(1852.)1   1857. 

THYRSIS  2 

A  Monody,  to  commemorate  the  author's 
friend, 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  who   died    at 
Florence,    1861 

How   changed   is   here   each   spot   man 
makes  or  fills  ! 
In  the  two  Hinkseys  nothing  keeps  the 
same  ; 
The  village  street  its  haunted  man- 
sion lacks, 
And  from  the  sign   is   gone   Sibylla's 
name, 
And  from  the  roofs  the  twisted  chim- 
ney-stacks— 

1  Standing  alone,  under  the  title:  To  Marguerite. 

•  "There  are  in  the  English  language  three 
elegiac  poems  so  great  that  they  eclipse  and 
efface  all  the  elegiac  poetry  we  know  ;  all  of 
Italian,  all  of  Greek.  It  is  only  because  the 
latest  born  is  yet  new  to  us  that  it  can  seem 
strange  or  rash  to  say  so.  The  Thyrsis  of  Mr. 
Arnold  makes  a  third  with  Lycidaa  and 
Aiitmiiis.  .  .  .  Thyrsis,  like  Z/ycidas,  has  a  quiet 
and  tender  undertone  which  gives  it  something 
of  sacred."  {Swinburne.) 


Are  ye  too  changed,  ye  hills? 
See,  'tis  no  foot  of  unfamiliar  men 
To-night  from  Oxford  up  your  path- 
way strays  ! 
Here  came  I  often,  often,  in  old  days — 
Thyrsis  and  I ;  we  still  had  Thyrsis  then. 

Runs  it  not  here,  the   track   by   Childs- 
worth  Farm, 
Past  the  high  wood,  to  where  the  elm- 
tree  crowns 
The  hill  behind  whose  ridge  the  sun- 
set flames  ? 
The  signal-elm,  that   looks   on   Ilsley 
Downs, 
The  Vale,  the  three   lone    weirs,  the 
youthful  Thames  ? — 
This'  winter-eve  is  warm, 
Humid   the   air !   leafless,  yet   soft   as 
spring, 
The  tender  purple   spray   on   copse 

and  briars ! 
And  that  sweet  city  with  her  dream- 
ing spires, 
She  needs  not  June  for  beauty's  height- 
ening. 

Lovely  all  times  she    lies,   lovely     to- 
night ! — ■ 
Only,  methinks,  some   loss   of  habit's 
power 
Befalls   me   wandering  through  this 
upland  dim. 
Once   pass'd   I  blindfold  here,  at   any 
hour ; 
Now  seldom  come  I,  since  I  came  with 
him. 
That  single  elm-tree  bright 
Against  the  west — I  miss  it !  is  it  gone? 
We  prized  it  dearly  :  while  it   stood, 

we  said, 
Our  friend,  the   Gipsy-Scholar,    was 
not  dead ; 
While  the  tree  lived,  he  in  these  fields 
lived  on. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now   my   visits 
here, 
But    once   I    knew    each    field,   each 
flower,  each  stick  ; 
And  witli  the  country-folk  acquain- 
tance made 
By   barn   in  threshing-time,  by   new- 
built  rick. 
Here,   too,   our    shepherd-pipes    we 
first  assay'd. 
Ah  me  !  this  many  a  year 
My  pipe   is  lost,   my   shepherd's  holi- 
day I 


758 


BRITISH   POETS 


Needs  must  T  lose  them,  needs  with 

heavy  heart 
Into  the  world  and  wave  of  men  de- 
part ; 
ButThyrsisof  his  own  will  went  away. 

It  irk'd  him  to  be  here,  he  could  not  rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the   country 
yields, 
He  loved  his  mates  ;  but  yet  lie  could 
not  keep, 
For  that  a  shadow  lour'd  on  the  fields,  - 
Here   with  the  shepherds   and    the 
silly  sheep. 
Some  life  of  men  unblest 
He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and 
iill'd  his  head. 
He  went  ;  his  piping  took  a  troubled 

sound 
Of    storms    that    rage   outside  our 
happy  ground  ; 
He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is 
dead. 

So.   some    tempestuous   morn   in   early 

June,  [is  o'er, 

When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom 

Before   the    roses   and   the   longest 

day —  [floor 

When  garden-walks  and  all  the  grassy 

With    blossoms   red    and   white    of 

fallen  May 

And  chestnut-flowers  are  strewn — 

So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting 

cry, 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext 

garden-ti'ees, 
Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and 
tossing  breeze : 
Tlie  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom 
go  I! 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou 
go? 
Soon  will  the  high  Midsummer  pomps 
come  on, 
Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break 
and  swell, 
Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snap- 
d  ragon , 
Sweet-William     with     his   homely 
cottage-smell. 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow  ; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar, 
And  open,  jasmine-muffled  lattices, 
And   groups    under    the    dreaming 
garden  trees, 
And  the    full    moon,  and    the    white 
evening-star. 


He    barkens    not  !    light   comer,    he   is 
flown  ! 
What  matters    it  ?  next  year    he  will 
return, 
And   we  shall  have    him    in   the 
sweet  spring-days, 
With     whitening     hedges,    and     un- 
crumpling  fern, 
And    blue-bells    trembling   by     the 
forest-ways, 
And  scent  of  hay  new-mown. 
But  Thyrsis   never   more   we   swains 
shall  see  ; 
See    him    come    back,    and    cut    a 

smoother  reed, 
And  blow  a  strain  the  world  at  last 
shall  heed — 
For  Time,  not  Corydon,  hath  conquer'd 
thee  ! 

Alack,  for  Corydon  no  rival  now  ! — 
But   when   Sicilian  shepherds   lost   a 
mate, 
Some   good   survivor   with  his  flute 
would  go, 
Piping  a  ditty  sad  for  Bion's  fate  ; 
And  cross   the   unpermitted  ferry's 
flow, 
And  relax  Pluto's  brow. 
And  make  leap  up  with  joy  the  beaute- 
ous head 
Of       Proserpine,       among      whose 

crowned  hair 
Are  flowers  first  open'd  on   Sicilian 
air, 
And   flute   his   friend,    like   Orpheus, 
from  the  dead. 

O  easy  access  to  the  hearer's  grace 
When    Dorian      shepherds      sang    to 
Proserpine  ! 
For  she    herself  had  trod  Sicilian 
fields, 
She  knew   the   Dorian    water's   gush 
divine, 
She   knew   each   lily    white  which 
Enna  yields, 
Each  rose  with  blushing  face  ; 
She  loved  the  Dorian  pipe,  the  Dorian 
strain. 
But   ah,    of   our    poor   Thames   she 
never  heard  !  [stirr'd  ; 

Her  foot  the  Cumner  cowslips  never 
And  we   should   tease   her    with  our 
plaint  in  vain  ! 

Well !     wind-dispersed    and    vain    the 

words  will  be,  [hour 

Yet,  Thyrsis,  let  me  give  my  grief  its 


ARNOLD 


759 


In  the  old  haunt,  and  find  our  ti'ee- 
topp'd  hill  ! 
Who,  if  not  I.  for   questing  here  hath 
power  ? 
I  know   the    wood  which  hides  the 
daffodil, 
I  know  the  Fyfield  tree, 
I  know  what  white,  what   purple  fri- 
tillaries 
The    grassy   harvest    of  the  river- 
fields,  ' 
Above  by   Erisham,  down   by  Sand- 
ford,  yields. 
And  what  sedged  brooks  are  Thames's 
tributaries  ; 

I   know  these   slopes  ;  who  knows  them 
if  not  I  ?— 
But  many  a  dingle   on  the  loved   hill- 
side, 
With    thorns    once     studded,    old, 
white-blossonfd  trees, 
Where  thick  the  cowslips  grew,  and 
far  descried 
High  tower'd   the   spikes  of  purple 
orchises, 
Hath  since  our  day  put  by 
The  coronals  of  that  forgotten  time  ; 
Down  each  green   bank   hath   gone 

the  ploughboy's  team, 
And  only  in  the   hidden  brookside 
gleam 
Primroses,   orphans   of     the     flowery 
prime. 

Where  is  the  girl,  who  by  the  boatman's 
door, 
Above   the   locks,  above   the   boating 
throng, 
(Jnmoor'd  our  skiff   when   through 
the  Wytham  flats, 
Red   loosestrife   and   blond    meadow- 
sweet among 
And     darting     swallows   and   light 
water-gnats, 
We  track'd  the  shy  Thames  shore? 
Where  are   the    mowers,   who,  as   the 
tiny  swell 
Of  our  boat  passing  heaved  the  river- 
grass. 
Stooil  with  suspended  scythe  to  see 
us  pass  ? — 
They  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  gone 
as  well  I 

¥es,  thou  art   ^one  !  and   round  me  too 
t In'  night 
In    evei -Hearing    circle     weaves   her 
shade. 


I  see  her  veil  draw  soft  across  the 
day, 
I  feel  her  slowly  chilling  breath  invade 
The  cheek   grown   thin,  the   brown 
hair  sprent  with  gray  ; 
I  feel  her  finger  light 
Laid  pausefully  upon  life's  headlong 
train  ; — 
The   foot   less  prompt   to  meet  the 

morning  dew, 
The    heart   less  bounding  at   emo- 
tion new, 
And  hope,  once  crush'd,  less  quick  to 
spring  again. 

And    long    the    way    appears,    which 
seem'd  so  short 
To  the  less  practised  eye  of  sanguine 
youth  ; 
And    high    the    mountain-tops,    in 
cloudy  air, 
The  •  mountain-tops     where     is     the 
throne  of  Truth. 
Tops  in  life's  morning-sun  so  bright 
and  bare  ! 
Unbreachable  the  fort 
Of  the  long-batter'd  world  uplifts  itv 
wall ; 
And  strange  and  vain  the  earthh 

turmoil  grows, 
And  near  and  real  the  charm  of  thy 
repose, 
And  night  as  welcome   as  a  friend 
would  fall. 

But   hush  !  the   upland   hath   a  sudden 
loss 
Of    quiet  ! — Look,    adown    the    dusk 
hill-side, 
A  troop   of   Oxford   hunters  going 
home, 
As   in   old   days,  jovial   and   talking, 
ride ! 
From   hunting  with   the   Berkshire 
hounds  they  come, 
Quick  !  let  me  fly,  and  cross 
Into  yon    further    field  ! — T'is  done, 
and  see, 
Back'd  by   the  sunset,  which  dotlj 

glorify 
The  orange  and  pale  violet  evening- 
sky, 
Bare   on   its   lonely   ridge,  the   TYoc' 
the  Tree  I 

I  take  the   omen !    Eve  lets  down  he«' 
veil, 
The  white  fog  creeps  from  bush   t*j 
bush  about, 


r0o 


BRITISH    POETS 


The   west   unflushes,  the  high  stars 
grow  bright. 
And  in  the  scattered  farms  the  lights 
come  out. 
I   cannot   reach   the  signal-tree  to- 
night, 
Yet,  happy  omen,  hail  ! 
Hear  it  from  thy  broad  lucent  Arno- 
vale 
(For    there    thine    earth-forgetting 

eyelids  keep 
The  morningless  and  unawakening 
sleep 
Under  the  flowery  oleanders  pale), 

Hear  it,   O  Thyrsis,   still    our    tree    is 
there ! — 
Ah,  vain  !     These  English  fields,  this 
upland  dim, 
These  brambles  pale  with   mist  en- 
garlanded, 
That  lone,  sky-pointing  tree,  are  not 
for  him  ; 
To  a   boon   southern  country  he  is 
fled, 
And  now  in  happier  air, 
Wandering  with   the   great   Mother's 
ti'ain  divine 
(And  purer  or  more  subtle  soul  than 

thee, 
I  trow,  the  mighty  Mother  doth  not 
see) 
Within  a  folding  of  the  Apennine, 

Thou   hearest   the   immortal   chants   of 
old  !— 
Putting    his    sickle    to    the    perilous 
grain 
In  the  hot  cornfield  of  the  Phrygian 
king, 
For  thee  the  Lityerses-song  again 
Young  Daphnis  with  his  silver  voice 
doth  sing  ; 
Sings  his  Sicilian  fold, 
His  sheep,  his  hapless  love,  his  blinded 
eyes — 
And  how  a  call  celestial  round  him 

rang, 
And  heavenward  from  the  fountain- 
brink  he  sprang, 
And    all    the  marvel  of    the    golden 
skies. 

there  thou  art  gone,  and  me  thou  leavest 
here 
Sole  in  these  fields !  yet  will  I  not  de- 
spair. 
Despair   I  will  not,  while  I  yet  de- 
scry 


'Neath  the  mild  canopy  of  English  air 
That  lonely  tree  against  the  western 
sky. 
Still,  still  these  slopes,  'tis  clear, 
Our   Gipsy-Scholar   haunts,  outliving 
thee  ! 
Fields  where  soft  sheep  from  cages 

pull  the  hay, 
Woods  with  anemones  in  flower  till 
May, 
Know  him  a  wanderer  still ,  then  why 
not  me  ? 

A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks, 
Shy  to  illumine  ;  and  I  seek  it  too. 
This  does  not  come  with  houses  or 
with  gold, 
With  place,  with  honor,  and  a  flatter- 
ing crew ; 
'Tis     not     in    the    world's    market 
bought  and  sold — 
But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop   by,   and   leave   its   seeker    still 
un tired  ; 
Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  he  is 

gone, 
He  wends  unfollow'd,  he  must  house 
alone  ; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart  in- 
spired. 

Thou  too,  O  Thyrsis,  on  like  quest  wast 
bound  ; 
Thou  wanderedst  with  me  for  a  little 
hour ! 
Men   gave   thee   nothing  ;  but   this 
happy  quest, 
If  men  esteemed  thee  feeble,  gave  thee 
power, 
If  men  procured  thee  trouble,  gave 
thee  rest. 
And  this  rude  Cumner  ground, 
Its    fir-topped    Hurst,   its    farms,   its 
quiet  fields, 
Here    cams't    thou    in   thy   jocund 

youthful  time, 
Here  was  thine  height  of  strength, 
thy  golden  prime  ! 
And  still  the  haunt  beloved  a  virtue 
yields. 

What  though   the  music  of  thy  rustic 
flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy,  country 
tone  ; 
Lost  it  too  soon,  and  learnt  a  stormy 
note 
Of   men  contention-tost,  of  men  who 
groan, 


ARNOLD 


761 


Which  task'd  thy  pipe  too  sore,  and 
tired  thy  throat — 
It  fail'd,  and  thou  wast  mute  ! 
Yet  hadst  thou  alwavs  visions  of  our 
light. 
And   long  with   men   of  care   thou 
couldst  not  stay. 
And  soon  thy  foot  resumed  its   wan- 
dering way, 
Left   human   haunt,  and   on   alone   till 
night. 

Too  rare,  too   rare,  grow  now  my  visits 
here  ! 
'Mid   city-noise,  not,  as    with   thee   of 
yore, 
Thyrsis !  in  reach   of   sheep-bells   is 
my  home. 
— Then  through  the  great  town's  harsh, 
heart-wearying  roar, 
Let    in  thy   voice  a    whisper   often 
come, 
To  chase  fatigue  and  fear  : 
Why  faintest  thou !  Iwander'd  till  Idled. 
Roam  on!      The  light  ice    sought    is 

shining  still. 
Dost  thou   ask  proof?    Our   tree  yet 
crowns  the  hill, 
Our  Scholar  travels  yet  the  loved  hill -.tide. 

18G6. 

YOUTH  AND   CALM 

Tis  death  !  and  peace,  indeed,  is  here, 
And  ease  from  shame,  and  rest  from  fear. 
There's  nothing  can  dismarble  now 
The  smoothness  of  that  limpid  brow. 
But  is  a  calm  like  this,  in  truth. 
The  crowning  end  of  life  and  youth, 
And  when  this  boon  rewards  the  dead, 
Are  all  debts  paid,  has  all  been  said  ? 
And  is  the  heart  of  youth  so  light, 
Its  step  so  firm,  its  eyes  so  bright, 
Because  on  its  hot  broiv  there  blows 
A  wind  of  promise  and  repose 
From  the  far  grave,  to  which  it  goes  ; 
Because  it  hath  the  hope  to  come, 
One  day,  to  harbor  in  the  tomb  ? 
Ah  no,  the  bliss  youth  dreams  is  one 
For  daylight,  lor  the  cheerful  sun, 
For  feeling  nerves  and  living  breath — 
Youth  dreams  a  bliss  on  this  side  death. 
It  dreams  a  rest,  if  not  more  deep, 
More  grateful  than  this  marble  sleep  ; 
It  hears  a  voice  within  it  tell  : 
Calm's  not   life's  crown,  though  calm  is 

well. 
'T  is  all  perhaps  which  man  acquires, 
But  'tis  not  what  our  youth  desires. 

(1852).     1867. 


AUSTERITY  OF  POETRY 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow, 
Ere  Dante  came,  the   trump  of  sacred 

song, 
In  his  light  youth  amid  a  festal  throng 
Sate  with  his  bride  to  see  a  public  show. 
Fair  was  the  bride,  and  on  her  front  did 

glow 
Youth  like  a  star  ;  and  what  to  youth 

belong — 
Gay  raiment,    sparkling  gauds,  elation 

strong. 
A  prop  gave  way  !  crash  fell  a  platform  ! 

lo, 
'Mid  struggling  sufferers,  hurt  to  death, 

she  lay  ! 
Shuddering,    they   drew   her  garments 

off — and  found 
A  robe  of  sackcloth  next  the  smooth, 

white  skin. 
Such,  poets,    is   your  bride,  the   Muse  ! 

young,  gay, 
Radiant,    adorn'd     outside ;    a     hidden 

ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 

1867. 

WORLDLY  PLACE 

Even  in  a  palace,  life  may  be  led  well ! 
So  spake  the  imperial  sage,  purest  of  men, 
Marcus  Aurelius.     But  the  stifling  den 
Of    common   life,   where,    crowded   up 

pell-mell, 
Our  freedom  for  a  little  bread  we  sell, 
And  drudge  under  some  foolish  master's 

ken 
Who  rates  us  if  we  peer  outside  our 

pen  — 
Match'd  with  a  palace,  is  not  this  a  hell? 
Even  in  a  palace !    On  his  truth  sincere, 
Who  spoke  these  words,  no  shadow  ever 

came ; 
And  when  my  ill-school'd  spirit  is  aflame 
Some  nobler,  ampler  stage  of  life  to  win, 
I'll  stop,  and  say  :  "  There  were  no  suc- 
cor here  ! 
The  aids  to  noble  life  are  all  within." 

1867. 

EAST  LONDON 

'Twas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  over- 
head 

Smote  on  the  squalid. streets  of  Bethnal 
Green, 

And  the  pale  weaver,  through  his 
windows  seen 

In  Spitalfields,  look'd   thrice   dispirited. 


762 


BRITISH   POETS 


I  nut  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and  said  : 
"111  and   o'erwork'd,    how   fare   you   in 

this  scene  ?  " — 
"  Bravely  ! "  said  lie ;  "  for  I  of  late  have 

been 
Much  cheer'd  with  thoughts   of   Christ, 

the  living  bread." 
O  human  soul  !  as  long  as  thou  canst  so 
Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light, 
Above  the  howling  senses'  ebb  and  flow, 
To  cheer  thee,  and  to  right  thee  if   thou 

roam — 
Not  with  lost  toil  thou  laborest  through 

the  night ! 
Thou    mak'st    the    heaven   thou   hop'st 

indeed  thy  home.  1867. 

WEST  LONDON 

Crouch'd  on  the  pavement,  close  by 
Belgrave  Square, 

A  tramp  I  saw,  ill,  moody,  and  tongue- 
tied. 

A  babe  was  in  her  arms,  and  at  her  side 

A  girl  ;  their  clothes  were  rags,  their 
feet  were  bare. 

Some  laboring  men,  whose  work  lay 
somewhere  there, 

Pass'd  opposite  ;  she  touch'd  her  girl, 
who  hied 

Across,  and  begg'd,  and  came  back 
satisfied. 

The  rich  she  had  let  pass  with  frozen 
stare. 

Thought  I  :  "  Above  her  state  this  spirit 
towers  ; 

She  will  not  ask  of  aliens,  but  of  friends, 

Of  sharers  in  a  common  human  fate. 

She  turns  from  that  cold  succor,  which 
attends 

The  unknown  little  from  the  unknow- 
ing great, 

And  points  us  to  a  better  time  than 
ours."  1867. 

EAST  AND  WEST 

In  the  bare  midst  of  Anglesey  they  show 

Two  springs  which  close  by  one  another 
play  ; 

And,  "Thirteen  hundred  years  agone,  ' 
they  say, 

"  Two  saints  met  often  where  those 
waters  flow. 

One  came  from  Penmon  westward,  and 
a  glow 

Whiten'd  his  face  from  the  sun's  front- 
ing ray  ; 

Eastward  the  other,  from  the  dying  day, 


And  he  with  unsunn'd  face  did  always 

go." 
Seiriol  the  Bright,  Kybi  the  Dark !  men 

said. 
The  seer  from  the  East  was  then  in  light. 
The   seer   from   the  West  was  then  in 

shade. 
Ah  !   now  'tis  changed.     In  conquering 

sunshine  bright 
The  man  of  the  bold  West  now  comes 

array'd  ; 
He  of  the  mystic  East  is  touch'd  with 

night.  1867. 

THE  BETTER  PART 

Long  fed  on  boundless  hopes,  O  race  of 

man, 
How  angrily  thou  spurn'st  all  simpler 

fare ! 
"  Christ,"  some  one  says,  "was  human 

as  we  are  ; 
No  judge  eyes  us  from  Heaven,  our  sin 

to  scan  ; 
We  live  no  more,  when  we  have  done 

our  spau." 
"  Well,  then,  for  Christ,"  thou  answerest, 

"  who  can  care? 
From   sin,  which  Heaven  records  not, 

why  forbear  ? 
Live  we  like  brutes  our  life  without  a 

plan  !  " 
So  answerest  thou  ;  but  why  not  rather 

say  : 
"Hath  man  no  second  life? — Pitch  this 

one  high  ! 
Sits  there  no  judge  in  Heaven,  our  sin 

to  see  ? — 
More    strictly,   then,    the  inward  judge 

obey  ! 
Was  Christ  a  man  like  us  ?  Ah  !  let  us  try 
If  we  then,  too,  can  be  such  men  as  he  /" 

1867. 

IMMORTALITY 

Foil'd    by    our    fellow-men,   depress'd, 

outworn, 
We  leave  the  brutal  world  to  take  its 

way, 
And,  Patience!  in  another  life,  we  say. 
The  world  shall  be  thrust  doivn,  and  ice 

up-borne. 
And  will  not,  then,  the  immortal  armies 

scorn 
The   world's  poor,    routed   leavings?  or 

will  they, 
Who  fail'd  under  the  heat  of  this  life's 

day, 


ARNOLD 


763 


Support    the    fervors   of   the    heavenly 

morn  ? 
No,  no  !  tlie  energy  of  life  may  be 
Kept  on  after  the  grave,  but  not  begun  ; 
And  he  who  flagg'd  not  in   the  earthly 

strife. 
From  strength  to  strength  advancing — 

only  he. 
His  soul   well-knit,  and  all  his  battles 

won , 
Mounts,  and  that  hardly,  to  eternal  life. 

1867. 

DOVER  BEACH 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night, 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits  ; — on  the  French  coast 

the  light 
Gleams  and  is  gone  ;  the  cliffs  of  Eng- 
land stand, 
Glimmering  and  vast,  out   in  the  tran- 
quil bay. 
Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night- 

air  ! 
Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon  blanoh'd 

land, 
Listen  !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 
Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back, 

and  fling, 
At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand. 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  JEgsean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery  ;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  Sea  of  Faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round 

eai-th's  shore 
Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd. 
But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 
Retreating,  to  the  breath 
Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges 

drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 
Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 
To  one  another  I  for  the  world,  which 

seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 
So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 
Hath  really  neither   joy,   nor   love,   nor 
light, 


Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  foi 

pain  ; 
And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 
Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle 

and  flight, 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

1867. 

GROWING  OLD 

What  is  it  to  grow  old  ? 

Is  it  to  lose  the  glory  of  the  form, 

The  lustre  of  the  eye  ? 

Is  it  for  beauty  to  forego  her  wreath  ? 

— Yes,  but  not  this  alone. 

Is  it  to  feel  our  strength — 
Not  our  bloom  only,  but  our  strength- 
decay  ? 
Is  it  to  feel  each  limb 
Grow  stiffer,  every  function  less  exact, 
Each  nerve  more  loosely  strung? 

Yes,  this,  and  more  ;  but  not 

Ah,  't  is  not  what  in  youth  we  dream'd 
't  would  be ! 

T  is  not  to  have  our  life 

Mellow'd  and  soften'd  as  with  sunset- 
glow, 

A  golden  day's  decline. 

'T  is  not  to  see  the  world 

As  from  a  height,  with  rapt  prophetic 

eyes, 
And  heart  profoundly  stirr'd  ; 
And  weep,  and  feel  the  fulness  of  the 

past, 
The  years  that  are  no  more. 

It  is  to  spend  long  days 

And   not  once   feel  that  we  were  ever 

young  ; 
It  is  to  add,  immured 
In  the  hot  prison  of  the  present,  month 
To  month  with  weary  pain. 

It  is  to  suffer  this, 

And  feel  but  half,  and  feebly,  what  we 

feel. 
Deep  in  our  hidden  heart 
Festers    the    dull    remembrance    of    a 

change. 
But  no  emotion — none. 

It  is — last  stage  of  all — 

When  we  are  frozen  up  within,  and  quite 

The  phantom  of  ourselves, 

To  hear  the  world  applaud  the  hollow 

ghost 
Which  blamed  the  living  man.      1867. 


764 


BRITISH    POETS 


PIS-ALLER 

"  Man  is  blind  because  of  sin, 
Revelation  makes  him  sure  ; 
Without  that,  who  looks  within, 
Looks  in  vain,  for  all  's  obscure." 

Nay,  look  closer  into  man  ! 

Tell  me,  can  you  find  indeed 

Nothing  sure,  no  moral  plan 

Clear  prescribed,  without  your  creed? 

"  No,  I  nothing  can  perceive  ! 
Without  that,  all  's  dark  for  men. 
That,  or  nothing,  I  believe." — 
For  God's  sake,  believe  it  then  ! 

1867. 

THE  LAST  WORD 

Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed, 
Creep,  and  let  no  more  be  said  ! 
Vain  thy  onset  !  all  stands  fast. 
Thou  thyself  must  break  at  last. 

Let  the  long  contention  cease  ! 
Geese  are  swans,  and  swans  are  geese. 
Let  them  have  it  how  they  will ! 
Thou  art  tired  ;  best  be  still. 

They  out-talk'd  thee,  hiss'd  thee,  tore 

thee  ? 
Better  men  fared  thus  before  thee  ; 
Fired  their  ringing  shot  and  pass'd, 
Hotly  charged — and  sank  at  last. 

Charge  once  more,  then,  and  be  dumb! 
Let  the  victors,  when  they  come, 
When  the  forts  of  folly  fall, 
Find  thy  body  by  the  wall  !  18G7. 

BACCHANALIA ; 

OR, 
THE  NEW  AGE 


The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still. 
The  tinkle  of  the  thirsty  rill, 
Unheard  all  day,  ascends  again  ; 
Deserted  is  the  half-mown  plain, 
Silent  the  swaths  !  the  ringing  wain, 
The  mower's  cry,  the  dog's  alarms, 
All  housed  within  the  sleeping  farms  ! 
The  business  of  the  day  is  done, 
The  last-left  haymaker  is  gone. 
And  from  the  thyme  upon  the  height, 
And  from  the  elder-blossom  white 


And  ]  ale  dog-roses  in  the  hedge, 

And  from  the  mint-plant  in  the  sedge, 

In  puffs  of  balm  the  night-air  blows 

The  perfume  which  the  dajr  foregoes. 

And  on  the  pure  horizon  far, 

See,  pulsing  with  the  first-born  star, 

The  liquid  sky  above  the  hill  1 

The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still. 

Loitering  and  leaping, 

With  saunter,  with  bounds — 

Flickering  and  circling 

In  files  and  in  rounds — 

Gaily  their  pine-staff  green 

Tossing  in  air, 

Loose  o'er  their  shoulders  white 

Showering  their  hair — 

See  !  the  wild  Maenads 

Break  from  the  wood, 

Youth  and  Iacchus 

Maddening  their  blood. 

See  !  through  the  quiet  land 

Rioting  they  pass — 

Fling  the  fresh  heaps  about, 

Trample  the  grass. 

Tear  from  the  rifled  hedge 

Garlands,  their  prize  ; 

Fill  with  their  sports  the  field, 

Fill  with  their  cries. 

Shepherd,  what  ails  thee,  then? 

Shepherd,  why  mute? 

Forth  with  thy  joyous  song  ! 

Forth  with  thy  flute  ! 

Tempts  not  the  revel  blithe  ? 

Lure  not  their  cries? 

Glow  not  their  shoulders  smooth? 

Melt  not  their  eyes  ? 

Is  not,  on  cheeks  like  those, 

Lovely  the  flush  ? 

— Ah,  so  the  quiet  was  ! 

So  was  the  hush  ! 


The  epoch  ends,  the  world  is  still. 
The  age  has  talk'd  and  work'd  its  fill— 
The  famous  orators  have  shone, 
The  famous  poets  sung  and  gone, 
The  famous  men  of  war  have  fought, 
The  famous  speculators  thought, 
The  famous  players,  sculptors,  wrought, 
The  famous  painters  fill'd  their  wall, 
The  famous  critics  judged  it  all. 
The  combatants  are  parted  now — 
Uphung  the  spear,  unbent  the  bow, 
The  puissant  crown'd,  the  weak  laid  low. 
And  in  the  after-silence  sweet, 
Now   strifes  are  hush'd,  our  ears  doth 
meet, 


ARNOLD 


765 


Ascending  pure,  the  bell-like  fame 

Of  this  or  that  down-trodden  name, 

Delicate  spirits,  push'd  away 

In  the  hot  press  of  the  noon-day. 

And  o'er  the  plain,  where  the  dead  age 

Did  its  now  silent  warfare  wage — 

O'er  that    wide    plain,    now    wrapt    in 

gloom, 
Where  many  a  splendor  finds  its  tomb, 
Many  spent  fames  and  fallen  mights — 
The  one  or  two  immortal  lights 
Rise  slowly  up  into  the  sky 
To  shine  there  everlastingly, 
Like  stars  over  the  bounding  hill. 
The  epoch  ends,  the  world  is  still. 

Thundering  and  bursting 
In  torrents,  in  waves — 
Carolling  and  shouting 
Over  tombs,  amid  graves- 
See  !  on  the  cumber'fl  plain 
Clearing  a  stage, 
Scattering  the  past  about, 
Comes  the  new  age. 
Bards  make  new  poems, 
Thinkers  new  schools, 
Statesmen  new  systems, 
Critics  new  rules. 
All  things  begin  again  ; 
Life  is  their  prize  ; 
Earth  with  their  deeds  they  fill, 
Fill  with  their  cries. 

Poet,  what  ails  thee,  then? 
Say,  why  so  mute  ? 
Forth  with  thy  praising  voice ! 
Forth  with  thy  flute  ! 
Loiterer  !  why  sittest  thou 
Sunk  in  thy  dream  ? 
Tempts  not  the  bright  new  age  ? 
Shines  not  its  stream? 
Look,  ah.  what  genius, 
Art,  science,  wit  ! 
Soldiers  like  Caesar, 
Statesmen  like  Pitt  ! 
Sculptors  like  Phidias, 
Riphaels  in  shoals, 
Poets  like  Shakespeare — 
I  Beautiful  souls  ! 
See,  on  their  glowing  cheeks 
Heavenly  the  flush  ! 
— Ah,  so  the  silence  ivas  ! 
So  was  the  hush ! 

The  world  but  feels  the  present's  spell, 
The  poet  feels  the  past  as  well ; 
Whatever  men  have  done,  might  do. 
Whatever  thought,  might  think  it  too. 

1867. 


PALLADIUM 

Set  where  the  upper  streams  of  Simois 

flow 
Was  the  Palladium,  high  'mid  rock  and 

wood  ; 
And  Hector  was  in  Ilium,  far  below, 
And  fought,  and  saw  it  not — but  there 

it  stood  ! 

It  stood,  and  sun  and  moonshine  rain'd 

their  light 
On  the  pure  columns  of   its  glen-built 

hall, 
Backward  and  forward  roll'd  the  waves 

of  fight 
Round  Troy — but  while  this  stood,  Troy 

could  not  fall. 

So,  in    its  lovely   moonlight,    lives  the 

soul. 
Mountains  surround  it  and  sweet  virgin 

air  ; 
Cold   plashing,  past  it,   crystal   waters 

roll ; 
We  visit  it  by  moments,  ah,  too  rare  ! 

We  shall  renew  the  battle  in  the  plain 
To-morrow  ;  red  with  blood  willXanthus 

be; 
Hector  and  Ajax  will  be  there  again, 
Helen  will  come  upon  the  wall  to  see. 

Then  we  shall  rust  in  shade,  or  shine  in 

strife, 
And   fluctuate   'twixt   blind  hopes    and 

blind  despairs, 
And  fancy  that  we  put  forth  all  our  life, 
And  never   know   how  with  the  soul  it 

fares. 

Still  dotli  the  soul,  from  its  lone  fastness 

high, 
Upon  our  life  a  ruling  effluence  send. 
And  when  it  fails,  fight  as  we  will,  we 

die  ; 
And  while  it  lasts,  we  cannot  wholly  end. 

1867. 

A  WISH 

I  ASK  not  that  my  bed  of  death 
From  bands  of  greedy  heirs  be  free  ; 
For  these  besiege  the  latest  breath 
Of  fortune's  favor'd  sons,  not  me. 

I  ask  not  each  kind  soul  to  keep 
Tearless,  when  of  my  death  he  hears. 
Let  those  who  will,  if  any,  weep  ! 


766 


BRITISH    POETS 


There  are  worse  plagues  on  earth  than 
tears. 

T  ask  but  that  my  death  may  find 
The  Freedom  to  my  life  denied  ; 
Ask  but  tli*-  folly  of  mankind 
Then,  then  at  last,  to  quit  my  side. 

Spare  me  the  whispering,  crowded  room, 

The  friends  who  come,  and  gape,  and  go; 

The  ceremonious  air  of  gloom — 

All,  which  makes  deatli  a  hideous  show  ! 

Nor  bring,  to  see  me  cease  to  live, 
Some  doctor  full  of   phrase  and  fame, 
To  shake  his  sapient  head,  and  give 
The  ill  he  cannot  cure  a  name. 

Nor  fetch,  to  take  the  accustom'd  toll 
Of  the  poor  sinner  bound  for  death, 
His  brother-doctor  of  the  soul, 
To  canvass  with  official  breath 

The  future  and  its  viewless  things — 

That  undiscover'd  mystery 

Which  one  who  feels  death's  winnowing 

wings 
Must  needs  read  clearer,  sure,  than  he  ! 

Bring  none  of  these  ;  but  let  me  be, 
While  all  around  in  silence  lies, 
Moved  to  the  window  near,  and  see 
Once  more,  before  my  dying  eyes, 

Bathed  in  the  sacred  clews  of  morn 
The  wide  aerial  landscape  spread — 
The  world  which  was  ere  I  was  born. 
The  world  which  lasts  when  I  am  dead  ; 

Which  never  was  the  friend  of  one. 
Nor  promised  love  it  could  not  give, 
But  lit  for  all  its  generous  sun. 
And  lived  itself,  and  made  us  live. 

There  let  me  gaze,  till  I  become 
In  soul,   with  what  I  gaze  on,  wed  ! 
To  feel  the  universe  my  home  ; 
To  have  before  my  mind — instead 

Of  the  sick  room,  the  mortal  strife, 
The  turmoil  for  a  little  breath — 
The  pure  eternal  course  of  life. 
Not  human  combatings  with  death  ! 

Thus  feeling,  gazing,  might  I  grow 
Composed,  refresh'd,  ennobled,  clear  ; 
Then  willing  let  my  spirit  go 
To  work  or  wait  elsewhere  or  here  ! 

1867. 


RUGBY  CHAPEL 

November  1857 

Coldly,  sadly  descends 

The  autumn-evening.     The  field 

Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 

Of  wither'd  leaves,  and  the  elms, 

Fade  into  dimness  apace, 

Silent  •„-— hardly  a  shout 

From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play  ! 

The  lights  come  out  in  the  street. 

In  the  school-room  window's  ; — but  cold 

Solemn,  unlighted.  austere, 

Through  the  gathering  darkness,  arise 

The  chapel-walls,  in  whose  bound 

Thou,  my  father  !  art  laid. 

There  thou  dost  lie,  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  autumn  evening.     But  ah  ! 

That  word,  gloom,  to  my  mind 

Brings  thee  back,  in  the  light 

Of  thy  radiant  vigor,  again  ; 

In  the  gloom  of  November  we  pass'd 

Days  not  dark  at  thy  side  ; 

Seasons  impair'd  not  the  ray 

Of  thy  buoyant  cheerfulness  clear. 

Such  thou  wast !  and  I  stand 

In  the  autumn  evening  and  think 

Of  bygone  autumns  with  thee. 

Fifteen  years  have  gone  round 
Since  thou  arosest  to  tread, 
In  the  summer-morning,  the  road 
Of  death,  at  a  call  unforeseen, 
Sudden.     For  fifteen  years, 
We  who  till  then  in  thy  shade 
Rested  as  under  the  boughs 
Of  a  mighty  oak,  have  endured 
Sunshine  and  rain  as  we  might, 
Bare,  unshaded,  alone. 
Lacking  the  shelter  of  thee. 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarriest  thou  now?     For  that  force, 
Surely,  has  not  been  left  vain  ! 
Somewhere,  surely,  afar, 
In  the  sounding  labor-house  vast 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength, 
Zealous,  beneficent,  firm  ! 

Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere, 
Conscious  or  not  of  the  past, 
Still  thou  performest  the  word 
Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live- 
Prompt,  unwearied,  as  here  ! 
Still  thou  upraisest  with  zeal 
The  humble  good  from  the  ground, 
Sternly  repressest  the  bad  I 
Still,  like  a  trumpet,  dost  rouse 


ARNOLD 


767 


Those  who  with  half-open  eyes 
Tread  the  border-land  dim 
Twixt  vice  and  virtue  ;  reviv'st, 
Succorest  I— this  was  thy  work  ; 
This  was  thy  life  upon  earth. 

What  is  the  course  of  the  life 
Of  mortal  men  on  the  earth  ?— 
Must  men  eddy  about 
Here  and  there— eat  and  drink, 
Chatter  and  love  and  hate, 
Gather  and  squander,  are  raised 
Aloft,  are  hurl'd  in  the  dust, 
Striving  blindly,  achieving 
Nothing  ;  and  then  they  die- 
Perish  ;— and  no  one  asks 
Who  or  what  they  have  been, 
More  than  he  asks  what  waves, 
In  the  moonlit  solitudes  mild 
Of  the  midmost  Ocean,  have  swell'd, 
Foam'd  for  a  moment,  and  gone. 

And  there  are  some,  whom  a  thirst 

Ardent,  unquenchable,  fires, 

Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent, 

Not  without  aim  to  go  round 

In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust, 

Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 

Ah  yes  !  some  of  us  strive 

Not'without  action  to  die 

Fruitless,  but  something  to  snatch 

From  dull  oblivion,  nor  all 

Glut  the  devouring  grave  ! 

We.  we  have  chosen  our  path — 

Path  to  a  clear-purposed  goal, 

Path  of  advance  !— but  it  leads 

A  long,  steep  journey,  through  sunk 

Gorges,  o'er  mountains  in  snow. 

Cheerful,  with  friends,  we  set  forth — 

Then  on  the  height,  comes  the  storm. 

Thunder  crashes  from  rock 

To  rock,  the  cataracts  reply, 

Lightnings  dazzle  our  eyes. 

Roaring  torrents  have  breach'd 

The  track,  the  stream-bed  descends 

In  the  place  where  the  wayfarer  once 

Planted  his  footstep— the  spray 

Boils  o'er  its  borders  !  aloft 

The  unseen  snow-beds  dislodge 

Their  hanging  ruin  ;  alas, 

Havoc  is  made  in  our  train  ! 

Friends  who  set  forth  at  our  side, 

Falter,  are  lost  in  the  storm. 

We,  we  only  are  left  ! 

With  frowning   foreheads,  with  lips 

Sternly  compress'd,  we  strain  on, 

On — and  at  nigbtfall  at  last 

Come  to  the  end  of  our  way. 

To  the  lonely  inn  'mid  the  rocks  ; 


Where  the  gaunt  and  taciturn  host 
Stands  on  the  threshold,  the  wind 
Shaking  his  thin  white  hairs — 
Holds  his  lantern  to  scan 
Our  storm-beat  figures,  and  asks  : 
Whom  in  our  party  we  bring? 
Whom  we  have  left  in  the  snow  ? 

Sadly  we  answer  :  We  bring 
Only  ourselves  !  we  lost 
Sight  of  the  rest  in  the  storm. 
Hardly  ourselves  we  fought  through, 
Stripp'd,  without  friends,  as  we  are. 
Friends,  companions,  and  train. 
The  avalanche  swept  from  our  side. 

But  thou  would'st  not  alone 
Be  saved,  my  father  !  alone 
Conquer  and  come  to  thy  goal, 
Leaving  the  rest  in  the  wild. 
We  were  weary,  and  we 
Fearful,  and  we  in  our  march 
Fain  to  drop  down  and  to  die. 
Still  thou  turnedst,  and  still 
Beckonedst  the  trembler,  and  still 
Gavest  the  weary  thy  hand. 

If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world, 

Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet, 

Toil  or  dejection  have  tried 

Thy  spirit,  of  that  we  saw 

Nothing — to  us  thou  wast  still 

Cheerful,  and  helpful,  anil  firm  ! 

Therefore  to  thee  it  was  given 

Many  to  save  with  thyself  ; 

And,  at  the  end  of  thy  day, 

O  faithful  shepherd  !  to  come, 

Bringing  thy  sheep  in  thy  hand. 

And  through  thee  I  believe 

In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone ; 

Pure  souls  honor'd  and  blest 

By  former  ages,  who  else — 

Such,  so  soulless,  so  poor, 

Is  the  race  of  men  whom  I  see — 

Seem'd  but  a  dream  of  the  heart, 

Seem'd  but  a  cry  of  desire. 

Yes  !  I  believe  that  there  lived 

Others  like  thee  in  the  past, 

Not  like  the  men  of  the  crowd 

Who  all  round  me  to-day 

HI  uster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 

Hideous,  and  arid,  and  vile; 

But  souls  temper'd  with  fire, 

Fervent,  heroic,  and  good, 

Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind. 

Servants  of  God  ! — or  sons 
Shall  I  not  call  you  ?  because 
Not  as  servants  ye  knew 
Your  Father's  innermost  mind, 


76S 


BRITISH    POETS 


His,  who  unwillingly  sees 

One  of  his  little  ones  lost — 

Yours  is  the  praise,  if  mankind 
Hath  not  as  yet  in  its  march 
Fainted,  and  fallen,  and  died  ! 

See  !     In  the  rocks  of  the  world 
Marches  the  host   of  mankind, 
A  feeble,  wavering  line. 
Where  are  they  tending  ?— A  God 
Marshall'd  them,  gave  them  their  goal. 
Ah.  hut  the  way  is  so  long  ! 
Years  they  have  been  in  the  wild  ! 
Sore  thirst  plagues  them,  the  rocks, 
Rising  all  round,  overawe  ; 
Factions  divide  them,  their  host 
Threatens  to  break,  to  dissolve. 
— Ah,  keep,  keep  them  combined  ! 
Else,  of  the  myriads  who  fill 
That  army,  not  one  shall  arrive  ; 
Sole  they  shall  stray  ;  in  the  rocks 
Stagger  for  ever  in  vain. 
Die  one  by  one  in  the  waste. 

Then,  in  such  hour  of  need 

Of  your  fainting,  dispirited  race, 

Ye,  like  angels,  appear, 

Radiant  with  ardor  divine  ! 

Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear  ! 

Languor  is  not  in  your  heart, 

Weakness  is  not  in  }rour  word, 

Weariness  not  on  your  brow. 

Ye  alight  in  our  van  !  at  your  voice, 

Panic,  despair,  flee  away. 

Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 

The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 

Praise,  re-inspire  the  brave  ! 

Order,  courage,  return  ; 

Eyes  rekindling,  and  prayers, 

Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 

Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files, 

Strengthen  the  wavering  line, 

Stablish,  continue  our  march, 

On,  to  the  bound  of  the  waste, 

On,  to  the  City  of  God.  1867. 

HEINE 

(FROM  HEINE'S  GRAVE) 

The  Spirit  of  the  world, 
Beholding  the  absurdity  of  men — 
Their  vaunts,  their  feats — let  a  sardonic 

smile, 
For  one  short   moment,   wander  o'er  his 

lips. 
That  smile  was  Heine  ! — for   its  earthly 

hour 
The    strange   guest   sparkled  :  now  'tis 

pass'd  away. 


That  was  Heine  !  and  we, 
Myriads  who  live,  who  have  lived, 
What  are  we  allv  but  a  mood, 
A  single  mood,  of  the  life 
Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  we  exist, 
Who  alone  is  all  things  in  one  ? 
Spirit,  who  fillest  us  all ! 
Spirit,  who  utterest  in  each 
New-coming  son  of  mankind 
Such  of  thy  thoughts  as  thou  wilt ! 

0  thou,  one  of  whose  moods, 
Bitter  and  strange,  was  the  life 
Of  Heine — his  strange,  alas, 
His  bitter  life  ! — may  a  life 
Other  and  milder  be  mine  ! 
May'st  thou  a  mood  more  serene, 
Happier,  have  utter'd  in  mine  ! 
May'st  thou  the  rapture  of  peace 
Deep  have  embreathed  at  its  core  ; 
Made  it  a  ray  of  thy  thought, 

Made  it  a  beat  of  thy  joy  1  1867. 

OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE 

Savez-vous  quelque  Men  qui  console  du  regret 
cPun  monde  t  Obermann. 

Glion? Ah,  twenty  years,  it  cuts  1 

All  meaning  from  a  name  ! 

White  houses  prank  where  once  were 

huts. 
Glion,  but  not  the  same  ! 

And  yet  I  know  not !     All  unchanged 
The  turf,  the  pines,  the  sky  ! 
The  hills  in  their  old  order  ranged  ; 
The  lake,  with  Chillon  by  ! 

And,  'neath  those  chestnut-trees,  where 

stiff 
And  stony  mounts  the  way, 
The  crackling  husk-heaps  burn,  as  if 

1  left  them  yesterday  ! 

Actoss  the  valley,  on  that  slope, 
The  huts  of  Avant  shine  ! 
Its  pines,  under  their  branches,  ope 
Ways  for  the  pasturing  kine. 

Full-foaming  milk-pails,  Alpine  fare, 
Sweet  heaps  of  fresh-cut  grass, 
Invite  to  rest  the  traveller  there 
Before  he  climb  the  pass — 

1  Probably  all  who  know  (tie  Vevey  end  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva,  will  recollect  Glion,  the  moun- 
tain-village above  the  castle  of  Chillon.  Glion 
now  has  hotels,  pensions,  and  villas  ;  but  twenty 
years  ago  it  was  hardly  more  than  the  huts  of 
Avanr  opposite  to  it,— huts  through  which  goes 
that  beautiful  path  over  the  Col  de  Jaman,  fol- 
lowed by  so  many  foot-travellers  on  their  way 
f  rum  Vevey  to  the  Simmenthal  and  Thun. 

{Arnold). 


ARNOLD 


769 


The  gentian-flower'd  pass,  its  crown 
With  yellow  spires  aflame  ; 
Whence  drops  the  path  to  Alliere  down, 
And  walls  where  Byron  came.1 

By  their  green  river,  who  doth  change 

His  birth-name  just  below  ; 

Orchard,    and     croft,     and     full-stored 

grange 
Nursed  by  his  pastoral  flow. 

But  stop  ! — to  fetch  back  thoughts  that 

stray 
Beyond  this  gracious  bound, 
The  cone  of  Jaman,  pale  and  gray, 
See,  in  the  blue  profound  ! 

Ah,  Jaman  !  delicately  tall 

Above  his  sun-warm'd  firs — 

What  thoughts  to  me  his  rocks  recall, 

What  memories  he  stirs  ! 

And  who  but  thou  must  be,  in  truth, 
Obermann  !  with  me  here  ? 
Thou  master  of  my  wandering  youth, 
But  left  this  many  a  year  ! 

Yes,  I  forget  the  world's  work  wrought, 
Its  warfare  waged  with  pain  ; 
An  eremite  with  thee,  in  thought 
Once  more  I  slip  my  chain, 

And  to  thy  mountain-chalet  come, 
And  lie  beside  its  door, 
And  hear  the  wild  bee's  Alpine  hum, 
And  thy  sad,  tranquil  lore  ! 

Again  I  feel  the  words  inspire 
Their  mournful  calm  ;  serene, 
Yet  tinged  with  infinite  desire 
Fur  all  that  might  have  been — 

The  harmony  from  which  man  swerved 
Made  his  life's  rule  once  more! 
The  universal  order  served, 
Earth  happier  than  before  ! 

— While  thus  I  mused,  night  gently  ran 
Down  over  hill  and  wood. 
Then,  still  and  sudden,  Obermann 
On  the  grass  near  me  stood. 

Those  pensive  features  well  I  knew, 
On  my  mind,  years  before. 
Imaged  so  oft  !  imaged  so  true  ! 
— A  shepherd's  garb  he  wore, 

1  Montbovon.  See  Byron's  Journal,  inhis  Works, 
vol.  iii.  p.  258.  The  river  Saane  becomes  the  Sa- 
rine  below  Montbovon.     (Arnold). 

49 


A  mountain-flower  was  in  his  hand, 

A  book  was  in  his  breast. 

Bent    on  my  face,     with    gaze   which 

scann'd 
My  soul,  his  eyes  did  rest. 

"  And  is  it  thou,"  he  cried,  "  so  long 
Held  by  the  world  which  we 
Loved  not,  who  turnest  from  the  throng 
Back  to  thy  youth  and  me  ? 

"  And  from  thy  world,  with  heart  op- 

prest, 
Choosest  thou  note  to  turn  ? — 
All  me  !  we  anchorites  read  things  best, 
Clearest  their  course  discern  ! 

"Thou   fledst   me    when    the   ungenial 

earth, 
Man's  work-place,  lay  in  gloom. 
Return'st  thou  in  her  hour  of  birth, 
Of  hopes  and  hearts  in  bloom  ? 

"  Perceiv'st  thou  not  the  change  of  day  ? 
All  !  Carry  back  thy  ken, 
What,  some  two  thousand  years  !    Sur- 
vey 
The  world  as  it  was  then  ! 

"  Like  ours  it  look'd  in  outward  air. 
Its  head  was  clear  and  true, 
Sumptuous  its  clothing,  rich  its  fare, 
No  pause  its  action  knew  ; 

"  Stout  was  its  arm,  each  thewand  bone 
Seem'd  puissant  and  alive — 
But,  ah  !  its  heart,  its  heart  was  stone, 
And  so  it  could  not  thrive  ! 

"  On  that  hard  Pagan  world  disgust 
And  secret  loathing  fell. 
Deep  weariness  and  sated  lust 
Made  human  life  a  hell. 

"  In  his  cool  hall,  with  haggard  eyes, 
The  Roman  noble  lay  ; 
He  drove  abroad,  in  furious  guise, 
Along  the  Appian  way. 

"  He  made  a  feast,  drank  fierce  and  fast, 
And  crown'd  his  hair  with  flowers — 
No  easier  nor  no  quicker  pass'd 
The  impracticable  hours. 

"  The  brooding  East  with  awe  beheld 
Her  impious  younger  world. 
The  Roman  tempest  swell'd  and  swell'd, 
And  on  lier  head  was  hurl'd. 


77° 


BRITISH    POETS 


"The  East  bow'd  low  before  the  blast 
In  pal ient,  deep  disdain  ; 
She  let  the  legions  thunder  past, 
And  plunged  in  thought  again. 

"  So  well  she  mused,  a  morning  broke 
Across  her  spirit  gray  ; 
A  conquering,  new-born  joy  awoke, 
And  fill'd  her  life  with  day. 

"'Poor  world,'  she  cried,  'so  deep  ac- 
curst, 
That  nmn'st  from  pole  to  pole 
To  seek  a  draught  to  slake  thy  thirst — 
Co.  seek  it  in  thy  soul ! ' 

"  She  heard  it.  the  victorious  West, 
In  crown  and  sword  array'd  ! 
She  felt  the  void  which  mined  her  breast, 
She  shiver'd  and  obey'd. 

"  She    veil'd    her    eagles,    snapp'd    her 

sword, 
And  laid  her  sceptre  down  ; 
Her  stately  purple  she  abhorr'd, 
And  her  imperial  crown. 

"  She  broke  her  flutes,  she  stopp'd  her 

sports, 
Her  artists  could  not  please  ; 
She  tore  her  books,  she  shut  her  courts, 
She  fled  her  palaces  ; 

"  Lust  of  the  eye  and  pride  of  life 
She  left  it  all  behind, 
And  hurried,  torn  with  inward  strife, 
The  wilderness  to  find. 

"  Tears  wash'd  the  trouble  from  her  face! 

She  changed  into  a  child  ! 

'Mid  weeds  and    wrecks    she  stood — a 

place 
Of  ruin — but  she  smiled  ! 

"  Oh,  had  I  lived  in  that  great  day, 

How  had  its  glory  new 

Fill'd  earth    and    heaven,   and  caught 

away 
My  ravish'd  spirit  too  ! 

"No  thoughts  that  to  the  world  belong 
i  (ad  stood  against  the  wave 
Of  love  which  set  so  deep  and  strong 
From  Christ's  then  open  grave. 

"  No  cloister-floor  of  humid  stone 
Had  been  too  cold  for  me. 
For  me  no  Eastern  desert  lone 
Had  been  too  far  to  flee. 


"  No  lonely  life  had  pass'd  too  slow, 
When  I  could  hourly  scan 
Upon  his  Cross,  with  head  svink  low, 
Thatnail'd,  thorn-crowned  Man! 

"  Could  see  the  Mother  with  her  Child 
Whose  tender  winning  arts 
Have  to  his  little  arms  beguiled 
So  many  wounded  hearts  I 

"And   centuries  came  and   ran    their 

course, 
And  unspent  all  that  time 
Still,  still  went  forth  that  Child's  dear 

force, 
And  still  was  at  its  prime. 

"  Ay,  ages  long  endured  his  span 

Of  life — 'tis  true  received — 

That  gracious  Child,  that  thorn-crown'd 

Man  ! 
— He  lived  while  we  believed. 

"  While  we  believed,  on  earth  he  went, 

And  open  stood  his  grave. 

Men  call'd   from  chamber,  church,  and 

tent ; 
And  Christ  was  by  to  save. 

"  Now  he  is  dead  !     Far  hence  he  lies 
In  the  lorn  Syrian  town  ; 
And  on  his  grave,  with  shining  eyes, 
The  Syrian  stars  look  down. 

"  In  vain  men  still,  with  hoping  new, 
Regard  his  death-place  dumb, 
And  say  the  stone  is  not  yet  to, 
And  wait  for  words  to  come. 

"  Ah,  o'er  that  silent  sacred  land, 
Of  sun,  and  arid  stone, 
And  crumbling  wall,  and  sultry  sand, 
Sounds  now  one  word  alone  ! 

"  Unduped  of  fancy,  henceforth  man 
Must  labor !— must  resign 
His  all  too  human  creeds  and  scan 
Simply  the  way  divine! 

"  But  slow  that  tide  of  common  thought, 
Winch  bathed  our  life,  retired  ; 
Slow,  slow  the  old  world  wore  to  nought, 
And  pulse  by  pulse  expired. 

"  Its  frame  yec  stood  without  a  breach 
When  blood  and  warmth  were  fled  ; 
And  still  it  spake  its  wonted  speech — 
But  every  word  was  dead. 


ARNOLD 


77i 


'•  And  oh,  we  cried,  that  on  this  corse 
Might  fall  a  freshening  storm  ! 
Rive  its  dry  bones,  and  with  new  force 
A  new-sprung  world  inform  ! 

«  —Down  came  the  storm  !     O'er  France 

it  pass'd 
In  sheets  of  scathing  fire  ; 
All  Europe  felt  that  fiery  blast, 
And  shook  as  it  rush'd  by  her. 

•'  Down  came  the  storm  !     In  ruins  fell 
The  worn-out  world  we  knew. 
— It  pass'd,  that  elemental  swell ! 
Again  appear'd  the  blue  ; 

'•The  sun  shone  in  the  new-wash'd  sky, 
And  what  from  heaven  saw  he? 
Blocks  of  the  past,  like  icebergs  high, 
Float  on  a  rolling  sea  ! 

"  Upon  them  plies  the  race  of  man 
All  it  before  endeavor'd  ; 
'  Ye  live,'  I  cried,  '  ye  work  and  plan, 
And  know  not  ye  are  sever'd  ! 

"  '  Poor  fragments  of  a  broken  world 
Whereon  men  pitch  their  tent  ! 
Why  were  ye  too  to  death  not  hurl'd 
When  your  world's  day  was  spent  ? 

"  •  That  glow  of  central  fire  is  done 
Which  with  its  fusing  name 
Knit  all  your  parts,  and  kept  you  one — 
But  ye,  ye  are  the  same  ! 

"  '  The  past,  its  mask  of  union  on, 
Had  ceased  to  live  and  thrive. 
The  past,  its  mask  of  union  gone,  « 

Say,  is  it  more  alive  ? 

"  '  Your  creeds  ai'e  dead,  your  rites  are 

dead. 
Your  social  order  too  ! 
Where  tarries  he.  the  Power  who  said  : 
See,  I  make  all  tilings  new  ? 

"  'The  millions  suffer  still,  and  grieve, 
And  what  can  helpers  heal 
With  old-world  cures  men  half  believe 
For  woes  they  wholly  feel  ? 

"  '  And  yet  men  have  such  need  of  joy  ! 
But  joy  whose  grounds  are  true  ; 
Ami  joy  that  should  all  hearts  employ 
As  when  the  past  was  new. 

"  '  Ah,  not  the  emotion  of  that  past, 
Its  COmmOIl  hope,   were  vain  ! 
Some  new  such  hope  must  dawn  at  last, 
Or  man  must  toss  in  pain. 


"  '  But  now  the  old  is  out  of  date, 
The  new  is  not  yet  born. 
And  who  can  be  alone  elate, 
While  the  world  lies  forlorn?' 

"  Then  to  the  wilderness  I  fled. — 
There  among  Alpine  snows 
And  pastoral  huts  I  hid  my  head, 
And  sought  and  found  repose. 

"  It  was  not  yet  the  appointed  hour. 
Sad,  patient,  and  resign'd, 
I  wateh'd  the  crocus  fade  and  flower, 
I  felt  the  sun  and  wind. 

"  The  day  I  lived  in  was  not  mine, 
Man  gets  no  second  day. 
In  dreams  I  saw  the  future  shine — 
But  ah  !  I  could  not  stay  ! 

m 

"  Action  I  had  not,  followers,  fame  ; 
I  pass'd  obscure,  alone. 
The  after- world  forgets  my  name, 
Nor  do  I  wish  it  known. 

"  Composed  to  bear,  I  lived  and  died, 
And  knew  my  life  was  vain, 
With  fate  I  murmur  not,  nor  chide. 
At  Sevres  by  the  Seine 

"  (If  Paris  that  brief  flight  allow) 
My  humble  tomb  explore  ! 
It  bears  :  Eternity,  be  thou 
My  refuge  !  and  no  more. 

"  But  thou,  whom  fellowship  of  mood 
Did  make  from  haunts  of  strife 
Come  to  my  mountain-solitude, 
And  learn  my  frustrate  life  ; 

"  O  thou,  who,  ere  thy  flying  span 
Was  past  of  cheerful  youth, 
Didst  And  the  solitary  man 
And  love  his  cheerless  truth — 

"  Despair  not  thou  as  I  despair'd, 
Nor  be  cold  gloom  thy  prison  ! 
Forward  the  gracious  hours  have  fared, 
Ami  see  !  the  sun  is  risen  ! 

"  He  breaks  the  winter  of  the  past ; 
A  green,  new  earth  appears. 
Millions,  whose  life  in  ice  lay  fast, 
Have  thoughts,  and  smiles,  and  tears. 

"What  though  there  still    need  effort, 

strife  ? 
Though  much  be  still  unwon  ? 
Yet  warm  it  mounts,  the  hour  of  life  ! 
Death's  frozen  hour  is  done  ! 


77- 


BRITISH    POETS 


"Tlie   world's    great    order    dawns    in 

sheen. 
After  long  darkness  rude, 
Divinelier  imaged,  clearer  seen, 
With  happier  zeal  pursued. 

"  With  hope  extinct  and  brow  composed 
I  mark'd  the  present  die  ; 
Its  term  of  life  was  nearly  closed, 
Yet  it  had  more  than  I. 

"  But  thou,  though  to  the  world's  new 

hour 
Thou  come  with  aspect  marr'd, 
Shorn  of  the  joy,  the  bloom,  the  power 
Which  best  befits  its  bard — 

"Though   more  than  half  thy  years  be 

past, 
And  spent  thy  youthful  prime  ; 
Though,  round  thy  firmer  manhood  cast 
Hang  weeds  of  our  sad  time 

"Whereof  thy  youth  felt  all  the  spell, 

And  traversed  all  the  shade — 

Though   late,   though   dimm'd,   though 

weak,  yet  tell 
Hope  to  a  world  new-made  ! 

"  Help  it  to  fill  that  deep  desire, 
The  want  which  rack'd  our  brain. 
Consumed  our  heart  with  thirst  like  fire. 
Immedicable  pain  ; 

"  Which  to  the  wilderness  drove  out 
Our  life,  to  Alpine  snow, 


And  palsied  all  our  word  with  doubt, 
And  all  our  work  with  woe — 

"  What  still  of  strength  is  left,  employ, 
This  end  to  help  attain  : 
One  common  wave  of  thought  and  joy 
Lifting  mankind  again!" 

— The  vision  ended.     I  awoke 

As  out  of  sleep,  and  no 

Voice  moved  ; — only  the  torrent  broke 

The  silence,  far  below. 

Soft  darkness  on  the  turf  did  lie. 
Solemn,  o'er  hut  and  wood, 
In  the  yet  star-sown  nightly  sky, 
The  peak  of  Jaman  stood. 

Still  in  my  soul  the  voice  I  heard 

Of  Obermann  ! away 

I  turn'd  ;  by  some  vague  impulse  stirr'd, 
Along  the  rocks  of  Naye 

Past  Sonchaud's  piny  flanks  I  gaze 
And  the  blanch'd  summit  bare 
Of  Malatrait,  to  where  in  haze 
The  Valais  opens  fair, 

And  the  domed  Velan,  with  his  snows, 
Behind  the  upcrowding  hills. 
Doth  all  the  heavenly  opening  close 
Which  the  Rhone's  murmur  fills  ; — 

And  glorious  there,  without  a  sound, 
Across  the  glimmering  lake, 
High  in  the  Valais-depth  profound, 
I  saw  the  morning  break.  1867, 


ROSSETTI 

LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

Editions 

Collected  Works,  2  volumes,  with  Preface  and  Notes  by  W.  M. 
Rossetti,  1886  (London,  Ellis  and  Elvey;  Boston,  Roberts  Bros.). — 
Poems,  7  volumes,  edited  by  W.  M.  Rossetti,  1900-1901  (Ellis  and  Elvey; 
Siddal  Edition).  — Poems,  2  volumes  (quarto),  edited  by  W.  M.  Rossetti, 
Ellis  and  Elvey,  1904.  —  Poetical  Works,  1  volume,  edited  by  W.  M.  Ros- 
setti, 1904  (T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.;  Gladstone  Edition).  —  Family  Letters, 
edited  with  Memoir  by  W.  M.  Rossetti,  1895.  —  Letters  to  William  Ailing- 
ham,  1854-1870,  edited  by  G.  B.  Hill,  1897.  — See  other  Letters,  etc.,  below. 

Biography  and  Reminiscences 
*Rossetti  (W.  M.),  Rossetti  as  Designer  and  Writer,  1889;  Rossetti, 
Letters  and  Memoir,  2  volumes,  1895;  Ruskin,  Rossetti,  and  Pre-Raphael- 
itism,  1899;  Pre-Raphaelite  Diaries  and  Letters,  1900;  Rossetti  Papers 
1862-1870,  a  Compilation,  1903;  Some  Reminiscences,  2  volumes,  1906. 
—  Caine  (T.  H.),  Recollections  of  Rossetti,  1882.  My  Story,  1908.— 
Sharp  (W.),  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti:  a  Record  and  Study,  1882. — 
*Knight  (J.),  Rossetti  (Great  Writers  Series),  1887.  —  Wood  (Esther), 
Dante  Rossetti  and  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Movement,  1894.  —  Marillier 
(H.  C),  Dante  G.  Rossetti,  an  illustrated  Memorial  of  his  Art  and  Life, 
[899.  —Gary  (E.  L.),  The  Rossettis,  1900.  —  Benson  (A.  C),  Rossetti, 
1904  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series).  —  Dunn  (H.  T.),  Recollections  of 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  and  his  Circle,  1904.  —  See  also:  Bate  (Percy  H.), 
The  English  Pre-Raphaelite  Painters,  1899;  Hueffer  (F.  M.),  Ford  Madox 
Brown,  1896;  Bell  (Malcolm),  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones,  1892;  Scott 
(W.  B:),  Autobiographical  Notes,  1892;  Mackail  (J.  W.),  Life  of  Morris, 
1899;  Millais  (J.  E.),  Life  and  Letters,  edited  by  his  son,  1902;  Ingram 
(J.  H.),  Life  of  Oliver  Madox  Brown;  Douglas  (James),  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton;  Hunt  (Holman),  Pre-Raphaelitism  and  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
Brotherhood,  1905;  *Burne-Jones  (Mrs.  Edward),  Memorials  of  Edward 
Burne-Jones,  1904;  Hueffer  (F.  M.),  Memories  and  Impressions;  illus- 
trated, 1911;  and  Family  Letters  of  Christina  Rossetti,  1908. 

Criticism,  etc. 
Brooke  (S.  A.),  Four  Victorian  Poets,  1908.  —  Dawson  (W.  J.), 
Makers  of  English  Poetry,  (1890),  1906.  —  *  Mabie  (H.  W.),  Essays  in 
Literary  Interpretation,  1892.  —  *  Myers  (F.  W.  H.),  Essays  Modern: 
Rossetti  and  the  Religion  of  Beauty,  1883.  —  **  Pater  (W.),  Appre- 
ciations, 1889  (essay  of  1883).  —  Payne  (W.  M.),  The  Greater  English 
Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907.  —  Rick etts  (A.),  Personal 
Forces  in  Modern  Literature,  1906.  —  Rod  (Edouard),  Etudes  sur  le 
dix-neuvieme  siecle,  1888.  —  Rossetti  (W.  M.),  Bibliography  of  the 
Works  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  1905.  —  *Stedman  (E.  C),  Victorian 
Poets,  1875,  1887.  —  **Swinburne  (A.  C),  Essays  and  Studies,  1875 

773 


ROSSETTI 


MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP 

She  fell  asleep  on  Christmas  Eve  : 
At  length  the  long-ungranted  shade 
Qf  weary  eyelids  overweigh'd 

The  pain  nought  else  might  yet  relieve. 

Our  mother,  who  had  leaned  all  day 
Over  the  bed  from  chime  to  chime, 
Then  raised  herself  for  the  first  time, 

And  as  she  sat  her  down,  did  pray. 

Her  little  work-table  was  spread 
With  work  to  finish.     For  the  glare 
Made  by  her  candle,  she  had  care 

To  work  some  distance  from  the  bed. 

Without,  there  was  a  cold  moon  up, 
Of  winter  radiance  sheer  and  thin  ; 
The  hollow  halo  it  was  in 

Was  like  an  icy  crystal  cup. 

Through   the   small  room,  with   subtle 
sound 
Of  flame,  by  vents  the  fireshine  drove 
And  reddened.     In  its  dim  alcove 

The  mirror  shed  a  clearness  round. 

I  had  been  sitting  up  some  nights, 

And    my   tired   mind   felt  weak   and 

blank  ; 
Like   a  sharp   strengthening   wine   it 
drank 
The  stillness  and  the  broken  lights. 

Twelve  struck.     That  sound,   by  dwin- 
dling years 
Heard  in  each  hour,  crept  off ;  and 

then 
The  ruffled  silence  spread  again, 
Like  water  that  a  pebble  stirs. 

Our  mother  rose  from  where  she  sat : 
Her  needles,  as  she  laid  them  down, 
Met  lightly,  and  her  silken  gown 

Settled  :  no  other  noise  than  that. 

"  Glory  unto  the  Newly  Born  !  " 
So,  as  said  angels,  she  did  say  ; 


Because  we  were  in  Christmas  Day , 
Though  it  would  still  be  long  till  morn, 

Just  then  in  the  room  over  us 
There  was  a  pushing  back  of  chairs, 
As  some  who  had  sat  unawares 

So  late,  now  heard  the  hour,  and  rose. 

With  anxious  softly-stepping  haste 
Our  mother  went  where  Margaret  lay, 
Fearing  the  sounds  o'erhead — should 
they 

Have  broken  her  long  watched-for  rest ! 

She    stooped     an     instant,      calm,    and 
turned  ; 
But  suddenly  turned  back  again  ; 
And  all  her  features  seemed  in  pain 
With     woe,   and   her  eyes    gazed    and 
yearned. 

For  my  part,  I  but  hid  my  face, 

And   held   my   breath,  and   spoke  no 

word  : 
There  was  none  spoken  ;  but  I  heard 

The  silence  for  a  little  space. 

Our  mother  bowed  herself  and  wept : 
And  both  my  arms  fell,  and  I  said, 
"God   knows   I   knew   that   she    was 
dead." 

And  there,  all  white,  my  sister  slept. 

Then  kneeling,  upon  Christmas  morn 
A  little  after  twelve  o'clock 
We  said,  ere  the  first  quarter  struck, 

"Christ's  blessing  on  the  newly  born  !  " 
lh'47.     1850. 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven  ; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 


Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

774 


ROSSETTI 


775 


But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 

For  service  meetly  worn  : 
Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers  : 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of   hers  ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.     .     .     Yet  now.  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me — her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .     . 
Nothing:  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on  ; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun  ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her.  lovers,  newly  met 
"Slid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remembered  names; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm  ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 
Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 

Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still 
strove 
Within  the  cmlf  to  pierce 

Its  path  :  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 
The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now  ;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf ;  ami  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voire  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  saug  together. 


(Ah  sweet  !     Even  now,    in   that   bird's 
song, 

Strove  nut  her  accents  there. 
Fain  to  bt  hax'kened  ?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?) 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,''  she  said. 
"Have  I   not   prayed   in   Heaven  ?— on 
earth , 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray'd? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 

"  When    round   his    head    the    aureole 
clings. 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light  ; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

••  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod. 
AVhose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  Go  1  : 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 
Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

"  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 

"  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so. 
The  songs  I  sing  here  ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in.  hushed  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas  !     We  two,  we  two.  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee?) 

"We  two."  she  said,    "will    seek  the 
groves 
Where  the  lady  Mary  is. 
With     her    five    handmaidens     whose 
names 
\iv  tive  s«vi>t  symphonies, 
Cecily.  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 
Margaret  and  Rosalys. 


776 


BRITISH   POETS 


'Cirolewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded  ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flume 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak  : 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

"  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 
To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 

Kneel,    the     clear-ranged   unnumbered 
heads 
Bowed  with  their  aureoles  : 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

"  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me  : — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love,  only  to  be, 

As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now. 
Together,  I  and  he." 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild,— 

"  All    this    is    when    he    comes."     She 
ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  fill'd 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smil'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their   path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  : 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears. ) 

1847.     1850. 

AUTUMN  SONG 

Know'st  thou  not  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
How  the  heart  feels  a  languid  grief 

Laid  on  it  for  a  covering  ; 

And  how  sleep  seems  a  goodly  thing 
In  Autumn  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf? 

And  how  the  swift  beat  of  the  brain 

Falters  because  it  is  in  vain. 

In  Autumn  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
Knowest  thou  not  ?  and  how  the  chief 

Of  joys  seems— not  to  suffer  pain  ? 


Know'st  thou  not  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
How  the  soul  feels  like  a  dried  sheaf 
Bound  up  at  length  for  harvesting, 
And  how  death  seems  a  comely  thing 
In  Autumn  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf  ? 

1884.1 

THE  PORTRAIT 

This  is  her  picture  as  she  was  : 

It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on, 
As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 

Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 
I  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir, — 
Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 

That   now,    even   now,  the  sweet  lips 
part 

To  breathe   the   words   of   the   sweet 
heart : — 
And  yet  the  earth  is  over  her. 

Alas  !  even  such  the  thin-drawn  ray 
That  makes  the  prison-depths    more 
rude, — 

The  drip  of  water  night  and  day 
Giving  a  tongue  to  solitude. 

Yet  only  this,  of  love's  whole  prize, 

Remains  ;  save  what  in  mournful  guise 
Takes  counsel  with  my  soul  alone, — 
Save  what  is  secret  and  unknown, 

Below  the  earth,  above  the  skies. 

In  painting  her  I  shrined  her  face 

'Mid  mystic  trees,  where  light  falls  in 

Hardly  at  all ;  a  covert  place 
Where  you  might  think  to  find  a  din 

Of  doubtful  talk,  and  a  live  flame 

Wandering,   and   many   a  shape  whose 
name 
Not  itself  knoweth,  and  old  dew, 
And  your  own  footsteps  meeting  you, 

And  all  things  going  as  they  came. 

A  deep  dim  wood  ;  and  there  she  stands 

As  in  that  wood  that  day  :  for  so 
Was  the  still  movement  of  her  hands 

And   such    the    pure    line's   gracious 
flow. 
And  passing  fair  the  type  must  seem, 
Unknown  the  presence  and  the  dream. 

'T  is  she  :  though  of  herself,  alas  ! 

Less  than  her  shadow  on  the  grass 
Or  than  her  image  in  the  stream. 

That  day  we  met  there,  I  and  she 

One  with  the  other  all  alone  ; 
And  we  were  blithe  ;  yet  memory 

1  W.  M.  Rossetti  classes  this  among  the  earliest 
poems,  in  date  of  writing.  It  was  published  as 
a  song  in  1884,  and  in  the  Poetical  Works,  1886. 


ROSSETTI 


777 


Saddens    those    hours,   as  when    the 
moon 
Looks  upon  daylight.     And  with  her 
I  stooped  to  drink  the.  spring-water, 

Athirst  where  other  waters  sprang  ; 

And  where  the  echo  is,  she  sang, — 
My  soul  another  echo  there. 

But    when    that     hour    my    soul    won 
strength 

For  words  whose  silence  wastes  and 
kills. 
Dull  raindrops  smote  us,  and  at  length 

Thundered  the  heat  within  the  hills. 
That  eve  I  spoke  those  words  again 
Beside  the  pelted  window-pane  ; 

And  there  she  harkened  what  I  said, 

With  under-glances  that  surveyed 
The  empty  pastures  blind  with  rain. 

Next  day  the  memories  of  these  things. 

Like  leaves  through  which  a  bird  has 
flow  a . 
Still  vibrated  with  Love's  warm  wings  ; 

Till  I  must  make  them  all  my  own 
And  paint  this  picture.     So,  'twixt  ease 
Of  talk  and  sweet  long  silences, 

She  stood  among  the  plants  in  bloom 

At  windows  of  a  summer  room, 
To  feign  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

And  as  I  wrought,  while  all  above 
And  all  around  was  fragrant  air, 

In  the  sick  burthen  of  my  love 

It  seemed   each  sun-thrilled   blossom 
there 

Beat  like  a  heart  among  the  leaves. 

O  heart  that  never  beats  nor  heaves, 
In  that  one  darkness  lying  still, 
What  now  to  thee  my  love's  great  will, 

Or  the  fine  web  the  sunshine  weaves? 

For  now  doth  daylight  disavow 

Those  days, — nought  left  to  see  or  hear. 
Only  in  solemn  whispers  now 

At  night-time  these  things  reach  mine 
ear, 
When  the  leaf-shadows  at  a  breath 
Shrink  in  the  road,  and  all  the  heath, 

Forest  and  water,  far  and  wide, 

In  limpid  starlight  glorified, 
Lie  like  the  mystery  of  deat  h. 

Last  night  at  last  I  could  have  slept, 
Ami  yet  delayed  my  sleep  till  dawn, 

Still  wandering.     Then  it  was  I  wept: 
For  unawares  I  came  upon 

Those  glades   where  once    she   walked 
wit li  nic  : 


And  as  I  stood  there  suddenly, 
All  wan  with  traversing  the  night, 
Upon  the  desolate  verge  of  light 

Yearned  loud  the  iron-bosomed  sea. 

Even  so,  where  Heaven  holds  breath  and 
'   hears 

The    beating    heart    of    Love's    own 
breast, — 
Where  round  the  secret  of  all  spheres 

All  angels  lay  their  wings  to  rest. — 
How  shall  my  soul  stand  rapt  and  awed, 
When,  by  the  new  birth  borne  abroad 

Throughout  the  music  of  the  suns, 

It  enters  in  her  soul  at  once 
And  knows  the  silence  there  for  God  ! 

Here  with  her  face  doth  memory  sit 
Meanwhile,  and  wait  the  day's  decline, 

Till  other  eyes  shall  look  from  it, 
Eyes  of  the  spirit's  Palestine, 

Even  than  the  old  gaze  tenderer  : 

While  hopes  and  aims  long  lost  with  her 
Stand  round  her  image  side  by  side, 
Like  tombs  of  pilgrims  that  have  died 

About  the  Holy  Sepulchre.     1847.    1870. 

THE  CARD-DEALER 

Could  you  not  drink  her  gaze  like  wine  ? 

Yet  though  its  splendor  swoon 
Into  the  silence  languidly 

As  a  tune  into  a  tune, 
Those  eyes  unravel  the  coiled  night 

And  know  the  stars  at  noon. 

The  gold  that's  heaped  beside  her  hand, 

In  truth  rich  prize  it  were ; 
And  rich  the  dreams  that  wreathe  her 
brows 

With  magic  stillness  there  ; 
And  lie  were  rich  who  should  unwind 

That  woven  golden  hair. 

Around  her,  where  she  sifts,  the  dance 
Now  breathes  its  eager  heat ; 

And  not  more  lightly  or  more  true 
Fall  there  the  dancers'  feet 

Than  fall  her  cards  on  the  bright  board 
As  'twere  an  heart  that  beat. 

Her  fingers  let  them  softly  through, 
Smooth  polished  silent  things  ; 

And  each  one  as  it  falls  reflects 
In  swift  light-shadowings, 

Blood-red  and  purple,  green  and  blue, 
The  great  eyes  of  her  rings. 

Whom   plays    she    with  ?    With    thee, 
who  lov'st 


77S 


BRITISH   POETS 


Those  gems  upon  her  hand  ; 
With  me.  who  search  her  secret  brows; 

With  all  men,  bless'd  or  bann'd. 
We  play  together,  she  and  we, 

Within  ;i  vain  strange  land  : 

A  land  without  any  order. — 

Day  even  as  night,  (one  saith,)  — 

Where  who  lieth  down  ariseth  not 
Nor  the  sleeper  awakeneth  ; 

A  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  itself 
And  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

What    he   her   cards,    you    ask?     Even 
these : — 

The  heart,  that  doth  but  crave 
More,  having  fed  ;  the  diamond, 

Skilled  to  make  base  seem  brave  ; 
The  club,  for  smiting  in  the  dark  ; 

The  spade,  to  dig  a  grave. 

And  do  3rou  ask  what  game  she  plays? 

With  me  'tis  lost  or  won  ; 
With  thee  it  is  playing  still  ;  with  him 

It  is  not  well  begun  ; 
But  'tis  a  game  she  plays  with  all 

Beneath  the  sway  o'  the  sun. 

Thou  seest  the  card  that  falls,  she  knows 

The  card  that  followeth  : 
Her  game  in  thy  tongue  is  called  Life, 

As  ebbs  thy  daily  breath  : 
When  she  shall  speak,  thou'lt  learn  her 
tongue 

And  know  she  calls  it  Death.     1870. 

AT  THE  SUNRISE  IN  1848 

God  said,  Let  there  be  light !  and  there 

was  light. 
Then  heard   we  sounds   as   though   the 

Earth  did  sing 
And  the  Earth's  angel  cried  upon  the 

wing : 
We  saw  priests"  fall   together  and   turn 

white  : 
And  covered  in  the  dust  from  the   sun's 

sight, 
A  king  was  spied,  and  yet  another  king. 
We  said :"  The  round  world  keeps   its 

balancing ; 
On  this  globe,  they  and  we  are  opposite, — 
If  it  is  day  with  us.  with  them  'tis  night. 
Still,  Man,  in  tliy  just   pride,  remember 

this: 
Thou    liadst   not   made  that   thy  sons' 

sons  shall  ask 
What  the  word  king  may  mean  in  their 

day's  task, 


But  for  the  light  that  led :  and  if  light  is, 
It  is  because   God  said,    Let  there   be 
light."  1848.     1886. 

ON  REFUSAL  OF  AID    BETWEEN 
NATIONS 

Not  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my 

God  ! 
Nor    that    the  seasons   totter  in  their 

walk- 
Not  that  the  virulent  ill  of  act  and   talk 
Seethes  ever  as  a  winepress  ever  trod, — 
Not  therefore  are  we  certain  that  the  rod 
Weighs    in    thine    hand    to  smite   thy 

world  ;  though  now 
Beneath  thine   hand   so   many   nations 

bow, 
So  many  kings : — not  therefore,   O  my 

God!— 
But  because  Man  is  parcelled  out  in  men 
To-day  ;  because,  for  any  wrongful  blow, 
No  man  not  stricken  asks,  "  I   would  be 

told 
Why    thou  dost   thus ; "   but   his  heart 

whispers  then, 
"  He  is  he,  I  am  I."     By  this  we  know. 
That  the  earth  falls  asunder,  being;   old. 
1848  or  1849.     1870. 

MARY'S  GIRLHOOD 
(For  a  Picture) 


This  is  that  blessed  Mary,  pre-elect 
God's  Virgin.     Gone   is   a   great   while, 

and  she 
Dwelt  young  in  Nazareth  of  Galilee. 
Unto    God's    will    she   brought   devout 

respect, 
Profound  simplicity  of  intellect, 
And     supreme     patience.      From     her 

mother's  knee 
Faithful  and  hopeful ;  wise  in  charity  ; 
Strong  in  grave  peace  ;  in   pity   circum- 
spect. 
So  held  she  through  her  girlhood  ;  as  it 

were 
An  angel-watered  lily,  that  near  God 
Grows  and  is  quiet.     Till,  one  dawn  at 

home 
She  woke  in  her  white  bed,  and  had  no 

fear 
At  all,— yet  wept  till  sunshine,  and  felt 

awed  : 
Because   the   fulness  of  the  time   was 

come. 


ROSSETTI 


779 


These  are  the  symbols.     On   that   cloth 

of  red 
F  the  centre  is  the  Tripoint :  perfect  each, 
Except  the  second  of  its  points,  to  teach 
That  Christ  is  not  yet  born.     The   books 

— whose  head 
Is  golden  Charity,  as  Paul  hath  said — 
Those  virtues  are   wherein   the  soul  is 

rich  : 
Therefore    on    them   the   lily   standeth, 

which 
Is  Innocence,  being  interpreted. 
The  seven-thorn'd   briar   and   the   palm 

seven-leaved 
Are   her  great    sorrow    and    her    great 

reward. 
Until  the  end  be  full,  the  Holy  One 
Abides  without.     She  soon   shall  have 

achieved 
Her  perfect  purity  :  yea,  God  the  Lord 
Shall  soon  vouchsafe  His  Son  to  be   her 

Son.  1S48,  1850.     1849,  1870. 

FOR  A  VENETIAN  PASTORAL 
By  Giorgione 
(In  the  Louvre) 

Water,  for  anguish  of  the  solstice : — 

nay, 
But   dip    the  vessel,   slowly, — nay,  but 

lean 
And   hark  how  at  its  verge  the   wave 

sighs  in 
Reluctant.      Hush !     Beyond   all   depth 

away 
The  heat  lies  silent  at  the  bi'ink  of  day  : 
Now  the  hand  trails  upon  the  viol-string 
That  sobs,  and  the  brown  faces  cease  to 

sing, 
Sad  with  the  whole  of  pleasure.   Whither 

stray 
Her  eyes  now,   from  whose  mouth  the 

slim  pipes  creep 
And  leave  it  pouting,  while  the  shadowed 

grass 
Is  cool  aga  inst  her  naked  side  ?   Let  be  : — 
Say  nothing  now  unto  her  lest  she  weep, 
Nor  name  this  ever.     Be  it  as  it  was, — 
Life   touching    lips    with   Immortality. 

1850. 

THE  SEA-LIMITS 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime  : 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 


Secret  continuance  sublime 
Is  the  sea's  end  :  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's, — it  hath 
The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 
Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 

As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 
Its  painful  pvdse  is  in  the  sands. 
Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 

Gray  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods  ; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee  : 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged 
men 

Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, ^ 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 
And  listen  at  its  lips  :  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mysteiy, 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art  : 

And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,   are  all  in  each. 

1850. 

THE  MIRROR 

She  knew  it  not, — most  perfect  pain 
To  learn  :  this  too  she  knew  not.  Strife 
For  me,  calm  hers,  as  from  the  first. 
T  was  but  another  bubble  burst 
Upon  the  curdling  draught  of  life, — 
My  silent  patience  mine  again. 

As  who,  of  forms  that  crowd  unknows 
Within  a  distant  mirror's  shade, 
Deems  such  an  one  himself,  and 

makes 
Some  sign ;    but  when    the   image 
shakes 
No  whit,  he  finds  his  thought  betray 'd, 
And   must  seek   elsewhere  for   his  own. 
1S50.  1886. 

A  YOUNG  FIR- WOOD 

These  little  firs  to-day  are  things 
To  clasp  into  a  giant's  cap, 
Or  fans  to  suit  his  lady's  lap. 

From  many  winters  many  springs 
Shall  cherish  them  in  strength  and  sap, 
Till  they  be  marked  upon  the  map, 

A  wood  for  the  wind's  wanderings. 


780 


BRITISH   POETS 


All  seed  is  in  the  sower's  hands  : 

And  what  at  first  was  trained  to  spread 
Its  shelter  for  some  single  head, — 

Yea,  even  such  fellowship  of  wands, — 
May  hide  the  sunset,  and  the  shade 
Of  its  great  multitude  be  laid 

Upon  the  earth  and  elder  sands. 

November,  1S50.     1870. 

PENUMBRA 

I  did  not  look  upon  her  eyes, 
(Though  scarcely  seen,  with  no  surprise, 
'Mid  many  eyes  a  single  look,) 
Because  they  should  not  gaze  rebuke, 
At  night,  from  stars  in  sky  and  brook. 

Idid  not  take  her  by  the  hand, 
(Though  little  was  to  understand 
From   touch   of  hand  all  friends  might 

take,) 
Because  it  should  not  prove  a  flake 
Burnt  in  my  palm  to  boil  and  ache. 

I  did  not  listen  to  her  voice, 
(Though  none  had  noted,  where  at  choice 
AH  might  rejoice  in  listening,) 
Because  no  such  a  tiling  should  cling 
In  the  wood's  moan  at  evening. 

I  did  not  ctoss  her  shadow  once, 
(Though  from  the  hollow  west  the  sun's 
Last  shadow  runs  along  so  far,) 
Because  in  June  it  should  not  bar 
My  ways,  at  noon  when  fevers  are. 

They  told  me  she  was  sad  that  day, 
(Though  wherefore  tell  what  love's  sooth- 
say, 
Sooner  than  they,  did  register?) 
And  my  heart  leapt  and  wept  to  her, 
And  yet  I  did  not  speak  nor  stir. 

So  shall  the  tongues  of  the  sea's  foam 
(Though  many  voices  therewith  come 
From   drowned   hope's   home   to  cry  to 

me,) 
Bewail  one  hour  the  more,  when  sea 
And  wind  are  one  with  memory.      1870. 

•      SISTER  HELEN 

"  Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man, 

Sister  Helen  ? 
To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began." 
"  The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Tliree    days    to-day,    between  Hell  and 
Heaven  !) 


"  But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright, 

Sister  Helen, 
You'll  let  me  play,  for  you  said  I  might." 
"  Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Third  niglit,  to-night,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven !) 

"  You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well." 
"  Even  so, — nay,  peace  !  you  cannot  tell, 
Little  brother." 
{0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
O  what  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

"  Oh  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
How    like    dead    folk    he   has   dropped 


away 


"Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you 
say, 

Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Wliat    of   the  dead,   between  Hell  and 
Heaven  ?) 

"  See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen, 
Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as 

blood  !  " 
"Nay   now,    when    looked   you   yet  on 
blood, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
How   pale    she    is,   between    Hell    and 
Heaven !) 

"Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they're  sick 
and  sore, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  I'll  play  without  the  gallery  door." 
"  Aye,  let  me  rest, — I'll  lie  on  the  floor, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  rest   to-night,   between   Hell  and 
Heaven  ?) 

"  Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 
The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me." 
"Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother.  Mary  Mother, 
What  sight  to-night,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  f) 

"  Outside  it's  merry  in  the  wind's  wake, 
Sister  Helen ; 


ROSSETTI 


781 


In    the    shaken    trees    the    chill    stars 

shake." 
"  Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you 
spake, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  sotmd  to-night,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  ?) 

"  I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 

Sister  Helen, 
Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly." 
"  Little  brother,  whence  come  thethree, 
Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Wlience  should  they  come,  between  Hell 
and  Heaven  ?) 

' '  They  come    by    the    hill-verge    from 
Boyne  Bar, 

Sister  Helen , 
And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar." 
•'Look,    look,    do   you  know  them  who 
they  are, 

Little  brother?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Who  should  they  be,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  ?) 

"  Oh,  it's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast." 
"  The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last, 
Little  brother  !  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her    hour    at    last,   between    Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

"  He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloo! 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  says  that;  he  would  speak  with 

you." 
"  Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Why  laughs  she   thus,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  !) 

"The  wind  is  loud,   but  I  hear  him  cry. 

Sister  Helen. 
That  Keith  of  Ewern's  like  to  die." 
"  And  he  and  thou,  and  thou  and  I, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
And  they  and   ive,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven ! ) 

"  Three  days  ago,  on  his  marriage-morn, 

Sister  1  Ielen, 
He  sickened,  and  liessince  then  forlorn." 


'   For  bridegroom's  side  is   the  bride   a 
thorn, 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother.  Mary  Mother, 
Cold   bridal   cheer,   between    Hell   and 
Heaven  I ) 

•'Three   days  and  nights  he    has    lain 
abed, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead." 
"  The   thing   may   chance,  if    he    have 
prayed, 

Little  brother  !  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
If  he  have  prayed,    between    Hell  and 
Heaven !) 

"  But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day, 

Sister  Helen, 
That  you  should  take  your  curse  away." 
"My   prayer   was   heard, — he   need  but 
pray 

Little  brother  ! " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Shall   God  not  hear,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  f) 

"  But  he  says,  till  you  take  back  your 
ban, 

Sister  Helen, 
His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can." 
"  Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man, 
Little  brother  ?■" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
A  living  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"  But  he  calls  for  ever  on  your  name, 

Sister  Helen. 
And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame." 
"  My  heart  for   his  pleasure   fared   the 
same, 

Little  brother.  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Fire,   at     the    heart,   between    Hell    and 
Heaven .' ) 

"  Here's  Keitli  of  Westholm  riding  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For   I   know   the   white   plume   on   the 

blast." 
"  The  hour,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast, 
Little  brot  her  !  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is   the  hour    sweet,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven  ?) 

"He  stops  to  speak,   and  he  stills  his 
horse, 

Sister  Helen ; 


7$2 


BRITISH   POETS 


But  his  words  are  drowned  iu  the  wind's 

course. " 
"  Nay   hear,   nay   hear,  you   must   hear 
perforce, 

Little  brother  I  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  word  now  heard,  between  Helland 
Heaven  ?) 

"  Oh  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern's  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 
Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die." 
"  In  all  that  his  soul  sees,  there  am  I, 
Little  brother  ! " 
(O  Mother,  Mar;/  Mother, 
The  souVs  one  sight,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  !) 

"  He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne." 
••  What  else  he  broke  will  lie  ever  join, 
Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
No,    never    joined,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

"  He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain, 

Sister  Helen, 
You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain." 
"  What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again, 
Little  brother  ?  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Not    twice    to    give,   between  Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

"  He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony, 
Sister  Helen, 
That  even  dead  Love  must  weep  to  see." 
"  Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he, 
Little  brother  !  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Love  turned  to  hate,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven !) 

"  Oh  it's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides 
fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  tlve  white  hair  on  the  blast." 
"  The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past, 
Little  brother  !  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Will  soon  be   past,  between    Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

"  He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak, 

Sister  Helen, 
But  oh  !  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak  !  " 
"  What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron 
seek, 


Little  brother  ?  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  this  the  end,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  '/) 

"  Oh  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive, 

Sister  Helen, 
The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live." 
"  Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive. 
Little  brother  !  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
As     she    forgives,     between    Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

li  Oh  he  prays  you,  as  his  heart  would 
rive, 

Sister  Helen, 
To  save  his  dear  son's  soul  alive." 
"  Fire  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive, 
Little  brother  !  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Alas,  alas,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

"  He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road, 

Sister  Helen, 
To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God  !  " 
'•  The  way  is  long  to' his  son's  abode, 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The    way    is    long,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

"  A  lady's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought, 

Sister  Helen, 
So  darkly  clad,  I  saw  her  not." 
"  See  her  now  or  never  see  aught, 
Little  brother !  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What    more    to  see,   between    Hell    and 
Heaven  ?) 

"  Her   hood   falls   back,  and   the  moon 
shines  fair, 

Sister  Helen, 
On  the  Lad}-  of  Ewern's  golden  hair." 
"  Blest  hour  of  my  power  and  her  despair, 
Little  brother !  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Hour  blest  and  bann'd,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  !) 

"  Pale,  pale  her  cheeks,   that  in   pride 
did  glow, 

Sister  Helen, 
'Neath  the  bridal-wreath  three  days  ago." 
"  One  morn  for  pride  and  three  days  for 
woe. 

Little  brother  ! " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three  days,  three  nights,  between  Hell 
and  Heaven  !) 


ROSSETTI 


78s 


;'  Her  clasped   hands  stretch   from   her 
bending  head, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
With  the  loud  wind's  wail  her  sobs  are 

wed." 
"  What  wedding-strains  hath  her  bridal- 
bed, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Wliat  strain   but  death's,  between   Hell 
and  Heaven  ?) 

"  She   may  not   speak,    she   sinks   in  a 
swoon, 

Sister  Helen, 
She  lifts  her  lips  and  gasps  on  the  moon." 
"  Oh  !  might  I  but  hear  her  soul's  blithe 
tune, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  rvoe's  dumb  cry,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  !) 

"  They've  caught    her    to    Westholm's 
saddle-bow, 

Sister  Helen, 
And   her  moonlit  hair  gleams  white  in 

its  flow." 
"  Let  it  turn  whiter  than  winter  snow, 
Little  brother  !  " 
(0  Mother.  Mary  Mother, 
Woe-withered    gold,   between    Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

"  O  Sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell, 

Sister  Helen  ! 
More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell." 
"No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell, 
Little  brother  !  " 
(O Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
His    dying     knell,    between     Hell     and 
Heaven  !) 

"  Alas  !  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground  ?  " 
"  Say,   have   they   turned    their   horses 
round, 

Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Miry  Mother, 
What  would  she  more,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  f) 

"  They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his 
knee, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily." 
"  More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee, 
Little  brother  I" 


(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The    naked    soul,    between    Hell     and 
Heaven  !) 

"Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds 
gone, 

Sister  Helen, 
But  the  lady's  dark  steed  goes  alone." 
"  And  lonely  her  bridegroom's  soul  hath 
flown, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother. 
The  lonely    ghost,     between    Hell    and 
Heaven  /) 

"  Oh  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill." 
"  But  he  and  I  are  sadder  still, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Most    sad    of    all,    between   Hell   and 
Heaven  !) 

"  See,  see,  the  wax  has  dropped  from  its 
place, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace  !  " 
"  Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space, 
Little  brother  !  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Here  for    a    space,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

"  Ah  !  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has 
cross'd, 

Sister  Helen  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost  ?  " 
"  A  soul  that's  lost  as  mine  is  lost, 
Little  brother  !  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Lost,   lost,   all    lost,   between  Hell    and 
Heaven!)  1853,1870. 

THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH 

In  our  Museum  galleries 

To-day  I  lingered  o'er  the  prize 

Dead  Greece  vouchsafes  to  living  eyes, — 

Her  Art  for  ever  in  fresh  wise 

From  hour  to  hour  rejoicing  me. 
Sighing  I  turned  at  last  to  win 
Once  more  the  London  dirt  and  din  ; 
And  as  I  made  the  swing-door  spin 
And  issued,  they  were  hoisting  in 

A  winged  beast  from  Nineveh. 

A  human  face  the  creature  wore, 
And  hoofs  behind  and  hoofs  before, 
And  flanks  with  dark  runes  fretted  o'er. 


7«+ 


BRITISH   POETS 


T  was  bull,  't  was  mitred  Minotaur, 

A  dead  disbowellfd  mystery; 
The  mummy  of  a  buried  faith 
Stark  from  the  charnel  without  scathe. 
Its  wings  stood  for  the  light  to  bathe. — 
Such  fossil  cerements  as  might  swathe 
The  very  corpse  of  Nineveh. 

The  print  of  its  first  rush-wrapping, 
Wound    ere   it   dried,   still    ribbed   the 

thing. 
What  soul;-  did  the  brown  maidens  sing, 
From  purple  mouths  alternating, 

"When  that  was  woven  languidly  ? 
What,   vows,    what  rites,  what   prayers 

preferr'd. 
What    songs    has    the    strange    image 

heard  ? 
In  what  blind  vigil  stood  interr'd 
For  ages,  till  an  English  word 
Broke  silence  first  at  Nineveh  ? 

Oh  when  upon  each  sculptured  court, 
Where    even   the   wind   might    not  re- 
sort.— 
O'er  which  Time  passed,  of  like  import 
With  the  wild  Arab  boys  at  sport, — 

A  living  face  looked  in  to  see  :-<- 
Oh  seemed  it  not — the  spell  once  bi-oke — 
As  though  the  carven  warriors  woke, 
As  though  the  shaft  the  string  forsook. 
The  cymbals  clashed,  the  chariots  shook, 

And  there  was  life  in  Nineveh  ? 

On  London  stones  our  sun  anew 
The  beast's  recovered  shadow  threw. 
(No  shade  that  plague  of  darkness  knew, 
No  light,  no  shade,  while  older  grew 

By  ages  the  old  earth  and  sea.) 
Lo    thou  !     could    all    thy  priests  have 

shown 
Such  proof  to  make  thy  godhead  known? 
From  their  dead  Past  thou  liv'st  alone 
And  still  thy  shadow  is  thine  own 

Even  as  of  yore  in  Nineveh. 

That  day  whereof  we  keep  record, 
When  near  thy  city-gates  the  Lord 
Sheltered  his  Jonah  with  a  gourd. 
This  sun,  (I  said)  here  present,  pour'd 

Even  thus  this  shadow  that  I  see. 
This  shadow  has  been  shed  the  same 
From  sun  and  moon, — from  lamps  which 

came 
For  prayer, — from  fifteen  days  of  flame, 
The  last,  while  smouldered  to  a  name 

Sardanapalus'  Nineveh. 

"Within  thy  shadow,  haply,  once 
Sennacherib  has  knelt,  whose  sons 


Smote  him  between  the  altar-stones  : 
Or  pale  Semiramis  her  zones 

<  H  gold,  her  incense  brought  to  thee, 
In  love  for  grace,  in  war  for  aid  :  .  .  . 
Ay,  and  who  else?  .  .  .  till   'neath   thy 

shade 
Within  his  trenches  newly  made 
Last    year    the     Christian     knelt     and 
pray'd — 

Not  to  thy  strength — in  Nineveh. 

Now,  thou  poor  god,  within  this  hall 
Where  the  blank  windows  blind  the  wall 
From  pedestal  to  pedestal, 
The  kind  of  light  shall  on  thee  fall 

Which  London  takes  the  day  to  be  : 
While  school-foundations  in  the  act 
Of  holiday,  three  files  compact, 
Shall  learn  to  view  thee  as  a  fact 
Connected  with  that  zealous  tract : 

"Rome, — Babylon  and  Nineveh." 

Deemed  they  of  this,  those  worshippers, 
When,  in  some  mythic  chain   of  verse 
Which  man  shall  not  again  rehearse, 
The  faces  of  thy  ministers 

Yearned  pale  with  bitter  ecstasy  ? 
Greece,  Egypt,  Rome, — did  any  god 
Before  whose  feet  men  knelt  unshod 
Deem  that  in  this  unblest  abode 
Another  scarce  more  unknown  god 

Should  house  with  him,  from  Nineveh? 

Ah  !  in  what  quarries  lay  the  stone 
From  which  this  pygmy  pile  has  grown, 
Unto  man's  need  how  long  unknown, 
Since  thy  vast   temples,  court  and  <:one, 

Rose  far  in  desert  history? 
Ah  !  what  is  here  that  does  not  lie 
All  strange  to  thine  awakened  eye? 
Ah  !  what  is  here  can  testify 
(Save  that  dumb  presence  of  the  sky) 

Unto  thy  day  and  Nineveh  ? 

Why,  of  those  mummies  in  the  room 
Above,  there  might  indeed  have  come 
One  out  of  Egypt  to  thy  home, 
An  alien.     Nay,  but  were  not  some 

Of  these  thine  own  "  antiquity  "  ? 
And  now, — they  and  their  gods  and  thou 
All  relics  hei'e  together, — now 
Whose  profit?  whether  bull  or  cow, 
Isis  or  Ibis,  who  or  how, 

Whether  of  Thebes  or  Nineveh  ? 

The  consecrated  metals  found, 
And  ivory  tablets,  underground, 
Winged  teraphimand  creatures crown'd 
When  air  and  daylight  filled  the  mound, 


ROSSETTI 


785 


Fell  into  dust  immediately. 
And  even  as  these,  the  images 
Of  awe  and  worship. — even  as  these,— - 
S),  smitten  with  the  sun's  increase, 
Her  glory  mouldered  and  did  cease 

From  immemorial  Nineveh. 

The  day  her  builders  made  their  halt, 
Those  cities  of  the  lake  of  salt 
Stood  firmly  'stablisbed  without  fault, 
Made  prou  1  with  pillars  of  basalt, 

With  sardonyx  and  porphyry. 
The  day  that  Jonah  bore  abroad 
To  Nineveh  the  voice  of  God, 
A  brackish  lake  lajT  in  his  road, 
Where  erst  Pride  fixed  her  sure  abode, 

As  then  in  royal  Nineveh. 

The  day  when  he.  Pride's  lord  and  Man's, 
Showed  all  the  kingdoms  at  a  glance 
To  Him  before  whose  countenance 
The  years  recede,  the  years  advance, 

And  said,  Fall  down  and  worship  me  : — 
'Mid  all  the  pomp  beneath  that  look. 
Then  stirred  there,  haply,  some  rebuke, 
Where  to  the  wind  the  salt  pools  shook, 
And  in  those  tracts,  of  life  forsook. 

That  knew  thee  not,  O  Nineveh  ! 

Delicate  harlot  !     On  thy  throne 
Thou  with  a  world  beneath  thee  prone 
In  state  for  ages  sat'st  alone  ; 
And  needs  were  years  and  lustres  flown 

Ere  strength  of   man   could   vanquish 
thee  : 
Whom  even  thy  victor  foes  must  bring, 
Still  royal,  among  maids  that  sing 
As  with  doves'  voices,  taboring 
Upon  their  breasts,  unto  the  King, — 

A  kingly  conquest,  Nineveh  ! 

Here    woke  my  thought.     The 

wind's  slow  sway 
Had  waxed  ;  and  like  the  human  play 
Of  scorn  that  smiling  spreads  away, 
Tbe  sunshine  shivered  off  the  day  : 

Tbe  callous  wind,  it  seemed  to  me, 
Swept  up  the  shadow  from  the  ground  : 
And  pale  as  whom  the  Fates  astound, 
The     god     forlorn     stood    winged     and 

crow n'd  : 
Wit  bin  I  knew  the  cry  lay  bound 

Of  the  dumb  soul  of  Nineveh. 

And  as  I  turned,  tnv  sense  half  shut 
Still  saw  tbe  crowds  of  kerb  and  rut 
(Jo  past  as  marshalled  to  tbe  strut 
Of  ranks  in  gypsum  quaintly  cut. 
It  seemed  in  one  same  pageantry 

5o 


They   followed   forms  which   had   been 

erst ; 
To  pass,  till  on  my  sight  should  burst 
That  future  of  the  best  or  worst 
When   some  may   question   which  was 

first. 
Of  London  or  of  Nineveh. 

For  as  that  Bull-god  once  did  stand 
And  watched  tbe  burial-clouds  of  sand,. 
Till  these  at  last  without  a  hand 
Rose  o'er  bis  eyes,  another  land, 

And  blinded  him  with  destiny  : — 
So  may  he  stand  again  ;  till  now. 
In  ships  of  unknown  sail  and  prow, 
Some  tribe  of  the  Australian  plough 
Bear  him  afar, — a  relic  now 

Of  London,  not  of  Nineveh  ! 

Or  it  may  chance  indeed  that  when 
Man's  age  is  hoary  among  men, — 
His  centuries  threescore  and  ten, — 
His  furthest  childhood  shall  seem  then 

More  clear  tban  later  times  may  be  : 
Who,  finding  in  this  desert  place 
This  form,  shall  hold  us  for  some  race 
That  walked  not  in  Christ's  lowly  ways, 
But  bowed  its  pride  and  vowed  its  praise 

Unto  the  god  of  Nineveh. 

Tbe  smile  rose  first, — anon  drew  nigh 
The  thought :  .  .  .  Those  heavy   wings 

spread  high 
So  sure  of  flight,  which  do  not  fly  ; 
That  set  gaze  never  on  the  sk}r ; 

Those  scriptured  flanks  it  cannot  see  ; 
Its  crown,  a  brow-contracting  load  ; 
Its  planted  feet  which  trust  the  sod  :  .  .  . 
(So  grew  the  image  as  I  trod  :) 
0  Nineveh,  was  this  thy  God, — 

Thine  also,  mighty  Nineveh?     1856. 

MARY  MAGDALENE 

AT  THE   DOOR  OF  SIMON   THE   PHARISEE 

(For  a  Drawing  J) 

"  Why  wilt  thou  cast  the  roses  from  thine 

hair? 
Nay,  be  thou  all  a  rose, — wreath,  lips, 

and  cheek. 
Nay,     not    this    house, — that     banquet- 

hOUSe  we  seek  ; 

See  how  they  kiss  and  enter ;  come  thou 
tbere. 

1  In  the  drawing  Mary  has  left  a  festal  proces- 
sion, ami  is  ascending  by  a  sadden  impulse  the 
steps  of  the  house  where  she  sees  Christ.  Her 
lover  has  followed  her  and  is  trying  to  turn  her 
back. 


786 


BRITISH    POETS 


This    delicate   day  of    love  we  two  will 

share 
Till  at  our  ear  love's  whispering  night 

shall  speak. 
What,  sweet  one, — hold'st  thou  still  the 

foolish  freak  ? 
Nay,  when  I  kiss  thy  feet  they  '11  leave 

the  stair." 
"  Oh   loose    me  !     See'st    thou   not   my 

Bridegroom's  face 
That  draws  me  to  Him?     For  His  feet 

my  kiss, 
My  hair,  my  tears  He  craves  to-day  :— 

and  oh  ! 
What  words  can  tell  what  other  day  and 

place 
Shall   see  me  clasp  those  blood-stained 

feet  of  His  ? 
He  needs  me,  calls  me,  loves  me  :  let  me 


go 


1856-7.     1870. 


ASPECTA  MEDUSA 
(For  a  Drawing) 

Andromeda,  by  Perseus  saved  and  wed, 
Hankered  each  day  to  see  the  Gorgon's 

head  : 
Till  o'er  a  fount  he  held  it,  bade  her  lean, 
And  mirrored  in  the  wave  was  safely 

seen 
That  death  she  lived  by. 

Let  not  thine  eyes  know 
Any  forbidden  thing  itself,  although 
It  once  should  save  as  well  as  kill :  but 

be 
Its  shadow  upon  life  enough  for  thee. 

1870. 

LOVE'S  NOCTTJRN 

Master  of  the  murmuring  courts 

Where  the  shapes  of  sleep  convene  ! — 

Lo  !  my  spirit  here  exhorts 
All  the  powers  of  thy  demesne 
For  their  aid  to  woo  my  queen. 

What  reports 
Yield  thy  jealous  courts  unseen  ? 

Vaporous,  unaccountable, 

Dreamland  lies  forlorn  of  light, 

Hollow  like  a  breathing  shell. 

Ah  !  that  from  all  dreams  I  might 
Choose  one  dream  and  guide  its  flight ! 

I  know  well 
What  her  sleep  should  tell  to-night. 

There  the  dreams  are  multitudes  : 
Some  that  will  not  wait  for  sleep, 

Deep  within  the  August  woods  ; 

Some  that  hum  while  rest  may  steep 


Weary  labor  laid  a-heap  ; 

Interludes, 
Some,  of  grievous  moods  that  weep. 

Poets'  fancies  all  are  there  : 

There  the  elf-girls  flood  with  wings 
Valleys  full  of  plaintive  air  ; 

There    breathe    perfumes ;     there    in 

rings 
Whirl  the  foam-bewildered  springs  • 

Siren  there 
Winds  her  dizzy  hair  and  sings. 

Thence  the  one  dream  mutually 

Dreamed  in  bridal  unison, 
Less  than  waking  ecstasy  ; 

Half-formed  visions  that  make  moan 

In  the  house  of  birth  alone  ; 
And  what  we, 

At  death's  wicket,  see,  unknown. 

But  for  mine  own  sleep,  it  lies 

In  one  gracious  form's  control, 
Fair  with  honorable  eyes, 

Lamps  of  a  translucent  soul ; 

O  their  glance  is  loftiest  dole, 
Sweet  and  wise, 

Wherein  Love  descries  his  goal. 

Reft  of  her,  my  dreams  are  all 

Clammy  trance  that  fears  the  sky : 
Changing  footpaths  shift  and  fall ; 

From  polluted  coverts  nigh, 

Miserable  phantoms  sigh  : 
Quakes  the  pall, 

And  the  funeral  goes  by. 

Master,  is  itsoothly  said 
That,  as  echoes  of  man's  speech 

Far  in  secret  clefts  are  made, 
So  do  all  men's  bodies  reach 
Shadows  o'er  thy  sunken  beach, — 

Shape  or  shade 
In  those  halls  portrayed  of  each  ? 

Ah !   might  I,  by  thy  good  grace 

Groping  in  the  windy  stair, 
(Darkness  and  the  breath  of  space 

Like  loud  waters  everywhere), 

Meeting  mine  own  image  there 
Face  to  face, 

Send  it  from  that  place  to  her  ! 

Nay,  not  I ;   but  oh  !   do  thou, 
Master,  from  thy  shadow  kind 

Call  my  body's  phantom  now  : 
Bid  it  bear  its  face  declin'd 
Till  its  flight  her  slumbers  find, 

And  her  brow 
Feel  its  presence  bow  like  wind. 


ROSSETTI 


787 


Where  in  groves  the  gracile  Spring 

Trembles,  with  mute  orison 
Confidently  strengthening, 

Water's  voice  and  wind's  as  one 

Shed  an  echo  in  the  sun. 
Soft  as  Spring, 

Master,  bid  it  sing  and  moan. 

Song  shall  tell  how  glad  and  strong 

Is  the  night  she  soothes  alway  ; 
Moan    shall  grieve   with   that  parched 
tongue 
Of  the  brazen  hours  of  day  : 
Sounds  as  of  the  springtide  they, 

Moan  and  song, 
While  the  chill  months  long  for  May. 

Not  the  prayers  which  with  all  leave 

The  world's  fluent  woes  prefer, — , 
JTot  the  praise  the  world  doth  give, 

Dulcet  fulsome  whisperer  ; — 

Let  it  yield  my  love  to  her, 
And  achieve 

Strength  that  shall  not  grieve  or  err. 

v/heresoe'er  my  dreams  befall, 
Both  at  night-watch  (let  it  say), 

&nd  where  round  the  sun-dial 
The  reluctant  hours  of  day, 
Heartless,  hopeless  of  their  way, 

Rest  and  call ; 
There  her  glance  doth  fall  and  stay. 

Suddenly  her  face  is  there  ; 

So  do  mounting  vapors  wreathe 
Subtle-scented  transports  where 

The  black  fir-wood  sets  its  teeth. 

Part  the  boughs  and  look  beneath, — 
Lilies  share 

Secret  waters  there,  and  breathe. 

Master,  bid  my  shadow  bend 

Whispering  thus  till  birth  of  light, 

Lest  new  shapes  that  sleep  may  send 
Scatter  all  its  work  to  flight  ; — 
Master,  master  of  the  night, 

Bid  it  spend 
Speech,  song,  prayer,  and  end  aright. 

Yet,  ah  me  !  if  at  her  head 
There  another  phantom  lean 

Murmuring  o'er  the  fragrant  bed, — 
Ah  !  and  if  my  spirit's  queen 
Smile  those  alien  words  between, — 

Ah  !  poor  shade  ! 
Shall  it  strive,  or  fade  unseen  ? 

How  should  love's  own  messenger 

Strive  with  love  and  be  love's  foe? 
Master,  nay  !     If  thus,  in  her, 


Sleep  a  wedded  heart  should  show, — 
Silent  let  mine  image  go, 

Its  old  share 
Of  thy  spell-bound  air  to  know. 

Like  a  vapor  wan  and  mute, 

Like  a  flame,  so  let  it  pass  ; 
One  low  sigh  across  her  lute, 

One  dull  breath  against  her  glass ; 

And  to  my  sad  soul,  alas  ! 
One  salute 

Cold  as  when  death's  foot  shall  pass. 

Then,  too,  let  all  hopes  of  mine. 

All  vain  hopes  by  night  and  dajr, 
Slowly  at  thy  summoning  sign 

Rise  up  pallid  and  obey. 

Dreams,  if  this  is  thus,  were  they  : — 
Be  they  thine, 

And  to  dreamworld  pine  away. 

Yet  from  old  time,  life,  not  death, 

Master,  in  thy  rule  is  rife  : 
Lo  !  through  thee,  with  mingling  breath, 

Adam  woke  beside  his  wife. 

O  Love  bring  me  so,  for  strife, 
Force  and  faith, 

Bring  me  so  not  death  but  life ! 

Yea,  to  Love  himself  is  pour'd 
This  frail  song  of  hope  and  fear. 

Thou  art  Love,  of  one  accord 
With  kind  Sleep  to  bring  her  near, 
Still-eyed,  deep-eyed,  ah  how  dear  ! 

Master,  Lord, 
In  her  name  implor'd,  O  hear  !     1870. 

FIRST  LOVE  REMEMBERED 

Peace  in  her  chamber,  wheresoe'er 

It  be,  a  holy  place  : 

The  thought  still  brings  my  soul  such 
grace 
As  morning  meadows  wear. 

Whether  it  still  be  small  and  light, 
A  maid's  who  dreams  alone, 
A.s  from  her  orchard-gate  the  moon 

Its  ceiling  showed  at  night : 

Or  whether,  in  a  shadow  dense 
As  nuptial  hymns  invoke, 
Innocent  maidenhood  awoke 

To  married  innocence  : 

There  still  the  thanks  unheard  await 
The  unconscious  gift  bequeathed  ; 
For     there    my     soul    this    hour    has 
breathed 

An  air  inviolate.  1870. 


7  £8 


BRITISH   POETS 


PLIGHTED   PROMISE 

In  a  soft-complexioned  sky, 

Fleeting  rose  and  kindling  gray, 
Have  you  seen  Aurora  fly 

At  the  break  of  day  ? 
S<>  my  maiden,  so  my  plighted  may 

Blushing  cheek  and  gleaming  eye 
Lifts  to  look  my  way. 

Where  the  inmost  leaf  is  stirred 
With  the  heart-beat  of  the  grove, 

Have  you  heard  a  hidden  bird 
Cast  her  note  above  ? 

So  my  lady,  so  my  lovely  love, 
Echoing  Cupid's  prompted  word, 
Makes  a  tune  thereof. 

Have  you  seen,  at   heaven's  mid-height, 

In  the  moon-rack's  ebb  and  tide, 
Venus  leap  forth  burning  white, 

Dian  pale  and  hide? 
So  my  bright  breast-jewel,  so  my  bride, 
One    sweet  night,   when    fear    takes 
flight, 
Shall  leap  against  my  side.         1870. 

SUDDEN  LIGHT 

I  have  been  here  before, 

But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell  : 
I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door, 
The  sweet  keen  smell, 
The   sighing   sound,  the   lights  around 
the  shore. 

You  have  been  mine  before, — 
How  long  ago  I  may  not  know : 

But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 
Your  neck  turned  so, 
Some  veil  did  fall, — I  knew  it  all  of  yore. 

Has  this  been  thus  before  ? 
And   shall   not  thus  time's   eddying 
flight 
Still  with  our  lives  our  loves  restore 
In  deatii's  despite, 
And  day   and   night   yield  one    delight 
once  more  ?  1863. 

THE  WOODSPURGE 

The   wind  flapped   loose,  the  wind   was 

still, 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill : 
I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind's  will, — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  still. 

Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was, — 
My  lips,  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas! 


My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass, 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  Vvide  open,  had  the  run 
Of  some  ten  weeils  to  fix  upon  ; 
Among  those  few.  out  of  the  sun, 
The  woodspurge  flowered,  three  cups  in 
one. 

From  perfect  grief  there  need  not  be 
Wisdom  or  even  memory  : 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  me. — 
The  woodspurge  has  a  cup  of  three.    1870. 

THE  HONEYSUCKLE 

I  plucked  a  honeysuckle  where 
The  hedge  on  high  is  quick  with  thorn, 
And  climbing  for  the  prize,  was  torn, 

And  fouled  my  feet  in  quag-water  ; 
And  by  the  thorns  and  by  the  wind 
The  blossom  that  I  took  was  thinn'd 

And  yet  I  found  it  sweet  and  fair. 

Thence  to  a  richer  growth  I  came, 
Where,  nursed  in  mellow  intercourse, 
The  hone}rsuckles  sprang  by  scores, 

Not  harried  like  my  single  stem, 
All  virgin  lamps  of  scent  and  dew. 
So  from  m3r  hand  that  first  I  threw. 

Yet  plucked  not  any  more  of  them.  1870. 

A  LITTLE  WHILE 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

The  hour  yet  bears  for  thee  and  me 
Who  have  not  drawn  the  veil  to  see 

If  still  our  heaven  be  lit  above. 

Thou  merely,  at  the  day's  last  sigh, 
Hast  felt  thy  soul  prolong  the  tone, 

And  I  have  heard  the  night-wind  cry 
And  deemed  its  speech  mine  own. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 
The  scattering  autumn  hoards  for  us 
Whose  bower  is  not  yet  ruinous 

Nor  quite  unleaved  our  songless  grove. 

Only  across  the  shaken  boughs 
We  hear  the  flood-tides  seek  the  sea, 

And  deep  in  both  our  hearts  they  rouse 
One  wail  for  thee  and  me. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 
May  yet  be  ours  who  have  not  said 
The  word  it  makes  our  eyes  afraid 

To  know  that  each  is  thinking  of. 

Not  yet  the  end  :  be  our  lips  dumb 
In  smiles  a  little  season  jret : 

I'll  tell  thee,  when  the  end  is  come, 

How  we  may  best  forget.  1870. 


R0SSE1TI 


7S9 


TROY  TOWN 

Hewexborn  Helex.  Sparta's  queen, 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
Had  two  breasts  of  heavenly  sheen. 
The  sun  and  moon  of  the  heart's  desire  : 
All  Love's  lordship  lay  between. 

(O  Troii's  down. 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire !) 

Helen  knelt  at  Venus'  shrine, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 

Saying  !iA  little  gift  is  mine, 

A  little  gift  for  a  heart's  desire. 

Hear  me  speak  and  make  me  a  sign  ! 
(O  Troy's  down. 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

"  Look,  I  bring  thee  a  carven  cup ; 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
See  it  here  as  I  hold  it  up, — 
Shaped  it  is  to  the  heart's  desire, 
Fit  to  rill  when  the  gods  would  sup. 

(O  Troy's  down. 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire  !) 

"  It  was  moulded  like  my  breast  ; 
(O  Troy  Town!) 

He  that  sees  it  may  not  rest. 

Rest  at  all  for  his  heart's  desire. 

O  give  ear  to  my  heart's  behest ! 
(0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

"  See  my  breast,  how  like  it  is  ; 

(0  Troy  Town!) 

See  it  hare  for  the  air  to  kiss  ! 

Is  the  cup  to  thy  heart's  desire  ? 

0  for  the  breast,  O  make  it  his  ! 
(O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  !) 

"  Yea,  for  my  bosom  here  I  sue  : 
(0  Troy  Town  !) 

Thou  must  give  it  where  't  is  due, 

( rive  it  there  to  the  heart's  desire. 

Whom  do  I  give  my  bosom  to? 

(0  Troy's  down. 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  !) 

"  Each  twin  breast  is  an  apple  sweet  ! 

(0  Troy  Tovm!) 
On<"e  an  apple  stirred  the  heat 
Of  thy  heart  with  the  heart's  desire : 
Say,  who  brought  it  then  to  thy  feet? 
(0  Troy's  down, 
Toll  Troy's  on  fire  !) 

"  Thev  that  claimed  it  then  were  three 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
For  thy  sake  two  hearts  did  he 


Make  forlorn  of  the  heart's  desire. 
Do  for  him  as  he  did  for  thee  ! 

(0  Troy's  down, 

Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

••  Mine  are  apples  grown  to  the  south, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
G'Vvvn  to  taste  in  the  days  of  drouth, 
Taste  and  waste  to  the  heart's  desire  : 
Mine  are  apples  meet  for  his  mouth  !  " 
(0  Troy's  down, 
Till  Troy's  on  Jin- .') 

Venus  looked  on  Helen's  "iff, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Looked  and  smiled  with  subtle  drift, 
Saw  the  work  of  her  heart's  desire  :  — 
"  There  thou  kneel'st  for  Love  to  lift !  " 
(0  Troy's  donn. 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

Venus  looked  in  Helen's  face, 

(0  Troy  Town .') 

Knew  far  off  an  hour  and  place, 

And  fire  lit  from  the  heart's  desire  ; 

Laughed    and     said,    "Thy    gift     hath 
grace  \" 

(0  Troy's  down. 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

Cupid  looked  on  Helen's  breast, 

(O  Troy  Town!) 
Saw  the  heart  within  its  nest. 
Saw  the  flame  of  the  heart's  desire, — 
Marked  his  arrow's  burning  crest. 
(0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

Cupid  took  another  dart, 

(0  Troy  Toivn!) 

Fledged  it  for  another  heart, 

Winged  the  shaft  with  the  heart's  desire, 

Drew  the  string  and  said.  "  Depart  !  " 
(O  Troy's  down. 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

Paris  turned  upon  Ids  lied. 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Turned  upon  his  bed  and  said, 
Dead  at  heart  with  the  heart's  desire,— 
"  0  to  clasp  her  golden  head  !  " 

(0  Troy's  down, 
Toll  Troy's  on  pre!) 
* 1ST0. 

THE  STREAM'S  SECRET 

"What  thing  unto  mine  ear 
Wouldst   thou   convey, — what   secret 
thing, 
0  wandering  water  ever  whispering? 


79° 


BRITISH    POETS 


Surely  thy  speech  shall  be  of  her. 
Thou   water,  O  thou   whispering   wan- 
derer, 
What  message  dost  thou  bring  ? 

Say,  hath  not  Love  leaned  low 
This  hour  beside  thy  far  well-head, 
And   there    through    jealous    hollowed 
fingers  said 
The  thing  that  most  I  long  to  know, — 
Murmuring  with  curls  all  dabbled  in  thy 
flow 
And  washed  lips  rosy  red  ? 

He  told  it  to  thee  there 
Where  thy  voice  hath  a  louder  tone  ; 
But  where  it  welters  to  this  little  moan 

His  will  decrees  that  I  should  hear. 
Now  speak  :   for  with  the  silence  is  no 
fear, 
And  I  am  all  alone. 

Shall  Time  not  still  endow 
One  hour  with  life,  and  I  and  she 
Slake  in  one  kiss  the  thirst  of  memory  ? 
Say,  stream  ;  lest  Love  should  disavow 
Thy     service,    and    the   bird   upon   the 
bough 
Sing  first  to  tell  it  me. 

What  whisperest  thou?     Nay,  why 
Name  the  dead  hours?    I  mind  them 
well. 
Their   ghosts   in   many  darkened   door- 
ways dwell 
With  desolate  eyes  to  know  them  by. 
That  hour  must  still  be  born  ere  it  can 
die 
Of  that  I'd  have  thee  tell. 

But  hear,  before  thou  speak  ! 
Withhold,  I  pray,  the  vain  behest 
That  while  the  maze  hath  still  its  bower 
for  quest 
My  burning  heart  should  cease  to  seek. 
Be  sure   that   Love  ordained    for  souls 
more  meek 
His  roadside  dells  of  rest. 

Stream,  when  this  silver  thread 
In  flood-time  is  a  torrent  brown, 
May   any   bulwark    bind    thy    foaming 
crown  ? 
Shall  not  the  waters  surge  and  spread 
And   to   the   crannied  boulders  of  their 
bed 
Still  shoot  the  dead  drift  down? 

Let  no  rebuke  find  place 
In  speech  of  thine  :  or  it  shall  prove 


That  thou  dost  ill  expound  the  words  of 
Love. 
Even  as  thine  eddy's  rippling  race 
Would  blur  the  perfect  image  of  his  face 
I  will  have  none  thereof. 

O  learn  and  understand 
That  'gainst  the    wrongs   himself  did 
wreak 
Love  sought  her  aid  ;  until  her  shadowy 
cheek 
And  eyes  beseeching  gave  command  ; 
And  compassed  in  her  close  compassion- 
ate hand 
My  heart  must  burn  and  speak. 

For  then  at  last  we  spoke 
What  eyes  so  oft  had  told  to  eyes 
Through     that     long-lingering     silence 
whose  half-sighs 
Alone  the  buried  secret  broke, 
Which  witli  snatched  hands  and  lips'  re- 
verberate stroke 
Then  from  the  heart  did  rise. 

But  she  is  far  away 
Now  :  nor  the  hours  of   night   grown 
hoar 
Bring  yet  to  me,  long  gazing   from  the 
door, 
The  wind-stirred  robe  of  roseate  gray 
And  rose-crown  of  the  hour  that  leads 
the  day 
When  we  shall  meet  once  more. 

Dark  as  thy  blinded  wave 
When  brimming  midnight  floods  the 
glen, — 
Bright   as   the   laughter  of  thy  runnels 
when 
The   dawn    yields   all   the   light   they 
crave  ; 
Even  so  these  hours  to  wound   and  that 
to  save 
Are  sisters  in  Love's  ken. 

Oh  sweet  her  bending  grace 
Then  when  I  kneel  beside  her  feet  ; 
And      sweet      her     eyes'     o'erhanging 
heaven  ;  and  sweet 
The  gathering  folds  of  her  embrace  ; 
And   her   fall'n  hair  at  last  shed  round 
my  face 
When  breaths  and  tears  shall  meet. 

Beneath  her  sheltering  hair, 
In  the  warm  silence  near   her   breast, 
Our  kisses  and  our  sobs  shall  sink  to  rest ; 
As  in  some  still  trance  made  aware 


ROSSETTI 


791 


That  day   and   night   have  wrought   to 
fulness  there 
And  Love  has  built  our  nest. 

And  as  in  the  dim  grove, 
When    the   rains   cease   that    hushed 
them  long, 
'Mid  glistening   boughs  the   song-birds 
wake  to  song, — 
So   from   our   hearts   deep-shrined   in 
love. 
While  the  leaves  throb  beneath,  around, 
above, 
The  quivering  notes  shall  throng. 

Till  tenderest  words  found  vain 
Draw  back  to  wonder  mute  and  deep, 
And  closed  lips  in  closed  arms  a  silence 
keep, 
Subdued  by  memory's  circling  strain,— 
The    wind-rapt    sound    that    the   wind 
brings  again 
While  all  the  willows  weep. 

Then  by  her  summoning  art 
Shall  memory  conjure  back  the  sere 
Autumnal  Springs,  from  many   a  dying 
year 
Born  dead  ;  and,  bitter  to  the  heart, 
The  very  ways  where  now  we  walk  apart 
Who  then  shall  cling  so  near. 

And  with  each  thought  new-grow7i, 
Some  sweet  caress  or  some  sweet  name 
Low-breathed   shall   let   me  know    her 
thought  the  same  : 
Making  me  rich  with  every  tone 
And  touch  of  the  dear   heaven   so   long 
unknown 
That  filled  my  dreams  with  flame. 

Pity  and  love  shall  burn 
In  her  pressed  cheek  and   cherishing 
hands ; 
And  from  the  living  spirit  of  love  that 
stands 
Between  her  lips  to  soothe  and  yearn, 
Each    separate    breath   shall   clasp   me 
round  in  turn 
And  loose  my  spirit's  bands. 

Oh  passing  sweet  and  dear, 
Then  when  the  worshipped  form  and 
face 
Are  felt  at  length  in  darkling  close   em- 
brace ; 
Round  which  so  oft  the  sun  shone  clear, 
With  mocking    light  ami  pitiless   atmo- 
sphere, 
In  many  an  hour  and  place. 


Ah  me  !  with  what  proud  growth 
Shall  that  hour's  thirsting  race  be  run  ; 
While,  for  each  several  sweetness  still 
begun 
Afresh,  endures  love's  endless  drouth  ; 
Sweet  hands,  sweet  hair,  sweet   cheeks, 
sweet  eyes,  sweet  mouth, 
Each  singly  wooed  and  won. 

Yet  most  with  the  sweet  soul 
Shall  love*s  espousals  then  be  knit ; 
What  time  the  governing  cloud  sheds 
peace  from  it 
O'er  tremulous  wings  that   touch   the 
goal, 
And  on  the  unmeasured  height  of  Love's 
control 
The  lustral  fires  are  lit. 

Therefore,  when  breast  and  cheek 
Now  part,  from  long  embraces  free, — 
Each  on  the  other  gazing  shall  but  see 

A  self  that  has  no  need  to  speak : 
All  things  unsought,  yet   nothing   more 
to  seek, — 
One  love  in  unity. 

O  water  wandering  past, — 
Albeit  to  thee  I  speak  this  thing, 
O  water,  thou  that  wanderest  whispering, 

Thou  keep'st  thy  counsel  to  the  last. 
What  spell  upon  thy  bosom  should  Love 
cast, 
Its  secret  thence  to  wring  ? 

Nay,  must  thou  hear  the  tale 
Of  the  past  days, — the  heavy  debt 
Of  life  that  obdurate  time   withholds, — 
ere  yet 
To  .win  thine  ear  these  prayers  prevail. 
And  by  thy  voice  Love's  self   with  high 
All-hail 
Yield  up  the  amulet  ? 

How  should  all  this  be  told  ? — 
All  the  sad  sum  of  wayworn  days  ; — 
Heart's    anguish    in   the    impenetrable 
maze ; 
And  on  the  waste  uncolored  wold 
The  visible  burthen   of  the   sun   grown 
cold 
And  the  moon's  laboring  gaze? 

Alas  !  shall  hope  be  nurs'd 
On  life's  all-succoring  breast   in   vain, 
And  made  so  perfect  only  to  be  slain  ? 
Or  shall  not  rather  the  sweet  thirst 
Even  yet  rejoice  the  heart  with  warmth 
dispers'd 
And  strength  grown  fair  again  ? 


792 


BRITISH    POETS 


Stands  it  not  by  the  door — 
Love's  Hour — till  she  and  1  shall  meet 
With  bodiless  form  and  unapparent  feet 

That  east  no  shallow  yet  before, 
Though  round  its  head  the  dawn  begins 
to  pour 
The  breath  that  makes  day  sweet? 

Its  eyes  invisible 
Watch  till  the  dial's  thin-thrown  shade 
Be   born.— yea,  till  the  journeying  line 
be  laid 
Upon  the  point  that  wakes  the  spell, 
And  there  in  lovelier  light  than  tongue 
can  tell 
Its  presence  stand  array'd. 

Its  soul  remembers  yet 
Those  sunless  hours  that  passed  it  by  ; 
And  still  it  hears  the  night's  disconso- 
late cry, 
And  feels  the  branches  wringing  wet- 
Cast  on  its  brow,  that  may  not  once  for- 
get, 
Dumb  tears  from  the  blind  sky. 

But  oh  !  when  now  her  foot 
Draws  near,  for  whose  sake  night  and 
day 
Were    long   in    weary    longing    sighed 
away, — 
The  hour   of   Love,    'mid  airs   grown 
mute, 
Shall  sing   beside   the  door,  and  Love's 
own  lute 
Thrill  to  the  passionate  lay. 

Thou  know'st,  for  Love  has  told 
Within  thine  ear,  O  stream,  how  soon 
That  song  shall  lift  its  sweet  appointed 
tune. 
O  tell  me,  for  my  lips  are  cold, 
And   in   my  veins  the  blood  is  waxing 
old 
Even  while  I  beg  the  boon. 

So,  in  that  hour  of  sighs 
Assuaged,  shall  we  beside  this  stone 
Yield  thanks   for   grace  ;  while   in  thy 
mirror  shown 
The  twofold  image  softly  lies, 
Until  we  kiss,  and  each  in  other's  eyes 
Is  imaged  all  alone. 

Still  silent?     Can  no  art 
Of  Love's  then  move  thy  pity  ?     Nay. 
To  thee  let  nothing  come  that  owns  his 
sway  : 
Let  happy  lovers  have  no  pait 


With  thee  ;  nor  even  so  sad  and  poor  a 
heart 
As  thou  hast  spurned  to-day. 

To-day  ?     Lo  !  night  is  here. 
The  glen  grows  heavy  with  some  veil 
Risen  from  the  earth  or  fall'n  to  make 
earth  pale  ; 
And  all  stands  hushed  to  eye  and  ear, 
Until   the   night-wind  shake    the  shad* 
like  fear 
And  every  covert  quail. 

Ah  !  by  another  wave 
On  other  airs  the  hour  must  come 
Which  to  thy  heart,  my  love,  shall  call 
me  home. 
Between  the  lips  of  the  low  cave 
Against  that  night  the  lapping  waters 
lave. 
And  the  dark  lips  are  dumb  . 

But  there  Love's  self  doth  stand, 
And  with  Life's  weary  wings  far  flown, 
And   with   Death's  eyes  that  make  the 
water  moan, 
Gathers  the  water  in  his  hand  : 
And  they   that   drink   know  nought  of 
sky  or  land 
But  only  love  alone. 

O  soul-sequestered  face 
Far  off, — O  were  that  night  but  now  ! 
So  even  beside  that  stream  even  I  and 
thou 
Through   thirsting   lips   should   draw 
Love's  grace, 
And  in  the  zone  of  that  supreme  embrace 
Bind  aching  breast  and  brow. 

O  water  whispering 
Still  through  the  dark  into  mine  ears, — 
As  with  mine  eyes,  is  it  not  now  with 
hers  ? — 
Mine  eyes  that  add  to  thy  cold  spring, 
Wan  water,  wandering  water  weltering, 
This  hidden  tide  of  tears.     1870. 

LOVE-LILY 

Between  the  hands,  between  the  brows, 

Between  the  lips  of  Love-Lily, 
A  spirit  is  born  whose  birth  endows 

My  blood  with  fire  to  burn  through 
me  ; 
Who  breathes  upon  my  gazing  eyes, 

Who  laughs  and  murmurs  in  mine  ear, 
At  whose  least  touch  my  color  flies. 

And  whom  my  life  grows  faint  to  hear. 


ROSSETTI 


793 


Within  the  voice,  within  the  heart, 

Within  the  mind  of  Love-Lily, 
A  spirit  is  born  who  lifts  apart 

His  tremulous  wings  and  looks  at  me  ; 
Who  on  my  mouth  his  finger  lays, 

And    shows,    while   whispering  lutes 
confer, 
That  Eilen  of  Love's  watered  ways 

Whose  winds  and  spirits  worship  her. 

Brows,    hands,    and   lips,   heart,   mind, 
and  voice, 
Kisses  and  words  of  Love-Lily, — 
Oh  !  bid  me  with  your  joy  rejoice 
Till  riotous  longing  rest  in  me  ! 
Ah  !  let  not  hope  be  still  distraught, 

But  find  in  her  its  gracious  goal, 
Whose   speech  Truth   knows   not  from 
her  thought 
Nor  Love  her  body  from  her  soul. 

1870. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE 

THE  SONNET 

A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument, — 

Memorial  from  the  SouVs  eternity 

To  one  dead  deathless  hour.     Look  that 

it  be, 
WJiether  for  lustral  rite  or  dire  portent, 
Of  its  own  arduous  fulness  reverent : 
Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony, 
As  Day   or  Night    may   rule;    and   let 

time  see 
Its  flowering  crest  impeartedand  orient. 
A  Sonnet  is  a  coin  :  its  face  reveals 
The  Soul. — its  converse,  to  what  Power 

'tis  due : — 
Whether  for  tribute  tothe  august  appeals 
Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue, 
It  serve;  or 'mid  the  dark  wharf's  cav- 
ernous breath. 
In  Charon's  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to 
Death. 

PART  I.     YOUTH  AND  CHANGE 

I.      LOVE  ENTHRONED 

I  MARKED  all  kindied  Powers  the  heart 

finds  fair  : — 
Truth,  with  awed  lips  ;  and  Hope,  with 

eyes  upcast  ; 
And  Fame,  whose   loud  wings  fan  the 

ashen  Pasi 
To  signal-fires.  Oblivion's  Bight  to  scare  ; 
And  Youth,  with  still  some  single  golden 

hair 


Unto   his   shoulder   clinging,  since   the 

last 
Embrace  wherein  two  sweet  arms  held 

him  fast  ; 
And   Life,   still  wreathing  flowers  for 

Death  to  wear. 
Love's  throne  was  not  with  these  ;  but 

far  above 
All  passionate   wind  of  welcome    and 

farewell 
He  sat  in  breathless  bowers  they  dream 

not  of ; 
Though    Truth  foreknow  Love's   heart, 

and  Hope  foretell, 
And  Fame  be  for  Love's  sake  desirable, 
And  Youth  be  dear,  and  Life  be  sweet 

to  Love. 

II.      BRIDAL   BIRTH 

As  when  desire,  long  darkling,  dawns, 

and  first 
The  mother   looks  upon   the   new-born 

child, 
Even   so   my  Lady  stood   at    gaze   and 

smiled 
When  her  soul  knew  at  length  the  Love 

it  nurs'd. 
Born  with  her  life,  creature  of  poignant 

thirst 
And    exquisite    hunger,    at    her    heart 

Love  lay 
Quickening  in  darkness,  till  a  voice  that 

day 
Cried  on  him,   and   the   bonds   of  birth 

were  burst. 
Now,  shadowed  by  his  wings,  our  faces 

yearn 
Together,   as    his    fullgrown    feet  now 

range 
The   grove,    and    his  warm   hands   our 

couch  prepare  : 
Till  to  his  song  our  bodiless  souls  in  turn 
Be  born  his  children,  when  Death's  nup- 
tial change 
Leaves  us  for  light  the  halo  of  his  hair. 

III.      LOVE'S  TESTAMENT 

O  THOU  who  at  Love's  hour  ecstatically 

Unto  my  heart  dost  ever  more  present, 

Clothed  with  Ins  lire,  thy  heart  his  tes- 
tament ; 

Whom  I  have  neared  and  felt  thy  breath 
to  be 

The  inmost  incense  of  his  sanctuary  ; 

Who  without  speech  hast  owned  him, 
and,  intent 

Upon  his  will,  thy  life  with  mine  hast 
blent, 


794 


BRITISH   POETS 


And   murmured,  "  I  am   thine,   thou  'it 

one  with  me  !  " 
O  what  from  thee  ihe  grace,  to   me   the 

prize, 
And  what  to  Love  the  glory, — when  the 

whole 
Of  the  deep   stair   thou   tread'st   to  the 

dim  shoal 
And  weary  water  of  the  place  of  sighs, 
And    there   dost   work   deliverance,   as 

thine  eyes 
Draw  up  my  prisoned  spirit  to  thy  soul ! 

IV.      LOVESIGHT 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one? 
When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 
The  worship  of  that  Love  through   thee 

made  known  ? 
Or  when  in   the   dusk   hours,    (we   two 

alone,) 
Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 
Thy  twilight-hidden  glimmering   visage 

lies, 
And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own  ? 
O  love,  my  love  !  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of 

thee. 
Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How   then   should    sound     upon   Life's 

darkening  slope 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perished  leaves 

of  Hope, 
The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing? 

v.     heart's  hope 

By  what  word's  power,  the  key  of  paths 

untrod, 
Shall  I  the  difficult  deeps  of  Love  explore, 
Till  parted  waves  of  Song  yield  up  the 

shore 
Even  as  that  sea  which  Israel  crossed 

dryshod ? 
For  lo  !  in  some  poor  rhythmic  period, 
Lady,  I  fain  would  tell  how  evermore 
Thy  soul  I  know  not  from  thy  body,  nor 
Thee  from  myself,  neither  our  love  from 

God. 
Yea,  in  God's  name,  and   Love's,   and 

thine,  would  I 
Draw     from     one     loving    heart    such 

evidence 
As  to  all  hearts  all  things  shall  signify  ; 
Tender  as  dawn's  first   hill-fire,   and  in- 
tense 
As  instantaneous  penetrating  sense, 
In  Spring's  birth-hour,  of  other  Springs 

gone  by. 


VIII.      LOVE  S  LOVERS 

Some  ladies  love  the  jewels  in  Love's 
zone 

And  gold-tipped  darts  he  hath  for  pain- 
less play 

In  idle  scornful  hours  he  flings  away  ; 

And  some  that  listen  to  his  lute's  soft 
tone 

Do  love  to  vaunt  the  silver  praise  their 
own  ; 

Some  prize  his  blindfold  sight  ;  and 
there  be  they 

Who  kissed  his  wings  which  brought 
him  yesterday 

And  thank  his  wings  to-day  that  he  is 
flown. 

My  lady  only  loves  the  heart  of  Love  : 

Therefore  Love's  heart,  my  lady,  hath 
for  thee 

His  bower  of  unimagined  flower  and 
tree : 

There  kneels  he  now,  and  all-anhun- 
gered  of 

Thine  eyes  gray-lit  in  shadowing  hair 
above, 

Seals  with  thy  mouth  his  immortality. 

IX.   PASSION  AND  WORSHIP 

One  flame-winged  brought  a  white- 
winged  harp-player 

Even  where  my  lady  and  I  lay  all  alone  ; 

Saying:  "  Behold,  this  minstrel  is  un- 
known ; 

Bid  him  depart,  for  I  am  minstrel  here  : 

Oidy  my  strains  are  to  Love's  dear  ones 
dear." 

Then  said  I:  "  Through  thine  hautboy's 
rapturous  tone 

Unto  my  lady  still  this  harp  makes 
moan, 

And  still  she  deems  the  cadence  deep 
and  ciear." 

Then  said  my  lady  :  "  Thou  art  Passion 
of  Love, 

And  this  Love's  Worship  :  both  he 
plights  to  me. 

Thy  mastering  music  walks  the  sunlit 
sea  : 

But  where  wan  water  trembles  in  the 
grove 

And  the  wan  moon  is  all  the  light  there- 
of, 

This  harp  still  makes  my  name  its  vol- 
untary." 

X.      THE  PORTRAIT 

O  Lord  of  all  compassionate  control, 
O  Love  !  let  this  my  lady's  picture  glow 


ROSSETTI 


795 


Under  my  hand  to  praise  her  name,  and 

show 
Even  of  her  inner  self  the  perfect  whole: 
Tliat  he  who  seeks  her  beauty's  furthest 

goal, 
Beyond  the  light  that  the  sweet  glances 

throw 
And  refluent    wave  of  the  sweet  smile, 

may  know 
The  very  sky  and  sea-line  of  her  soul. 
Lo  !  it  is  done.     Above   the  enthroning 

throat 
The  mouth's  mould  testifies  of  voice  and 

kiss, 
The  shadowed  eyes  remember  and  fore- 
see. 
Her  face  is  made  her  shrine.  Let  all  men 

note 
That  in   all  years  (O   Love,   thy   gift  is 

this  !) 
They  that  would  look  on  her  must  come 

to  me. 

XI.      THE  LOVE-LETTER 

Warmed  by  her  hand  and  shadowed  by 
her  hair 

As  close  she  leaned  and  poured  her  heart 
through  thee, 

Whereof  the  articulate  throbs  accom- 
pany 

The  smooth  black  stream  that  makes  thy 
whiteness  fair, — 

Sweet  fluttering  sheet,  even  of  her 
breath  aware, — 

Oh  let  thy  silent  song  disclose  to  me 

That  soul  wherewith  her  lips  and  eyes 
agree 

Like  married  music  in  Love's  answering 
air. 

Fain  had  I  watched  her  when,  at  some 
fond  thought, 

Her  bosom  to  the  writing  closelier 
press'd, 

And  her  breast's  secrets  peered  into  her 
breast  ; 

When,  through  eyes  raised  an  instant, 
her  soul  sought 

My  soul,  and  from  the  sudden  confluence 
caught 

The  words  that  made  her  love  the  love- 
liest. 

XII.      THE  LOVERS'  WALK 

SWEET  twining  he<lgeflowers  wind-stir- 

red  in  no  wise 
On  thi-<  June  day  ;  and  hand  that  clings 

in  hand  : — 


Still  glades  ;  and  meeting  faces  scarcely 

fann'd  : 
An  osier-odored  stream  that  draws  the 

skies 
Deep  to  its  heart ;  and  mirrored  eyes  in 

eyes  :— 
Fresh  hourly  wonder  o'er  the  Summer 

land 
Of  light  and  cloud  ;  and  two  souls  softly 

span  u 'd 
With  one  o'erarching  heaven  of  smiles 

and  sighs : — 
Even  such  their  path,  whose  bodies  lean 

unto 
Each  other's    visible    sweetness    amor- 
ously,— 
Whose  passionate  hearts  lean  by  Love's 

high  decree 
Together  on  his  heart  for  ever  true, 
As  the  cloud-foaming  firmamenta!  blue 
Rests  on  the  blue  line  of  a  foamless  sea. 

XIII.     youth's  antiphony 

"  I  love  you,  sweet :  how  can  you  ever 
learn 

How  much  I  love  you?  "  "  You  I  love 
even  so, 

And  so  I  learn  it."  "  Sweet,  you  can- 
not know 

How  fair  you  are."  "  If  fair  enough  to 
earn 

Your  love,  so  much  is  all  my  love's  con- 
cern." 

"  My  love  grows  hourly,  sweet."  "  Mine 
too  doth  grow, 

Yet  love  seemed  full  so  many  hours 
ago  ! " 

Thus  lovers  speak,  till  kisses  claim  their 
turn. 

Ah  !  happy  they  to  whom  such  words  as 
these 

In  youth  have  served  for  speech  the 
whole  day  long, 

Hour  after  hour,  remote  from  the  world's 
throng, 

Work,  contest,  fame,  all  life's  confe- 
derate pleas, — 

What  while  Love  breathed  in  sighs  and 
silences 

Through  two  blent  souls  one  rapturous 
undersong. 

XIV.    youth's  spring-tribute 

On   this   sweet   bank   your   head  thrice 

sweet  and  dear 
I  lay,  and  spread  your  hair  on  either 

side, 


796 


BRITISH  POETS 


And  see  the  newborn  woodflowers  bash- 
ful-eyed 

Look  through  the  golden  tresses  here 
and  there. 

On  these  debateable  borders  of  the  year 

Spring's  foot  half  falters  ;  scarce  she  yet 
may  know 

The    leafless    blackthorn-blossom    from  ■ 
the  snow  ; 

And  through  her  bowers  the  wind's  way 
still  is  clear. 

But  April's  sun  strikes  down  the  glades 
to-day  ; 

So  shut  your  eyes  upturned,  and  feel  my 
kiss 

Creep,  as  the  Spring  now  thrills  through 
every  spray, 

Up  your  warm  throat  to  your  warm 
lips ;  for  this 

Is  even  the  hour  of  Love's  sworn  suit- 
service, 

With  whom  cold  hearts  are  counted 
castaway. 

XV.       THE  BIRTH-BOND 

Have  you  not  noted,  in  some  family 
Where  two  were  born  of  a  first  marriage-' 

bed, 
How  still  they  own  their  gracious  bond, 

though  fed 
And  nursed  on  the  forgotten  breast  and 

knee  ? — 
How  to  their  father's  children  they  shall 

be 
In  act  and  thought  of  one  goodwill ;  but 

each 
Shall    for    the    other   have,    in   silence 

speech, 
And  in  a  word  complete  community  ? 
Even  so,  when   first  I  saw  you,  seemed 

it,  love, 
That  among  souls  allied  to  mine  was  yet 
One  nearer  kindred  than  life  hinted  of. 
O  born  with  me  somewhere  that   men 

forget, 
And  though  in  years  of  sight  and  sound 

unmet, 
Known  for  my  soul's  birth-partner  well 

enough ! 

XVII.     beauty's  pageant 

What  dawn-pulse  at  the  heart  of  heaven, 
or  last 

Incarnate  flower  of  culminating  day, — 

What  marshalled  marvels  on  tbe  skirts 
of  May. 

Or  eong  full-quired,  sweet  June's  enco- 
miast ; 


What  glory  of  change  by  nature's  hand 

amass'd 
Can  vie  with  all  those  moods  of  varying 

grace 
Which  o'er  one  loveliest  woman's  form 

and  face 
Within   this   hour,   within    this    room, 

have  pass'd  ? 
L  :>ve's  very  vesture  and  elect  disguise 
Was  each  fine  movement, — wonder  new- 

begot 
Of  lily  or  swan  or  swan-stemmed  galiot ; 
Joy  to   his   sight  who   now  the   sadlier 

sighs. 
Parted  again,  and  sorrow  yet  for  eyes 
Unborn,  that  read  these  words  and  saw 

her  not. 

XVIII.     genius  in  beauty 

Beauty  like  hers  is  genius.  Not  the  call 

Of  Homer's  or  of  Dante's  heart  sub- 
lime,— 

Not  Michael's  hand  furrowing  the  zones 
of  time, — 

Is  more  with  compassed  mysteries  musi- 
cal; 

Nay,  not  in  Spring's  or  Summer's  sweet 
footfall 

More  gathered  gifts  exuberant  Life  be- 
queathes 

Than  doth  this  sovereign  face,  whose 
love-spell  breathes 

Even  from  its  shadowed  contour  on  the 
wall. 

As  many  men  are  poets  in  their  youth, 

But  for  one  sweet-strung  soul  the  wires 
prolong 

Even  through  all  change  the  indomi- 
table song  ; 

So  in  like  wise  the  envenomed  years, 
whose  tooth. 

Rends  shallower  grace  with  ruin  void  of 
ruth, 

Upon  this  beauty's  power  shall  wreak 
no  wrong. 

XIX.      SILENT  NOON 

Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  long,  fresh 

grass, — 
The  finger-points  look  through  like  rosy 

blooms : 
Your  eyes  smile    peace.     The    pasture 

gleams  and  glooms 
'Neath  billowing  skies  that  scatter  and 

amass. 
All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can 

pass, 


ROSSETTI 


797 


Are  golden  kingcup-fields  with  silver 
edge 

Where  the  cow-parsley  skirts  the  haw- 
thorn hedge. 

'T  is  visible  silence,  still  as  the  hour- 
glass. 

Deep  in  the  sun-searched  growths  the 
dragon-fly 

Hangs  like  a  blue  thread  loosened  from 
the  sky. — 

So  this  wing'd  hour  is  dropped  to  us 
from  above. 

Oh  !  clasp  we  to  our  hearts,  for  death- 
less dower, 

This  close-companioned  inarticulate 
hour 

When  twofold  silence  was  the  song  of 
love. 

XXI.      LOVE-SWEETNESS 

Sweet  dimness  of  her  loosened   hair's 

downfall 
About  thy  face  ;  her  sweet  hands  round 

thy  head 
In  gracious  fostering  union  garlanded  ; 
Her    tremulous     smiles ;     her    glances' 

sweet  recall 
Of  love  ;  her   murmuring  sighs   memo- 
rial ; 
Her  mouth's  culled  sweetness  by  thy 

kisses  shed 
On  cheeks  and  neck  and  eyelids,  and  so 

led 
Back  to  her  mouth,  which  answers  there 

for  all  :— 
What  sweeter  than  these  things,  except 

the  thing 
In  lacking  which  all  these  would   lose 

their  sweet : — 
The  confident   heart's   still  fervor  :   the 

swift  beat 
And    soft    subsidence    of     the     spirit's 

wing, 
Then  when  it  feels,  in  cloud-girt  way- 
faring, 
The  breath  of   kindred  plumes  against 

its  feet  ? 

xxiv.     pride  op  youth 

Evi.n  as  a  child,  of  sorrow  that  we  give 
The   dead,  but    little    in    his   heart    can 

find, 
Since  without   need  of  thought   to   his 

clear  mind 
Their  turn  it  is  to  die  and  his  to  live : — 
Even  so  the  winged  New  Love  smiles  to 

rece  ive 


Along  his  eddying  plumes  the  auroral 

wind. 
Nor,    forward   glorying,   casts  one  look 

behind 
Where  night-rack  shrouds  the  Old  Love 

fugitive. 
There  is  a  change  in  every  hour's  recall, 
And  the  last  cowslip  in  the  fields  we  see 
On  the  same  day   with   the    first  corn- 
poppy. 
Alas  for  hourly  change  !     Alas  for  all 
The    loves    that    from   his  hand   proud 

Youth  lets  fall. 
Even  as  the  beads  of  a  told  rosary  ! 

XXVI.      MID-RAPTURE 

Thou  lovely  and  beloved,  thou  my  love  ; 

Whose  kiss  seems  still  the  first ;  whose 
summoning  eyes, 

Even  now,  as  for  our  love-world's  new 
sunrise, 

Shed  very  dawn  ;  whose  voice,  attuned 
above 

All  modulation  of  the  deep-oowered 
dove, 

Is  like  a  hand  laid  softly  on  the  soul  ; 

Whose  hand  is  like  a  sweet  voice  to  con- 
trol 

Those  worn  tired  brows  it  hath  the  keep- 
ing of : — 

What  word  can  answer  to  thy  word — • 
what  gaze 

To  thine,  which  now  absorbs  within  its 
sphere 

My  worshipping  face,  till  I  am  mirrored 
there 

Light- circled  in  a  heaven  of  deep-drawn 
rays  ? 

What  clasp,  what  kiss  mine  inmost  heart 
can  prove, 

O  lovely  and  beloved,  O  my  love? 

XXVII.     heart's  compass 

Sometimes  thou  seem'st  not  as  thyself 

alone, 
But  as  the  meaning  of  all  things  that 

are  ; 
A   breathless  wonder,   shadowing  fortli 

afar 
Some  heavenly  solstice  hushed  and  hal- 
cyon ; 
Whose  unstirred  lips  are  music's  visible 

tone  ; 
Whose   eyes   the   sun-gate   of   the   soul 

unbar. 
Being  of  its  furthest  fires  oracular  — 
The  evident  heart  of  all  life  sown  and 

mown. 


798 


BRITISH    POETS 


Even  such  love  is ;  and  is  not  thy  name 
Love  ? 

Yea,  by  thy  hand  the  Love-god  rends 
apart 

All  gathering  clouds  of  Night's  ambigu- 
ous art  ; 

Flings  them  far  down,  and  sets  thine 
eyes  above  ; 

And  simply,  as  some  gage  of  flower  or 
glove, 

Stakes  with  a  smile  the  world  against 
thy  heart. 

XXXI.      HER  GIFTS 

High  grace,  the  dower  of  queens  ;  and 
there  withal 

Some  wood-born  wonder's  sweet  sim- 
plicity ; 

A  glance  like  water  brimming  with  the 
sky 

Or  hyacinth- light  where  forest-shadows 
fall: 

Such  thrilling  pallor  of  cheek  as  doth 
enthral 

The  heart  ;  a  mouth  whose  passionate 
forms  imply 

All  music  and  all  silence  held  thereby  ; 

Deep  golden  locks,  her  sovereign  coronal; 

A  round  reared  neck,  meet  column  of 
Love's  shrine 

To  cling  to  when  the  heart  takes  sanc- 
tuary ; 

Hands  which  for  ever  at  Love's  bidding 
be, 

And  soft-stirred  feet  still  answering  to 
his  sign  :  — 

These  are  her  gifts,  as  tongue  may  tell 
them  o'er. 

Breathe  low  her  name,  my  soul ;  for 
that  means  more. 

XXXII.      EQUAL  TROTH 

Not  by  one  measure  mayst  thou  mete 
our  love  ; 

For  how  should  I  be  loved  as  I  love  thee  ? — 

I,  graceless,  joyless,  lacking  absolutely 

All  gifts  that  with  thy  queenship  best 
behove  ; — 

Thou,  throned  in  every  heart's  elect  al- 
cove, 

And  crowned  with  garlands  culled  from 
every  tree, 

Which  for  no  head  but  thine,  by  Love's 
decree, 

All  beauties  and  all  mysteries  interwove. 

But  here  thine  eyes  and  lips  yield  soft 
rebuke : — 


"Then    only,"    (say'st    thou)    "could   1 

love  thee  less, 
When  thou  couldst    doubt    my    love's 

equality." 
Peace,  sweet !     If  not  to  sum  but  worth 

we  look, 
Thy  heart's  transcendence,  not  my  heart's 

excess, — 
Then   more   a  thousandfold  thou  lov'st 

than  I. 

XXXIII.      VENUS  VICTRIX 

Could  Juno's  self  more  sovereign  pres- 
ence wear 

Than  thou,  'mid  other  ladies  throned 
in  grace  ? — 

Or  Pallas,  when  thou  bend'st  with  soul- 
stilled  face 

O'er  poet's  page  gold-shadowed  in  thy 
hair? 

Dost  thou  than  Venus  seem  less  heavenly 
fair 

When  o'er  the  sea  of  love's  tumultuous 
trance 

Hovers  tliy  smile,  and  mingles  with 
thy  glance 

That  sweet  voice  like  the  last  wave  mur- 
muring there  ? 

Before  such  triune  loveliness  divine 

Awestruck  I  ask,  which  goddess  here 
most  claims 

The  prize  that,  howsoe'er  adjudged,  is 
thine  ? 

Then  Love  breathes  low  the  sweetest  of 
thy  names ; 

And  Venus  Victrix  to  my  heart  doth 
bring 

Herself,  the  Helen  of  her  guerdoning. 

XXXIV.      THE  DARK  GLASS 

Not  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee  : 
How  should  I  reach  so  far,  who  cannot 

weigh 
To-morrow's  dower  by  gage  of  yesterday  ? 
Shall  birth  and  death,  and  all  dark  names 

that  be 
As  doors  and  windows  bared  to  some 

loud  sea, 
Lasli  deaf  mine  ears  and  blind  my  face 

with  spray  ; 
And    shall    my  sense    pierce   love, — the 

last  relay 
And  ultimate  outpost  of  eternity? 
Lo  !  what  am  I  to  Love,  the  lord  of  all? 
One  murmuring  shell  he  gathers  from 

the  sand, 
One  little   heart-flame  sheltered  in  his 

hand. 


ROSSETTI 


799 


Yet   through   thine   eyes   he  grants  me 

clearest  call 
And  veriest  touch  of  powers  primordial 
That  any  hour-girt  life  may  understand. 

XL.      SEVERED   SELVES 

Two  separate  divided  silences, 

Which,    brought    together,    would    find 

loving  voice  ; 
Two  glances   which  together  would  re- 
joice 
In  love,  now  lost  like  stars  beyond  dark 

trees ; 
Two  hands  apart  whose  touch  alone  gi  ves 

ease  ; 
Two  bosoms  which,  heart-shrined  with 

mutual  flame, 
Would,  meeting  in  one  clasp,   be  made 

the  same  ; 
Two   souls,  the  shores  wave-mocked  of 

sundering  seas  : — 
Such  are  we  now.     Ah !  may  our  hope 

forecast 
Indeed   one   hour  again,  when  on   this 

stream 
Of  darkened  love  once   more  the  light 

shall  gleam  ? — 
An  hour  how  slow  to  come,  how  quickly 

past, — 
Which  blooms  and  fades,  and  only  leaves 

at  last. 
Faint  as  shed  flowers,  the  attenuated 

dream. 

XLI.      THROUGH   DEATH  TO  LOVE 

Like  labor-laden  moonclouds  faint  to  flee 

From  winds  that  sweep  the  winter- 
bitten  wold, — 

Like  multiform  circumfluence  manifold 

Of  night's  flood-tide, — like  terrors  that 
agree 

Of  hoarse-tongued  fire  and  inarticulate 
sea, — 

Even  such,  within  some  glass  dimmed 
by  our  breath. 

Our  hearts  discern  wild  images  of  Death, 

Shadows  and  shoals  that  edge  eternity. 

Howbeit  athwart  Death's  imminent 
shade  doth  soar 

One  Power,  than  flow  of  stream  or  flight 
of  dove 

Sweeter  to  glide  around,  to  brood  above. 

Tell  me,  my  heart, — what  angel-greeted 
door 

Or  threshold  of  wing-winnowed  thresh- 
ing-floor 

Hatli  guest  fire-fledged  as  thine,  whose 
lord  is  Love  ? 


xlviii.     death-in-love 

There  came  an  image  in  Life's  retinue 
That   had   Love's   wings    and   bore   his 

gonfalon  : 
Fair   was  the   web,  and   nobly  wrought 

thereon, 

0  soul-sequestered   face,  thy  form  and 

hue  ! 
Bewildering    sounds,    such     as    Spring 

wakens  to, 
Shook   in    its   folds ;    and    through   my 

heart  its  power 
Sped  trackless  as  the  immemorable  hour 
When   birth's   dark  portal   groaned  and 

all  was  new. 
But  a   veiled  woman   followed,  and   she 

caught 
The  banner   round  its  staff,  to   furl  and 

cling, — 
Then  plucked  a  feather  from  the  bearer's 

wing. 
And  held  it  to  his  lips  that  stirred  it  not, 
And  said   to  me,  "  Behold,  there  is  no 

breath  : 

1  and  this  Love  are  one,  and  I  am  Death." 

XLIX.      WILLOW  WOOD— I 

I  SAT  with  Love  upon  a  woodside  well, 
Leaning  across  the  water,  I  and  he  ; 
Nor  ever  did  he  speak  nor  looked  at  me, 
But  touched  his  lute  wherein  was  audible 
The  certain  secret  thing  he  had  to  tell : 
Only  our  mirrored  eyes  met  silently 
In  the  low  wave  ;  and,  that  sound  came 

to  be 
The  passionate   voice  I  knew  ;  and   my 

tears  fell. 
And  at  their  fall,  his  eyes  beneath  grew 

hers  ; 
And   with   his   foot   and  with  his  wing- 
feathers 
He  swept  the   spring  that  watered  my 

heart's  drouth. 
Then  the  dark  ripples  spread   to  waving 

hair, 
And  as  I   stooped,  her  own   lips   rising 

there 
Bubbled    with   brimming   kisses  at  my 

mouth. 

L.      WILLOWWOOD— II 

And  now  Love  sang  :  but   his  was  such 

a  song. 
So  meshed  with  half-remembrance  hard 

to  free, 
As  souls  disused  in  death's  sterility 
May  sing  when  the  new  birthday  tarries 

long. 


8oo 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  I  was  made  aware  of  a  dumb  throng 
That  stood  aloof,  one  form  by  every  tree, 
AH  mournful  forms,  for  each  was  1  or  she. 
The  shades   of  those   our  days   that  had 

no  tongue. 
They    looked  on   us,  and   knew   us   and 

were  known  ; 
"While  fast  together,  alive  from  the  abyss, 
Clung  the  soul-wrung   implacable   close 

kiss  ; 
And     pity   of    self    through    all   made 

broken  moan 
Which  said,  "For  once,   for  once,   for 

once  alone  ! " 
And   still  Love   sang,  and  what  he  sang 

was  this  : — 

LI.    willow  wood— in 

"  O  YE,  all  ye  that  walk  in  Willowwood, 
That   walk  with    hollow   faces   burning 

white  ; 
What      fathom-depth     of      soul-struck 

widowhood, 
What  long,  what  longer  hours,  one  life- 
long night, 
Ere  ye  again,  who  so  in  vain  have  wooed 
Your  last  hope  lost,  who  so  in  vain  invite 
Your  lips  to  that  their  unforgotten  food, 
Ere  ye,  ere  ye  again  shall  see  the  light  ! 
Alas!  the  bitter  banks  in  Willowwood, 
With  tear-spurge  wan,  with   blood-wort 

burning  red : 
Alas  !  if  ever  such  a  pillow  could 
Steep  deep  the  soul  in  sleep  till  she  were 

dead, — 
Better  all  life  forget  her  than  this  tiling, 
That  Willowwood  should  hold  her  wan- 
dering ! " 

LII.      WILLOWWOOD— IV 

So  sang  he :  and  as  meeting  rose  and 
rose 

Together  cling  through  the  wind's  well- 
away 

Nor  change  at  once,  yet  near  the  end  of 
day 

The  leaves  drop  loosened  where  the 
heart-stain  glows, — 

So  when  the  song  died  did  the  kiss  un- 
close ; 

And  her  face  fell  back  drowned,  and  was 
as  gray 

As  its  gray  eyes  ;  and  if  it  ever  may 

Meet  mine  again  I  know  not  if  Love 
knows. 

Only  I  know  that  I  leaned  low  and  drank 

A  long  draught  from  the  water  where 
she  sank. 


Her  breath  and  all  her  tears  and  all  her 

soul : 
And  as  I  leaned,  I  know  I  felt  Love's 

face 
Pressed  on  my  neck  with  moan  of  pity 

and  grace, 
Till  both  our  heads  were  in  his  aureole. 

LIII.      WITHOUT   HER 

What  of  her  glass  without  her?    The 

blank  gray 
There   where  the   pool   is   blind  of  the 

moon's  face. 
Her  dress   without    her?      The    tossed 

empty  space 
Of  cloud-rack    whence  the  moon    has 

passed  away. 
Her  paths  without  her  ?    Day's  appointed 

sway 
Usurped    by   desolate  night.     Her    pil- 
lowed place 
Without  her?     Tears,  ah  me!  for  love's 

good  grace, 
And  cold  forgetfulness  of  night  or  day. 
What  of  the  heart  without  her?     Nay, 

poor  heart, 
Of  thee  what  word  remains  ere  speech 

be  still? 
A  wayfarer  by  barren  ways  and  chill, 
Steep  ways  and  weary,  without  her  thou 

art, 
Where  the  long  cloud,  the  long  wood's 

counterpart, 
Sheds  doubled  darkness  up  the  laboring 

hill. 

LV.      STILLBORN    LOVE 

The   hour  which  might  have  been  yet 

might  not  be, 
Which  man's  and   woman's  heart  con- 
ceived and  bore 
Yet  whereof  life  was  barren, — on  what 

shore 
Bides  it  the  breaking  of  Time's  weary 

sea? 
Bondchild  of  all   consummate   joys  set 

free, 
It  somewhere    sighs  and  serves,    and 

mute  before 
The  house  of  Love,  hears  through  the 

echoing  door 
His  hours  elect  in  choral  consonancy. 
But  lo  !   what  wedded  souls  now  hand  in 

hand 
Together   tread   at    last   the    immortal 

strand 
With  eyes  where  burning  memory  lights 

love  home? 


ROSSETTI 


801 


Lo !    how   the  little   outcast   hour   has 

turned 
And  leaped  to   them  and  in  their  faces 

yearned  :— 
"  I  am   your  child  :  O  parents,  ye  have 

come  !  " 

LVI.      TRUE  WOMAN— I.  HERSELF 

To  be  a  sweetness  more  desired  than 
Spring  ; 

A  bodily  beauty  more  acceptable 

Than  the  wild  rose-tree's  arch  that 
crowns  the  fell ; 

To  be  an  essence  more  environing 

Than  wine's  drained  juice;  a  music 
ravishing 

More  than  the  passionate  pulse  of  Phil- 
omel ; — 

To  be  all  this  'neath  one  soft  bosom's 
swell 

That  is  the  flower  of  life  : — how  strange 
a  thing  ! 

How  strange  a  tiling  to  be  what  Man 
can  know 

But  as  a  sacred  secret !  Heaven's  own 
screen 

Hides  her  soul's  purest  depth  and  loveli- 
est glow  ; 

Closely  withheld,  as  all  things  most  un- 
seen,— 

The  wave-bowered  pearl, — the  heart- 
shaped  seal  of  green 

That  flecks  the  snowdrop  underneath  the 
snow. 

LVII.      TRUE  WOMAN— II.    HER  LOVE 

She  loves    him  ;  for  her   infinite  soul  is 

Love, 
And  he  her  lodestar.     Passion  in  her  is 
A  glass  facing  his  fire,  where  the  bright 

bliss 
Is  mirrored,  and  the  heat  returned.     Yet 

move 
That  glass,  a  stranger's  amorous  flame  to 

prove, 
Vml  it  shall  turn,  by  instant  contraries, 
Ice  to  the   moon  ;  while  her  pure  fire  to 

his 
For    whom  it  burns,  clings  close  i'  the 

heart's  alcove. 
Lo  !  they  are  one.     With  wifely  breast 

to  breast 
Ami    circling    arms,    she   welcomes   all 

command 
Of  love. — her  sonl  to  answering  ardors 

I'-mii'd  : 
Yet  as  morn  springs  or  twilight  sinks  to 

rest, 

51 


Ah !  who  shall  say  she  deems  not  love- 
liest 
The  hour  of  sisterly  sweet  hand-in-hand  ? 

LVIII.  TRUE  WOMAN— III.  HER  HEAVEN 

If  to  grow  old  in   Heaven   is  to  grow 

young, 
(As  the  Seer  saw  and  said,)    then  blest 

were  he 
With  youth  for  evermore,  whose  heaven 

should  be 
True   Woman,   she   whom   these    weak 

notes  have  sung, 
Here  and  hereafter, — choir-strains  of  her 

tongue, — 
Sky-spaces  of  her    eyes, — sweet    signs 

that  flee 
About  her  soul's  immediate  sanctuary •. —  • 
Were   Paradise    all     uttermost     worlds 

among. 
The  sunrise  blooms  and  withers  on  the 

hill 
Like  any  hillflower ;   and    the  noblest 

troth 
Dies  here  to   dust.     Yet  shall  Heaven's 

promise  clothe 
Even  yet  those  lovers  who  have  cherished 

still 
This  test  for  love  : — in  every  kiss  sealed 

fast 
To  feel  the  first  kiss  and  f orbode  the  last. 

LIX.     love's  last  gift 

Love  to  his  singer  held  a  glistening  leaf, 
And  said  :  "  The  rose-tree  and  the  apple- 
tree 
Have  fruits  to  vaunt  or   flowers   to  lure 

the  bee  ; 
And  golden  shafts  are  in  the  feathered 

sheaf 
Of  the  great  harvest-marshal,  the  year's 

chief, 
Victorious  Summer  ;  aye,     and  'neath 

warm  sea 
Strange  secret  grasses  lurk  inviolably 
Between  the  filtering  channels  of  sunk 

reef. 
All  are  my  blooms  ;  and  all  sweet  blooms 

of  love 
To  thee  I  gave  while  Spring  and  Summer 

sang  ; 
But  Autumn  stops  to  listen,  with   some 

PanS  ,  .    ,    . 

From  those   w:rse   things   the   wind   is 

moaning  v,f. 
Only  this  laurel  dreads  no  winter  days: 
Take  my  last  gift  ;  thy  heart  hath  sung 

my  praise." 


BRITISH    POETS 


PART  II.     CHANGE  AND  FATE 

LX.      TRANSFIGURED  LIFE 

As  growth  of  form  or  momentary  glance 

In  a  child's  features  will  recall  to  mind 

The  lather's  with  the  mother's  lace  com- 
bin'd, — 

Sweet  interchange  that  memories  still 
enhance : 

And  yet,  as  childhood's  years  and  youth's 
advance, 

The  gradual  mouldings  leave  one  stamp 
behind, 

Till  in  the  blended  likeness  now  we  find 

A  separate  man's  or  woman's  counte- 
nance : — 

So  in  the  Song,  the  singer's  Joy  and  Pain, 
Its  very  parents,  evermore  expand 

To  bid  the  passion's  fullgrown  birth  re- 
main, 

By  Art's  transfiguring  essence  subtly 
spann'd ; 

And  from  that  song-cloud  shaped  as  a 
man's  hand 

There  comes  the  sound  as  of  abundant 
rain. 

LXI.      THE  SONG-THROE 

By  thine  own  tears  thy  song  must  tears 

beget, 
O  Singer  !     Magic  mirror  thou  hast  none 
Except  thy   manifest   heart  ;   and   save 

thine  own 
Anguish  or  ardor,  else  no  amulet. 
Cisterned  in  Pride,  verse  is  the  feathery 

jet 
Of  soulless  air-flung    fountains ;     nay, 

more  dry 
Than  the  Dead  Sea  for  throats  that  thirst 

and  sigh, 
That  song   o'er   which   no  singer's   lids 

grew  wet. 
The  Song-god — He  the  Sun-god — is  no 

slave 
Of  thine  :  thy  Hunter  he,  who  for  thy  soul 
Fledges  his  shaft  :  to  no  august  control 
Of  thy  skilled  hand  his  quivered  store  he 

gave  : 
But  if  thy  lips'  loud   cry  leap  to  his 

smart, 
The    inspir'd    recoil    shall    pierce    thy 

brother's  heart. 

LXV.      KNOWN  IN  VAIN 

As  two  whose  love,  first  foolish,  widen- 
ing scope, 
Knows  suddenly,  to  music  high  and  soft, 


The  Holy  of  holies  ;  who  because  they 

SCoff'd 

Are  now  amazed  with  shame,  nor  dare 

to  cope 
With  the  whole  truth  aloud,  lest  heaven 

should  ope ; 
Yet,  at  their  meetings,  laugh  not  as  they 

laugh'd 
In   speech  ;   nor   speak,   at   length  ;  but 

sitting  oft 
Together,  within  hopeless  sight  of  hope 
For  hours  are  silent : — So  it  happenetli 
When  Work  and  Will  awake  too  late,  to 

gaze 
After  their  life  sailed  by,  and  hold  their 

breath. 
Ah!  who  shall  dare  to  search  through 

what  sad  maze 
Thenceforth  their  incommunicable  ways 
Follow  the  desultory  feet  of  Death  ? 

LXVI.      THE  HEART  OF  THE  NIGHT 

From   child  to  youth ;    from   youth   to 

arduous  man  ; 
From  lethargy  to  fever  of  the  heart ; 
From   faithful    life    to  dream-dowered 

days  apart ; 
From   trust   to   doubt  ;    from   doubt   to 

brink  of  ban  ; — 
Thus  much  of  change  in  one  swift  cycle 

ran 
Till  now.     Alas,   the   soul  ! — how   soon 

must  she 
Accept  her  primal  immortality, — 
The  flesh  resume  its  dust  whence  it  be- 
gan? 
O  Lord  of  work  and  peace  !     O  Lord  of 

life  ! 
O  Lord,  the  awful  Lord  of  will !  though 

late, 
Even  yet  renew  this  soul  with  duteous 

breath  : 
That  when  the  peace  is  garnered  in  from 

strife, 
The  work  retrieved,  the  will  regenerate, 
This  soul   may  see  thy  face,  O  Lord  of 

death  1 

LXVII.      THE  LANDMARK 

Was  that  the  landmark?  What — the 
foolish  well 

Whose  wave,  low  down,  I  did  not  stoop 
to  drink, 

But  sat  and  flung  the  pebbles  from  its 
brink 

In  sport  to  send  its  imaged  skies  pell- 
mell, 


ROSSETTI 


803 


(And  mine  own  image,  had  I  noted 
well  !)— 

Was  that  my  point  of  turning? — I  had 
thought 

The  stations  of  my  course  should  rise  un- 
sought, 

As  altar-stone  or  ensigned  citadel. 

But  lo  !  the  path  is  missed,  I  must  go 
back, 

And  thirst  to  drink  when  next  I  reach 
the  spring 

Which  once  I  stained,  which  since  may 
have  grown  black. 

Yet  though  no  light  be  left  nor  bird  now 
sing 

As  here  I  turn,  I'll  thank  God,  hasten- 
ing, 

That  the  same  goal  is  still  on  the  same 
track. 

LXX.      THE  HILL  SUMMIT 

This  feast-day  of  the  sun,  his  altar  there 
In  the  broad  west  has  blazed  for  vesper- 
song  ; 
And  I  have  loitered  in  the  vale  too  long 
And  gaze  now  a  belated  worshipper. 
Yet  may  I  not  forget  that  I  was  'ware, 
So  journeying,  of  his  face  at  intervals 
Transfigured  where  the  fringed  horizon 

falls,— 
A  fiery  bush  with  coruscating  hair. 
And  now  that  I  have  climbed  and  won 

this  height.  • 
I  must   tread    downward   through   the 

sloping  shade 
And   travel  the   bewildered   tracks   till 

night. 
Yet   for  this  hour   I  still   may  here  be 

stayed 
And  see  the  gold  air  and  the  silver  fade 
And  the  last  bird  fly  into  the  last  light. 

LXXI.      THE  CHOICE— I 

Eat  thou  and  drink ;  to-morrow  thou 
shalt  die. 

Surely  the  earth,  that's  wise  being  very 
old, 

Needs  not  our  help.  Then  loose  me, 
love,  and  hold 

Thy  sultry  hair  up  from  my  face  ;  that  I 

May  pour  for  thee  this  golden  wine, 
brim-high, 

Till  round  the  glass  thy  fingers  glow- 
like  gold. 

We'll  drown  all  hours  :  thy  song,  while 
hours  are  toll'd, 

Shall  leap,  as  fountains  veil  the  chang- 
ing sky. 


Now  kiss,  and  think  that  there  are  really 

those, 
My    own    high-bosomed     beauty,    who 

increase 
Vain    gold,  vain    lore,  and    yet    might 

choose  our  way  ! 
Through  many  years  they  toil  ;  then  on 

a  day 
They  die  not. — for  their  life  was  death, 

— but  cease  ; 
And  round  their  narrow  lips  the  mould 

falls  close. 

LXXII.      THE    CHOICE — II 

Watch  thou  and  fear  ;  to-morrow  thou 

shalt  die. 
Or  art  thou  sure    thou    shalt  have  time 

for  death  ? 
Is  not  the  day  which  God's  word  promis- 

eth 
To  come    man    knows    not  when  ?    In 

yonder  sky, 
Now  while    we    speak,  the    sun  speeds 

forth  :  can  I 
Or  thou  assure  him  of  his  goal?    God's 

breath 
Even  at  this  moment  haply  quickeneth 
The  air  to  a  flame  ;  till  spirits,    always 

nigh 
Though    screened    and    hid,  shall  walk 

the  daylight  here. 
And   dost   thou   prate  of  all  that    man 

shall  do? 
Canst  thou,  who  hast   but  plagues,  pre- 
sume to  be 
Glad  in   his   gladness  that   comes  after 

thee  ? 
Will  his  strength  slay  thy  worm  in  Hell  ? 

Goto: 
Cover  thy  countenance,  and  watch,  and 

fear. 

LXXIII.      THE  CHOICE— III 

Think  thou  and   act  ;  to-morrow   thou 

shalt  die. 
Outstretched  in  the  sun's  warmth   upon 

the  shore, 
Thousay'st:  "Man's   measured   path  is 

all  gone  o'er: 
Up  all   his  years,  steeply,   with  strain 

and  sigh, 
Man  clomb  until  he  touched  the  truth  ; 

and  I, 
Even  I,  am  he  whom  it   was   destined 

for." 
How  should  tli is  be  ?     Art  thou  then  so 

much  more 


804 


llRITISII    POETS 


Than  they  who  sowed,  that  thou  shouldst 

reap  thereby  ? 
Nay,  come  ti|>  hither,     from  this  wave- 
washed  mound 
Unto  the  furthest   flood-brim   look  with 

me ; 
Then  reach  on  with  thy  thought  till  it  be 

drown'd. 
Miles  and  miles  distant   though  the  last 

line  he, 
And   though   thy   soul  sail  leagues  and 

leagues  beyond, — 
Still,  leagues  beyond  those  leagues,  there 

is  more  sea. 

LXXIV.      OLD  AND  NEW  ART— I 

ST.    LUKE   THE    PAINTER 

Give  honor  unto  Luke  Evangelist ; 
For  he  it  was  (the  aged  legends  say) 
Who  first  taught  Art  to  fold  her  hands 

and  pray. 
Scarcely  at  once  she  dared  to  rend  the 

mist 
Of  devious   symbols  ;  but   soon   having 

wist 
How  sky-breadth  and  field-silence   and 

this  day 
Are  symbols  also  in  some  deeper  way, 
She   looked   through   these   to  God  and 

was  God's  priest. 
And  if.  past  noon,  her  toil  began  to  irk, 
And  she   sought   talismans,  and   turned 

in  vain 
To    soulless     self-reflections     of     man's 

skill- 
Yet  now,  in  this  the  twilight,  she  might 

still 
Kneel  in  the  latter  grass  to  pray  again, 
Ere  the  night  cometh  and  she  may  not 

work. 

LXXV.      OLD   AND   NEW  ART— II 

NOT   AS  THESE 

"I  am  not  as  these  are."  the  poet  saith 
In  youth's  pride,  and  the  painter,  among 

men 
At  bay,  where   never   pencil  comes  nor 

pen, 
And  shut   ajjout   with  his   own   frozen 

breath. 
To  others,  for   whom  only  rhyme  wins 

faith 
As  poets, — only  paint  as  painters, — then 
He  turns  in  the  cold  silence  ;  and  again 
Shrinking,  "  I  am  not  as  these  are,"   he 

saith. 
And  say  that  this  is  so,  what  follows  it? 


For  were  thine  eyes  set  backwards  in 

thine  head, 
Such  words  were  well ;  but  they  see  on, 

and  far. 
Unto  the  lights  of  the  great  Past,  new-lit 
Fair  for   the   Future's  track,  look   thou 

instead, — 
Say  thou   instead,  "lam   not   as   these 

are." 

LXXVI.      OLD  AND    NEW   ART— III 

THE  HUSBANDMAN 

Though  God,  as  one  that  is  an  house- 
holder, 

Called  these  to  labor  in  his  vineyard  first, 

Before  the  husk  of  darkness  was  well 
burst 

Bidding  them  grope  their  way  out  and 
bestir, 

(Who,  questioned  of  their  wages,  ans- 
wered, "Sir, 

Unto  each  man  a  penny  :  ")  though  the 
worst 

Burthen  of  heat  was  theirs  and  the  dry 
thirst 

Though  God  hath  since  found  none  such 
as  these  were 

To  do  their  work  like  them  : — Because 
of  this 

Stand  not  ye  idle  in  the  market-place. 

Which  of  ye  knoweth  he  is  not  that  last 

Who  may  be  first  by  faith  and  will  ? — 
yea,  his 

The  hand  which  after  the  appointed 
days 

And  hours  shall  give  a  Future  to  their 
Past  ? 

LXXVII.     soul's  beauty 

(Sibylla  Palmifera) 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and 

death, 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I 

saw 
Beauty  enthroned  ;  and  though  her  gaze 

struck  awe, 
I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 
Hers    are    the    eyes     which,   over  and 

beneath, 
The  sky  and  sea   bend  on   thee, — which 

can  draw, 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law, 
The  allotted    bondman  of  her   palm  and 

wreath. 
This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  wdiose  praise 
Thy   voice  and   hand   shake  still; — long 

known  to  thee 


ROSSETTI 


*°5 


By  flying  liair  and  fluttering  hem, — the 

"  beat 
Following  her   daily  of  thy   heart  and 

feet, 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably. 
In  what   fond  flight,  how    many   ways 
and  days ! 

lxxviii.     body's  beauty 
{Lilith) 

Op  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told 
(The  witch   he   loved   before  the  gift  of 

Eve.) 
That,  ere   the  snake's,  her  sweet  tongue 

could  deceive. 
And   her   enchanted   hair   was   the  first 

gold.    . 
And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth 

is  old, 
And.  subtly  of  herself  contemplative, 
Draws    men    to   witch    the  bright  web 

she  can  weave, 
Till  heart  and   body   and   life   are  in  its 

hold. 
The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers  ;  for 

where 
Is   he   not  found,  O  Lilith,  whom   shed 

scent 
And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall 

snare  ? 
Lo !   as    that    youth's    eyes   burned  at 

thine,  so  went 
Thy    spell    through    him,    and   left  his 

Straight  neck  bent 
And    round    his    heart    one    strangling 

golden  hair. 

LXXXI.      MEMORIAL  THRESHOLDS 

What  place  so  strange, — though  un  re- 
vealed snow 

With  unimaginable  fires  arise 

At  the  earth's  end, — what  passion  of 
surprise 

Like  frost-bound  fire-girt  scenes  of  long 
ago  ''. 

Lo!  this  is  none  but  I  this  hour  :  and  lo  ! 

This  is  the  very  place  which  to  mine 
eyes 

Those  mortal  hours  in  vain  immortalize, 
'Mid  hurrying  crowds,  with    what  alone 

1  know. 
City,  of  thine  a  single  simple  door, 
By  some  new   power   reduplicate,  must 

be 
Even  yel  my  life  porch  in  eternity, 
Even  with  one  presence  filled,   as   once 

of  yore : 


Or  mocking  winds  whirl  round  a  chalf- 

strown  floor 
Thee  and  thy  years  and  these  my  words 

and  me. 

LXXXII.      HOARDED  JOY 

I  said  :  "  Nay,  pluck  not, — let  the  first 

fruit  be ; 
Even  as  thou  sayest.  it  is  sweet  and  red. 
But  let   it   ripen  still.     The  tree's  bent 

head 
Sees  in  the  stream  its  own  fecundity 
And   bides   the   day   of   fulness.      Shall 

not  we 
At  the  sun's  hour  that  day  possess  the 

shade, 
And  claim  our  fruit  before  its  ripeness 

fade, 
And  eat  it  from  the   branch  and  praise 

the  tree  ?  " 
I  say  :  •'  Alas  !  our  fruit  hath  wooed  the 

sun 
Too  long.— -'t  is  fallen  and  floats  adown 

the  stream. 
Lo,    the     last     clusters !      Pluck    them 

every  one, 
And  let  us  sup    with   summer  ;   ere  the 

gleam 
Of  autumn  set   the   year's  pent  sorrow 

free, 
And  the  woods  wail   like   echoes   from 

the  sea." 

LXXXIII.      BARREN  SrRINO 

On'CE  more  the  changed  year's  turning 

wheel  returns  : 
And  as  a  girl  sails  balanced  in  the  wind, 
And  now  before  and  now  again  behind 
Stoops  as   it   swoops,    with    cheek   that 

laughs  and  burns, — 
So  Spring  comes  merry  towards  me  here, 

but  earns 
No  answering  smile  from  me,  whose  life 

is  twin'd 
With  the  dead   boughs  that  winter  still 

must  bind, 
And  whom  to-day  the  Spring  no  more 

concerns. 
Behold,  this  crocus  is  a  withering  flame  ; 
This   snowdrop,    mow  ;   this  apple-blos- 

soin's  part 
To  breed  the   fruit  that  breeds  the  ser- 
pent's art. 
Nay,  for  these  Spring  flowers,  turn  thy 

face  from  t  hem , 
Nor  slay  till  on  the  y<  ar's  last  lily-stem 
The  white  cup  shrivels  round  the  golden 

Ik  art. 


8o6 


BRITISH   POETS 


LXXXIV.      FAREWELL  TO   THE  GLEN 

Sweet  stream-fed  glen,  why  say  "fare- 
well "  to  thee 
Who  far'st  so  well  and  find'st  for  ever 

siuootli 
The  brow  of  Time  where  man  may  read 

no  ruth? 
Nay,  do  thou  rather  say  "  farewell  "  to 

me, 
Who  now  fare  forth  in  bitterer  fantasy 
Than  erst  was  mine  where  other  shade 

might  soothe 
By  other  streams,  what  while  in  fragrant 

youth 
The  bliss  of  being  sad  made  melancholy. 
And  yet,  farewell !  For  better  shalt  thou 

fare  • 

When  children  bathe  sweet  faces  in  thy 

flow 
And  happy  lovers  blend  sweet  shadow's 

there 
In  hours  to  come,   than  when   an  hour 

ag° 
Thine  echoes  had  but  one  man's  sighs  to 

bear 
And  thy  trees  whispered  what  he  feared 

to  know. 

LXXXVI.      LOST   DAYS 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 
What   were   they,   could  I  see  them  on 

the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell  ?    Would  they  be  ears  of 

wheat 
Sown   once   for   food    but  trodden  into 

clay  ? 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to 

pay? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty 

feet? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as  in   dreams  must 

cheat 
The   undying   throats    of   Hell,   athirst 

alway  ? 
I  do  not  see  them  here  ;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 
Each   one   a   murdered   self,    with   low 

last  breath. 
•'  I  am  thyself, — what   hast   thou   done 

to  me  ?  " 
"  And  I— and  I— thyself,"  (lo!  each  one 

saith.) 
"  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity  !  " 

LXXXIX.   THE  TREES  OF  THE  GARDEN 

Ye  who  have   passed   Death's   haggard 
hills  ;  and  ye 


Whom  trees  that  knew  your  sires  shall 

cease  to  know 
And  still  stand  silent : — is  it  all  a  show, — 
A  wisp  that  laughs    upon  the  wall? — 

decree 
Of  some  inexorable  supremacy 
Which   ever,  as   man   strains   his  blind 

surmise 
From    depth    to  ominous  depth,  looks 

past  his  eyes, 
Sphinx-faced  with  unabashed  augury? 
Nay,  rather  question  the  Earth's  self. 

Invoke 
The  storm-felled  forest-trees  moss-grown 

to-day 
Whose    roots    are    hillocks   where    the 

children  play  ; 
Or  ask  the  silver  sapling  'neath  what 

yoke 
Those  stars,  his  spray-crown's  clustering 

gems,  shall  wage 
Their    journey    still  when    his  boughs 

shrink  with  age. 

XC.       "  RETRO  ME,  SATHANA  !  " 

Get  thee  behind  me.  Even  as,  heavy- 
curled, 

Stooping  against  the  wind,  a  charioteer 

Is  snatched  from  out  his  chariot  by  the 
hair, 

So  shall  Time  be  ;  and  as  the  void  car, 
hurled 

Abroad  by  reinless  steeds,  even  so  the 
world  : 

Yea,  even  as  chariot-dust  upon  the  air, 

It  shall  be  sought  and  not  found  any- 
where. 

Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan.  Oft  un- 
furled, 

Thy  perilous  wings  can  beat  and  break 
like  lath 

Much  mightiness  of  men  to  win  thee 
praise. 

Leave  these  weak  feet  to  tread  in  narrow 
ways. 

Thou  still,  upon  the  broad  vine-shel- 
tered path, 

Mayst  wait  the  turning  of  the  phials  of 
wrath 

For  certain  years,  for  certain  months 
and  days. 

XCI.      LOST  ON  BOTH  SIDES 

As  when  two  men  have  loved  a  woman 

well, 
Each  hating  each,  through   Love's  and 

Death's  deceit ; 


ROSSETTI 


807 


Since  not  for  either  this  stark  marriage- 
sheet 

And  the  long  pauses  of  this  wedding- 
bell  ; 

Yet  o'er  her  grave  the  night  and  day 
dispel 

At  last  their  feud  forlorn,  with  cold  and 
heat 

Nor  other  than  dear  friends  to  death 
may  fleet 

The  two  lives  left  that  most  of  her  can 
tell  :— 

So  separate  hopes,  which  in  a  soul  had 
wooed 

The  one  same  Peace,  strove  with  each 
other  long, 

And  Peace  before  their  faces  perished 
since  : 

So  through  that  soul,  in  restless  bi-other- 
hood, 

They  roam  together  now,  and  wind 
among 

Its  bye-streets,  knocking  at  the  dusty 
inns. 

XCIV.      MICHELANGELO'S  KISS 

Great  Michelangelo,  with  age  grown 
bleak 

And  uttermost  labors,  having  once  o'er- 
said 

All  grievous  memories  on  his  long  life 
shed, 

This  worst  regret  to  one  true  heart  could 
speak  : — 

That  when,  with  sorrowing  love  and  re- 
verence meek, 

He  stooped  o'er  sweet  Colonna's  dving 
bed, 

His  Muse  and  dominant  Lady,  spirit- 
wed, — 

Her  hand  lie  kissed,  but  not  her  brow  or 
cheek. 

O  Buonarrotti,  —  good  at  Art's  fire- 
wheels 

To  urge  her  chariot ! — even  thus  the 
Soul, 

Touching  at  length  some  sorely-chast- 
ened goal, 

Earns  oftenest  but  a  little  :  her  appeals 

Were  deep  and  mute, — lowly  her  claim. 
Let  !»'■  : 

What  holds  for  her  Death's  garner  ? 
And  for  thee  ? 

XCVI.      LIFE  THE  BELOVED 

As  thy  friend's  face,  with  shadow  of  soul 

o'erspread,  [hath  been 

Somewhile    unto   thy    sight  perchance 


Ghastly  and  strange,  yet  never  so  is 
seen 

In  thought,  but  to  all  fortunate  favor 
wed  ; 

As  thy  love's  death-bound  features  never 
dead 

To  memory's  glass  return,  but  con- 
travene 

Frail  fugitive  days,  and  alway  keep,  I 
ween, 

Than  all  new  life  a  livelier  lovelihead  : — 

So  Life  herself,  thy  spirit's  friend  and 
love, 

Even  still  as  Spring's  authentic  har- 
binger 

Glows  with  fresh  hours  for  hope  to  glorify; 

Though  pale  she  lay  when  in  the  winter 
grove 

Her  funeral  flowers  were  snow-flakes 
shed  on  her 

And  the  red  wings  of  frost-fire  rent  the 
sky. 

XCVII.      A   SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look  in  my  face ;  my  name  is  Might- 
have-been  ; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Fare- 
well ; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 

Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  be- 
tween ; 

Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is 
seen 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but 
by  my  spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 

Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail 
screen. 

Mark  me,  how  still  I  am  !  But  should 
there  dart 

One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft 
surprise 

Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the 
breath  of  sighs, — 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn 
apart 

Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 

Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 

XCIX.      NEWBORN    DEATH— I 

To-day  Death  seems  to  me  an  infant 

child 
Which  her  worn  mother  Life  upon  my 

knee 
Has  set  to  grow  my  friend  and  play  with 

me  ; 
If  haply  so  my  heart  might  be  beguil'd 
To  find  no  terrors  in  a  face  so  mild, — 


So8 


BRITISH   POETS 


If  haply  so  my  weary  heart  might  be 
Unto  the  newborn  milky  eyes  of  thee, 

0  Death,  before  resentment  reconciPd. 
How  long.  O  Death  ?     And  shall  thy  feet 

depart 
Still  a  young  child's  with  mine,  or  wilt 

thou  stand 
Fullgrown  the  helpful  daughter  of  my 

heart. 
What  time  with  thee  indeed  I  reach  the 

strand 
Of  the   pale    wave   which   knows   thee 

what  thou  art, 
And  drink  it  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand  ? 

C.      NEWBORN   DEATH — II 

And  thou,  O  Life,  the  lady  of  all  bliss, 
With  whom,  when  our  first  heart  beat 
full  and  fast, 

1  wandered  till  the  haunts  of  men  were 

pass'd. 
And  in  fair  places  found  all  bowers  amiss 
Till  only   woods  and  waves  might  hear 

our  kiss, 
While  to  the  winds  all  thought  of  Death 

we  cast  :— 
All,  Life  !  and  must  I  have  from  thee  at 

last 
No  smile  to  greet  me  and  no  babe  but 

this? 
Lo !     Love,    the   child   once   ours ;    and 

Song,  whose  hair 
Blew  like  a  flame  and  blossomed  like  a 

wreath  ; 
And  Art,  whose   eyes   were   worlds  by 

God  found  fair ; 
These  o'er  the  book  of  Nature  mixed  their 

breath 
With    neck-twined    arms,    as     oft    we 

watched  them  there  : 
And   did  these   die    that    thou  mightst 

bear  me  Death? 

CI.      THE   ONE  HOPE 

When  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  re- 
gret _ 

Go  hand  in  hand  to  death,  and  all  is 
vain, 

What  shall  assuage  the  unforgotten  pain 

And  teach  the  unforgetful  to  forget? 

Shall  Peace  be  still  a  sunk  stream  long 
unmet, — 

Or  may  the  soul  at  once  in  a  green  plain 

Stoop  through  the  spray  of  some  sweet 
life-fountain 

And  cull  the  dew-drenched  flowering 
amulet  ? 


Ah !  when  the  wan  soul  in  that  golden 

aii- 
Between   the  scriptured    petals    softly 

blown 
Peers   breathless   for  the   gift  of  grace 

unknown, 
Ah  !  let  none  other  alien  spell  soe'er 
But  only  the   one  Hope's  one  name  be 

there, — 
Not  less  nor  more,  but  even  that  word 
'alone.  1869,  1870,  1881. * 

THE  CLOUD  CONFINES 

The  day  is  dark  and  the  night 

To  him  that  would  search  their  heart ; 

No  lips  of  cloud  that  will  part 
Nor  morning  song  in  the  light : 

Only,  gazing  alone. 

To  him  wild  shadows  are  shown, 

Deep  under  deep  unknown 
And  height  above  unknown  height. 

Still  we  say  as  we  go,—* 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 

Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

The  Past  is"  over  and  fled  ; 

Named  new,  we  name  it  the  old  ; 

Thereof  some  tale  hath  been  told, 
But  no  word  comes  from  the  dead  ; 

Whether  at  all  they  be, 

Or  whether  as  bond  or  free, 

Or  whether  they  too  were  we, 
Or  by  what  spell  they  have  sped. 

Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 

Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

Wliat  of  the  heart  of  hate 

That  beats  in  thy  breast,  O  Time?— 

Red  strife  from  the  furthest  prime, 
And  anguish  of  fierce  debate  ; 

War  that  shatters  her  slain, 

And  peace  that  grinds  them  as  grain, 

And  eyes  fixed  ever  in  vain 
On  the  pitiless  eyes  of  Fate. 

Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 

>  Sixteen  Sonnets,  Numbers  25,  39,  47,  49-52,  63, 
65,  67,  86,  91,  97.  99,  ami  100,  were  published  in  the 
Fortnightly  Rt  view,  1869.  Fifty  Sonnets  (for  the 
exact  list  see  W.  M.  Rossetti's  edition  of  the 
Collected  Works,  I,  517)  were  published,  with 
eleven  lyrics,  as  "  Sonnets  and  Songs  towards  a 
work  to  be  entitled  The  House  of  Life"  in  the 
Poems.  1870.  The  House  of  Life,  as  it  now  stands, 
consisting  of  sonnets  only,  was  published  in 
Balladb  and  Sonnets,  1881. 


ROSSETTI 


5og 


Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

What  of  the  heart  of  love 
That  bleeds  in  thy  breast.  O  Man? 
Thy  kisses  snatched  'neatli  the  ban 

Of  fangs  that  mock  them  above  : 
Tiiy  bells  prolonged  unto  knells, 
Thy  hope  that  a  breath  dispels, 
Thy  bitter  forlorn  farewells 

And  the  empty  echoes  thereof? 

Still  we  say  as  we  go. — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 

Whatever  there  is  to  know. 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

The  sky  leans  dumb  on  the  sea, 
Aweary  with  all  its  wings  : 
And  oh  !  the  song  the  sea  sings 

Is  dark  everlastingly. 
Our  past  is  clean  forgot, 
Our  present  is  and  is  not, 
Our  future's  a  sealed  seedplot, 

And  what  betwixt  them  are  we  ? — 

We  who  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 

Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 
1872. 

THREE  SHADOWS 

I  looked  and  saw  your  eyes 

In  the  shadow  of  your  hair, 
As  a  traveller  sees  the  stream 

In  tlw  shadow  of  the  wood  ; 
And  I  said,  "  My  faint  heart  sighs, 

Ah  me  !  to  linger  there, 
To  drink  deep  and  to  dream 

In  that  sweet  solitude." 

I  looked  and  saw  your  heart 

In  the  shadow  of  your  eyes, 
As  a  seeker  sees  the  gold 

In  the  shadow  of  the  stream  ; 
And  I  said,  "  Ah  me?  what  art 

Should  win  the  immortal  prize, 
Whose  want  must  make  life  cold 

And  Heaven  a  hollow  dream  ?" 

I  looked  and  saw  your  love 

In  the  shadow  of  your  heart, 
As  a  diver  sees  the  pearl 

In  the  shadow  of  the  sea  ; 
And  1  murmured,  not  above 

My  breath,  hut  all  apart, — 
"Ah  !  you  can  love,  true   girl, 

And  is  your  love  for  me  ?  " 

1881. 


INSOMNIA 

Thin  are  the  night-skirts  left  behind 
By  daybreak  hours  that  onward  creep. 
And  thin,  alas !  the  shred  of  sleep 

That  wavers  with  the  spirit's  wind  : 

But  in  half-dreams  that  shift  and  roll 
And  still  remember  and  forget, 

My  soul  this  hour  has  drawn  your  soul 
A  little  nearer  yet. 

Our  lives,  most  dear,  are  never  near, 
Our  thoughts  are  never  far  apart. 
Though  all  that  draws  us  heart  to  heart 

Seems  fainter  now  and  now  more  clear. 

To-night  Love  claims  his  full  control, 
And  with  desire  and  wiih  regret 

My  soul  this  hour  has  drawn  your  soul 
A  little  nearer  yet. 

Is  there  a  home  where  heavy  earth 
Melts  to  bright  air  that  breathes  no 

pain, 
Where  water  leaves  no  thirst  again 
And  springing  fire  is  Love's  new  birth  ? 
If  faith  long  bound  to  one  true  goal 
May  there  at  length  its  hope  beget, 
My  soul  that  hour  shall  draw  your  soul 
For  ever  nearer  yet.  1881. 

CHIMES 
I 

Honey-flowers  to  the  honey-conib 
And  the  honey-bees  from  home. 

A  honey-comb  and  a  honey-flower, 
And  the  bee  shall  have  his  hour. 

I 
A  honeyed  heart  for  the  honey-comb, 
And  the  humming  bee  flies  home. 

A  heavy  heart  in  the  honey-flower, 
And  the  bee  has  had  his  hour. 


A  honey-cell's  in  the  honeysuckle, 
And  the  honey-bee  knows  it  well. 

The  honey-comb  has  a  hear!  of  honey, 
And  the  humming  bee  'sso  bonny. 

A  honey-flower  's  the  honeysuckle, 
And  the  bee  's  in  the  honey-hell. 

The  honeysuckle  is  sucked  of  honey, 
Ami  the  bee  is  heavy  and  bonny. 


8io 


BRITISH   POETS 


Brown  shell  first  for  the  butterfly 
And  a  bright  wing  by  and  by. 

Butterfly,  good-by  to  your  shell. 
And,  bright  wings,  speed  you  well. 

Bright  lamplight  for  the  butterfly 
And  a  burnt  wing  by  and  by. 

Butterfly,  alas  for  your  shell, 
And,  bright  wings,  fare  you  well. 

IV 

Lost  love-labor  and  lullaby, 
And  lowly  let  love  lie. 

Lost  love-morrow  and  love-fellow 
And  love's  life  lying  low. 

Lovelorn  labor  and  life  laid  by 
And  lowly  let  love  lie. 

Late  love-longing  and  life-sorrow 
And  love's  life  lying  low. 


Beauty's  body  and  benison 
With  a  bosom-flower  new-blown. 

Bitter  beauty  and  blessing  bann'd 
With  a  breast  to  burn  and  brand. 

Beauty's  bower  in  the  dust  o'erblown 
With  a  bare  white  breast  of  bone. 

Barren  beauty  and  bower  of  sand 
With  a  blast  on  either  hand. 

Buried  bars  in  the  breakwater 
And  bubble  of  the  brimming  weir. 

Body's  blood  in  the  breakwater 
And  a  buried  body's  bier. 

Buried  bones  in  the  breakwater 
And  bubble  of  the  brawling  weir. 

Bitter  tears  in  the  breakwater 
And  a  breaking  heart  to  bear. 


Hollow  heaven  and  the  hurricane 
And  hurry  of  the  heavy  rain. 

Hurried  clouds  in  the  hollow  heaven 
And  a  heavy  rain  hard-driven. 


The  heavy  rain  it  hurries  amain 
And  heaven  and  the  hurricane. 

Hurrying  wind  o'er  tiie  heaven's  hollow 
And  the  heavy  rain  to  follow.        1881. 

SOOTHSAY 

Let  no  man  ask  thee  of  anything 

Not     yearborn     between      Spring     and 

Spring. 
More  of  all  worlds  than  he  can  know, 
Eacli  day  the  single  sun  doth  show. 
A  trustier  gloss  than 'thou  canst  give 
From  all  wise  scrolls  demonstrative, 
The  sea  doth  sigh  and  the  wind  sing. 

Let  no  man  awe  thee  on  any  height 

Of  earthly  kingship's  mouldering  might. 

The   dust  his  heel   holds   meet  for  thy 

brow 
Hath  all  of  it  been  what  both  are  now  ; 
And  thou  and  he  may  plague  together 
A  beggar's  eyes  in  some  dusty  weather 
When  none  that  is  now  knows  sound  or 

sight. 

Crave  thou  no  dower  of  earthly  things 

Unworthy  Hope's  imaginings. 

To  have  brought  true  birth  of  Song  to  be 

And  to  have  won  hearts  to  Poesy, 

Or  anywhere  in  the  sun  or  rain 

To  have  loved  and  been  beloved  again, 

Is  loftiest  reach  of  Hope's  bright  wings. 

The  wild  waifs  cast  up  by  the  sea 

Are  diverse  ever  seasonably. 

Even  so  the  soul-tides  still  may  land 

A  different  drift  upon  the  sand. 

But  one  the  sea  is  evermore  : 

And  one  be  still,  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 

As  the  sea's  life,  thy  soul  in  thee. 

Say,  hast  thou  pride  ?     How  then  may  fit 
Thy  mood  with  flatterer's  silk-spun  wit? 
Haply  the  sweet  voice  lifts  thy  crest, 
A  breeze  of  fame  made  manifest. 
Nay,  but  then  chaf 'st  at  flattery  ?  Pause : 
Be  sure  thy  wrath  is  not  because 
It  makes  thee  feel  thou  lovest  it. 

Let  thy  soul  strive  that  still  the  same 

Be  early  friendship's  sacred  flame. 

The  affinities  have  strongest  part 

In  youth,  and  draw  men  heart  to  heart ; 

As  life  wears  on  and  finds  no  rest, 

The  individual  in  each  breast 

Is  tyrannous  to  sunder  them. 

In  the  life- drama's  stern  cue-call, 
A  friend  's  a  part  well- prized  by  all : 


ROSSETTI 


And  if  thou  meet  an  enemy, 

What  art  thou  that  none  such  should  be  ? 

Even  so  :  but  if  the  two  parts  run 

Into  each  other  and  grow  one, 

Then  comes  the  curtain's  cue  to  fall. 

Whate'er  by  other's  need  is  claimed 
More  than  by  thine, — to  him  unblamed 
Resign  it :  and  if  he  should  hold 
What  more  than  he  thou  lack'st,  bread, 

gold, 
Or  any  good  whereby  we  live, — 
To  thee  such  substance  let  him  give 
Freely  :  nor  he  nor  thou  be  shamed. 

Strive  that  thy  works  prove  equal  :  lest 
That  work  which  thou  hast  done  the  best 
Should  come  to  be  to  thee  at  length 
(Even  as  to  envy  seems  the  strength 
Of  others)  hateful  and  abhorr'd, — 
Thine  own  above  thyself  made  lord, — 
Of  self-rebuke  the  bitterest. 

Unto  the  man  of  yearning  thought 
And  aspiration,  to  do  nought 
Is  in  itself  almost  an  act, — 
Being  chasm-fire  and  cataract 
Of  the  soul's  utter  depths  unseal'd. 
Yet  woe  to  thee  if  once  thou  yield 
Unto  the  act  of  doing  nought ! 

How  callous  seems  beyond  revoke 
The  clock  with  its  last  listless  stroke  ! 
How  much  too  late  at  length  ! — to  trace 
The  hour  on  its  forewarning  face. 
The  thing  thou  hast  not  dared  to  do  !. . . . 
Behold,  this  may  be  thus  !     Ere  true 
It  prove,  arise  and  bear  thy  yoke. 

Let  lore  of  all  Theology         * 

Be  to  thy  soul  what  it  can  be  : 

But  know, — the  Power  that  fashions  man 

Measured  not  out  thy  little  span 

For  thee  to  take  the  meting-rod 

In  turn,  and  so  approve  on  God 

Thy  science  of  Theometry. 

To  God  at  best,  to  Chance  at  worst, 
Give  thanks  for  good  things,  last  as  first. 
But  windstrown  blossom  is  that  good 
Whose  apple  is  not  gratitude. 
Even  if  no  prayer  uplift  thy  face, 
Let  the  sweet  right  to  render  grace 
As  thy  soul's  cherished  child  be  nurs'd. 

Didst  ever  say,  "  Lo,  I  forget?  " 
Such  thought  was  to  remember  yet. 
As  in  a  gravegarth,  count  to  see 
The  monuments  of  memory. 


Be  this  thy  soul's  appointed  scope  : — 
Gaze  onward  without  claim  to  hope, 
Nor,  gazing  backward,  court  regret. 

1881. 
ON    BURNS 

In  whomsoe'er,  since  Poesy  began, 
A  Poet  most  of  all  men  we  may  scan, 
Burns  of  all  poets  is  the  most  a  Man. 

1886. 

FIVE  ENGLISH  POETS 

I.      THOMAS    CHATTERTON 

With  Shakespeare's  manhood  at  a  boy's 
wild  heart, — 

Through  Hamlet's  doubt  to  Shakespeare 
near  allied, 

And  kin  to  Milton  through  his  Satan's 
pride, — 

At  Death's  sole  door  he  stooped,  and 
craved  a  dart ; 

And  to  the  dear  new  bower  of  England's 
art,— 

Even  to  that  shrine  Time  else  had  dei- 
fied, 

The  unuttered  heart  that  soared  against 
his  side, — 

Drove  the  fell  point,  and  smote  life's 
seals  apart. 

Thy  nested  home-loves,  noble  Chatter- 
ton  ; 

The  angel-trodden  stair  thy  soul  could 
trace 

Up  Redcliffe's  spire  :  and  in  the  world's 
armed  space 

Thy  gallant  sword-play  : — these  to  many 
an  one 

Are  sweet  for  ever  ;  as  thy  grave  un- 
known 

And  love-dream  of  thine  unrecorded 
face. 

II.      WILLIAM  BLAKE 

(To  Frederick  Shields,  on  his  Sketch  of 
Blake's  work-room  and  death-room,  3  Foun- 
tain Court,  Strand.) 

This  is  the  place.  Even  here  the  daunt- 
less soul, 

The  unflinching  hand,  wrought  on  ;  till 
in  that  nook, 

As  on  that  very  bed,  his  life  partook 

New  birth,  and  passed.  Yon  river's 
dusky  shoal. 

Whereto  the  close-built  coiling  lanes 
unroll. 

Faced  his  work-window,  whence  hit 
eyes  would  stare, 


BRITISH    POETS 


Thought-wandering,  unto  nought  that 

met  them  there, 
But  to  the  unfettered  irreversible  goal. 
This  cupboard,  Holy  of  Holies,  held  the 

cloud 
Of  his  soul  writ  and  limned;   this  other 

one, 
His  true  wife's  charge,  full  oft  to  their 

abode 
Yielded    for   daily  bread   the   martyr's 

stone. 
Ere  yet  their  food  might  be  that  Bread 

alone, 
The    words    now    home-speech    of   the 

mouth  of  God. 

III.      SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

His  Soul  fared  forth  (as  from  the  deep 
home-grove 

The  father-songster  plies  the  hour-long 
quest,) 

To  feed  his  soul-brood  hungering  in  the 
nest ; 

But  his  warm  Heart,  the  mother-bird, 
above 

Their  callow  fledgling  progeny  still  hove 

With  tented  roof  of  wings  and  fostering 
breast 

Till  the  Soul  fed  the  soul-brood.  Richly 
blest 

From  Heaven  their  growth,  whose  food 
was  Human  Love. 

Yet  ah  !  Like  desert  pools  that  show 
the  stars 

Once  in  long  leagues, — even  such  the 
scarce-snatched  hours 

Which  deepening  pain  left  to  his  lord- 
liest powers  : — 

Heaven  lost  through  spider-trammelled 
prison-bars. 

Six  years,  from  sixty  saved  !  Yet  kin- 
dling skies 

Own  them,  a  beacon  to  our  centuries. 

IV.      JOHN   KEATS 

The  weltering  London  ways  where  chil- 
dren weep 

And  girls  whom  none  call  maidens 
laugh, — strange  road 

Miring  his  outward  steps,  who  inly 
trode 

The  bright  Castalian  brink  and  Latinos' 
steep  : — 

Even  such  his  life's  cross-paths ;  till 
deathly  deep 

He  toiled  through  sands  of  Lethe;  and 
long  pain, 


Weary  with  labor  spurned  and  love 
found  vain. 

In  dead  Rome's  sheltering  shadow  wrap- 
ped his  sleep. 

0  pang-dowered  Poet,  whose  reverber- 

ant lips 

And  heart-strung  lyre  awoke  the  Moon's 
eclipse, — 

Thou  whom  the  daisies  glory  in  grow- 
ing o'er, — 

Their  fragrance  clings  around  thy  name, 
not  writ 

But  rumor'd  in  water,  while  the  fame 
of  it 

Along  Time's  flood  goes  echoing  ever- 
more. 

V.    PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

(inscription  for  the    couch,  still  preserved, 
on  which  he  passed  the   last   night   of  his 

LIFE.) 

'Twixt  those  twin  worlds, — the  world  of 

Sleep,  which  gave 
No  dream  to  warm, — the   tidal  world  of 

Death, 
Which  the  earth's  sea,  as  the  earth,  re- 

plenisheth, — 
Shelley,  Song's  orient  sun,  to  breast  the 

wave. 
Rose  from  this  couch   that  morn.     Ah  ! 

did  he  brave 
Only  the  sea  ? — or  did  man's  deed  of  hell 
Engulf   his    bark   'mid    mists    impene- 
trable? .  .  . 
No  eye  discerned,  nor  any  power  might 

save. 
When    that  mist  cleared,   O    Shelley  ! 

whatwdread  veil 
Was  rent  for- thee,  to  whom  far-darkling 

Truth 
Reigned   sovereign   guide   through  thy 

brief  ageless  youth  ? 
Was  the   Truth    thy  Truth,   Shelley  ?— 

Hush  !     All-Hail, 
Past  doubt,    thou    gav'st     it  ;    and  in 

Truth's  bright  sphere 
Art  first  of  praisers,  being  most  praised 

here.  1881. 

THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY 

James   I   of    Scots.— 20th  February, 
1437. 

1  Catherine  am  a  Douglas  born, 
A  name  to  all  Scots  dear  ; 

And  Kate  Barlass  they've  called  me  now 
Through  many  a  waning  year. 


ROSSETTI 


This   old   arm's  withered   now.     'T  was 
once 

Most  deft  'mong  maidens  all 
To  rein  the  steed,  to  wing  the  shaft, 

To  smite  the  palm-play  ball. 

In  hall  a  lown  the  close-linked  dance 

It  has  shone  most  white  and  fair  ; 
It  has  been  the  rest  for  a  true  lord's  head, 
And  many  a  sweet  babe's  nursing-bed, 
And  the  bar  to  a  King's  chambere. 

Aye,  lasses,  draw  round  Kate  Barlass, 

And  hark  with  bated  breath 
How   good  King   James,  King   Eobert's 
son, 

Was  foully  done  to  death. 

Through  all  the  days  of  his  gallant  youth 
The  princely  James  was  pent, 

By  his   friends  at   first  and  then    by  his 
foes, 
In  long  imprisonment. 

For  the  elder  Prince,  the  kingdom's  heir, 
By  treason's  murderous  brood 

Was   slain  ;  and  the   father  quaked   for 
the  child 
With  the  royal  mortal  blood. 

I'  the  Bass  Rock  fort,  by  his  father's  care, 

Was  his  childhood's  life  assured  ; 
And  Henry  the  subtle  Bolingbroke, 
Proud  England's  King,  'heath  the  south- 
ron yoke 
His  youth  for  long  years  immured. 

Yet  in  all  tilings  meet  for  a  kingly  man 

Himself  did  he  approve  ; 
And  the  nightingale  through  his  prison- 
wall 

Taught  him  both  lore  and  love. 

For  once,  when  the  bird's  song  drew  him 
(dose 

To  the  opened  window-pane, 
In  her  bowers  beneath  a  lady  stood, 
A  light  of  life  to  his  sorrowful  mood, 

Like  a  lily  amid  the  rain. 

And  for  her  sake,  to  the  sweet  bird's  note, 

He  framed  a  sweeter  Song, 
More  sweet  than  ever  a  poet's  heart 

Gave  yet  to  the  English  tongue. 

She  was  a  lady  of  royal  blood  ; 

And  when,  past  sorrow  and  teen, 
He  stood  where  still  through  his  crown- 
less  years 

His  Scottish  realm  had  been, 


At  Scone  were  the  happy  lovers  crowned, 
A  heart-wed  King  and  Queen. 

But  the  bird  may  fall  from  the  bough  of 
youth, 
And  song  be  turned  to  moan, 
And  Love's    storm-cloud  be  the   shadow 

of  Hate, 
When  the  tempest-waves  of  a  troubled 
State 
Are  beating  against  a  throne. 

Yet  well  they  loved  ;  and  the  god  of  Love, 
Whom  well  the  King  had  sung, 

Might  find  on  the  earth  no  truer  hearts 
His  lowliest  swains  among. 

From  the  days  when  first  she  rode  abroad 
With  Scottish  maids  in  her  train, 

I  Catherine  Douglas  won  the  trust 
Of  my  mistress,  sweet  Queen  Jane. 

And  oft  she    sighed,    "To    be  born  a 
King  ! " 

And  oft  along  the  way 
When  she  saw  the  homely  lovers  pass 

She  has  said,  "  Alack  the  day  !  " 

Years   waned, — the   loving  and   toiling 
years : 
Till  England's  wrong  renewed 
Drove   James,    by   outrage   cast  on    his 
crown, 
To  the  open  field  of  feud. 

T  was  when  the  King  and  his  host  were 
met 

At  the  leaguer  of  Roxbro'  hold, 
The  Queen  o'  the  sudden  sought  his  camp 

With  a  tale  of  dread  to  be  told. 

And  she  showed  him  a  secret  letter  writ 
That  spoke  of  treasonous  strife, 

And  how  a  band  of  his  noblest  lords 
Were  sworn  to  take  his  life. 

•'  And  it  may  be  here  or  it  may  be  there, 
In  the  camp  or  the  court,"  she  said  : 

"  But  for  my  sake  come  to  your  people's 
arms 
And  guard  your  royal  head." 

Quoth  lie,  "  'T  is  the  fifteenth  day  of  the 
siege, 
And  the  castle  's  nigh  to  yield.'' 
"  0  lace  your  foes  on  your    throne,"  she 
cried, 
"And  show  the  power  you  wield  ; 
And  under  your  Scottish  people's  love 
You  shall  sit  as  under  your  shield." 


814. 


BRITISH    POETS 


At  the  fair  Queen's  side  I  stood  that  day 
When  lie  bade  them  raise  the  siege, 

And  back  to  his  Court  he  sped  to  know 
How  the  lords  would  meet  their  Liege. 

But  when  he  summoned  his  Parliament, 
The  louring  brows  hung  round, 

Like  clouds  that   circle   the  mountain- 
head 
Ere  the  first  low  thunders  sound. 

For  he  had  tamed  the  nobles'  lust 
And  curbed  their  power  and  pride, 

And   reached   out  an  arm  to  right   the 
poor 
Through  Scotland  far  and  wide  ; 

And  many  a  lordly  wrong-doer 
By  the  headsman's  axe  had  died. 

'T  was  then  upspoke  Sir  Robert  Graeme, 
The  bold  o'ermastering  man  : — 

"  O  King,  in   the   name  of  your   Three 
Estates 
I  set  you  under  their  ban ! 

"  For,  as  your  lords  made  oath  to  you 

Of  service  and  fealty, 
Even  in  likewise  you  pledged  your  oath 

Their  faithful  sire  to  be  : — 

"  Yet  all  we  here  that  are  nobly  sprung 
Have  mourned  dear  kith  and  kin 

Since  first  for  the  Scottish  Barons'  curse 
Did  your  bloody  rule  begin." 

With    that    he  laid  his  hands  on    his 
King  :— 
"  Is  this  not  so,  my  lords  ?  " 
But  of  all  who  had  sworn  to  league  with 
him 
Not  one  spake  back  to  his  words. 

Quoth   the  King  : — "  Thou  speak'st   but 
for  one  Estate, 
Nor  doth  it  avow  thy  gage. 
Let    my    liege    lords  hale  this  traitor 
hence ! " 
The  Graeme  fired  dark  with  rage  : — 
'-'  Who  works  for  lesser  men  than  himself, 
He  earns  but  a  witless  wage  !  " 

But  soon  from  the  dungeon  where  he  lay 

He  won  by  privy  plots, 
And  forth  he  fled  with  a  price  on  his 
head 

To  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots. 

And  word  there  came  from  Sir  Robert 
Graeme 
To  the  King  at  Edinbro' : — 


"  No  Liege  of  mine  thou  art  ;  but  I  see 
From  this  day  forth  alone  in  thee 
God's  creature,  my  mortal  foe. 

"  Through  thee  are  my  wife  and  children 
lost, 

My  heritage  and  lands  ; 
And  when  my  God  shall  show  me  a  way, 
Thyself  my  mortal  foe  will  I  slay 

With  these  my  proper  hands." 

Against  the  coming  of  Christmastide 
That  year  the  King  bade  call 

I'  the  Black  Friars'  Charterhouse  of  Perth 
A  solemn  festival. 

And  we  of  his  household  rode  with   him 

In  a  close-ranked  company  ; 
But   not   till  the  sun  had  sunk  from   his 
throne 

Did  we  reach  the  Scottish  Sea. 

That  eve  was  clenched  for  a  boding  storm, 
'Neath  a  toilsome  moon  half  seen  ; 

The  cloud    stooped    low    and    the    surf 
rose  high  ; 

And  where  there  was  a  line  of  the  sky, 
Wild  wings  loomed  dark  between. 

And  on  a  rock  of  th-e  black  beach-side, 
By  the  veiled  moon  dimly  lit, 

There  was  something   seemed  to  heave 
with  life 
As  the  King  drew  nigh  to  it. 

And  was  it  only  the  tossing  furze 
Or  brake  of  the  waste  sea- wold  ? 

Or  was  it  an  eagle  bent  to  the  blast? 

When  near  we  came,  we  knew  it  at  last 
For  a  woman  tattered  and  old. 

But  it  seemed  as  though  by  a  fire  within 
Her  writhen  limbs  were  wrung  ; 

And  as  soon  as  the  King  was  close  to  her, 
She  stood  up  gaunt  and  strong. 

'T  was  then  the  moon  sailed  clear  of  the 
rack 

On  high  in  her  hollowr  dome  ; 
And  still  as  aloft  with  hoary  crest 

Each  clamorous  wave  rang  home, 
Like  fire  in  snow  the  moonlight  blazed 

Amid  the  champing  foam. 

And  the.  woman  held  his  eyes  with  hei 
eyes : — 
"  O  King,  thou  art  come  at  last ; 
But  thy  wraith  has  haunted  the  Scottish 
Sea 
To  my  sight  for  four  years  past. 


ROSSETTI 


*5 


"  Four  years  it  is  since  first  I  met, 
'Twixt  the  Duel  way  and  the  Dim, 

A  shape    whose  feet    clung    close  in  a 
shroud, 
And  that  shape  for  thine  I  knew. 

"  A  year  again,  and  on  Inchkeith  Isle 
I  saw  thee  pass  in  the  breeze, 

With  the  cerecloth  risen  above  thy  feet 
And  wound  about  thy  knees. 

"  And  yet  a  year,  in  the  Links  of  Forth, 

As  a  wanderer  without  rest, 
Thou   cam'st   with   both   thine   arms  i' 
the  shroud 

That  clung  high  up  thy  breast. 

"  And  in  this  hour  I  find  thee  here, 
And  well  mine  eyes  may  note 

That  the  winding-sheet  hath  passed  thy 
breast 
And  risen  around  thy  throat. 

"  And  when  I  meet  thee  again,  O  King, 

That  of  death  hast  such  sore  drouth, — 

Except  thou  turn  again  on  this  shore, — 

The   winding-sheet   shall     have   moved 

once  more 

And  covered  thine  eyes  and  mouth. 

"O  King,    whom   poor    men   bless   for 
their  King, 
Of  thy  fate  be  not  so  fain  : 
But  these  my   words  for   God's  message 

take, 
And  turn  thy  steed,  O  King,  for  her  sake 
"Who  rides  beside  thy  rein  !  " 

While   the   woman     spoke,   the   King's 
horse  reared 
As  if  it  would  breast  the  sea, 
And  the  Queen  turned  pale  as  she  heard 
on  the  gale 
The  voice  die  dolorously. 

When  the  woman  ceased,  the  steed  was 
still. 

But  the  King  gazed  on  her  yet, 
And  in  silence  save  for  the  wail  of  the  sea 

His  eyes  and  her  eyes  met. 

At  last  he  said  : — "  God's  ways  are  His 
own : 

Man  is  but  shadow  and  dust. 
Last  night  I  prayed  by  His  altar-stone  ; 
To-night  1  wend  to  the  feast  of  His  Son  ; 

And  in  Him  I  set  my  trust. 

"  I  have  held  my  people  in  sacred  charge, 
And  have  not  feared  the  sting 


Of  proud  men's  hate, — to  His  will  resign'd 
Who  has  but  one  same  death  for  a  hind 
And  one  same  death  for  a  King. 

"  And  if  God  in  His  wisdom  have  brought 
close 

The  day  when  I  must  die, 
That  day  by  water  or  fire  or  air 
My  feet  shall  fall  in  the  destined  snare 

Wherever  my  road  may  lie. 

"  What  man  can  say  but  the  Fiend  hath 
set 

Thy  sorcery  on  my  path. 
My  heart  with  the  fear  of  death  to  fill, 
And  turn  me  against  God's  very  will 

To  sink  in  His  burning  wrath  ?  " 

The  woman  stood  as  the  train  rode  past, 
And  moved  nor  limb  nor  eye  ; 

And  when  we  were  shipped,  we  saw  her 
there 
Still  standing  against  the  sky. 

As  the  ship  made   way,  the   moon  once 
more 
Sank  slow  in  her  rising  pall ; 
And  I   thought  of   the  shrouded   wraith 
of  the  King, 
And  I  said,    "  The  Heavens  knew  all." 

And  now,  ye  lasses,  must  ye  hear 
How  my  name  is  Kate  Barlass  : — ■ 

But  a  little  thing,  when  all  the  tale 
Is  told  of  the  weary  mass 

Of  crime  and  woe   winch   in   Scotland's 
realm 
God's  will  let  come  to  pass. 

'T  was  in  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth 
That  the  King  and  all  his  Court 

Were  met,   the   Christmas   Feast  being 
done, 
For  solace  and  disport. 

T  was  a  wind-wild  eve  in  February, 
And  against  the  casement-pane 

The    branches   smote   like    summoning 
hands 
And  muttered  the  driving  rain. 

And  when  the  wind   swooped   over   the 
lift 

And  made  (he  whole  heaven  frown, 
It  seemed  a  grip  was  laid  on  the  walls 

To  tug  the  housetop  down. 

And  the  Queen  was  there,  more   stately 
fair 
Than  a  lily  in  garden  set ; 


8i6 


BRITISH    POETS 


Ami  the  king  was  loth  to  stir   from   her 
side  : 

For  as  on  the  day  when  she  was  his  bride, 
Even  so  he  loved  her  yet. 

And  the  Earl  of  Athole,  the  King's  false 
friend, 

Sal  with  him  at  the  board  ; 
And  Robert  Stuart  the  chamberlain 

Who  had  sold  his  sovereign  Lord. 

Yet  the  traitor   Christopher   Chaumber 
there 
Would  fain  have  told  him  all, 
Aud  vainly   four   times   that   night   he 
strove 
To  reach  the  King  through  the  hall. 

But  the  wine  is   bright   at   the   goblet's 
brim 

Though  the  poison  lurk  beneath  ; 
And  the  apples  still  are  red  on  the  tree 
Within  whose  shade  may  the  adder  be 

That  shall  turn  thy  life  to  death. 

There  was  a  knight   of  the   King's   fast 
friends 

Whom  he  called  the  King  of  Love  ; 
And  to  such  bright  cheer  and  courtesy 

That  name  might  best  behove. 

And  the   King   and   Queen   both   loved 
him  well 
For  his  gentle  knightliness  ; 
And  with   him   the   King,    as  that   eve 
wore  on, 
Was  playing  at  the  chess. 

And  the  King  said,  (for  he   thought   to 
jest 

And  soothe  the  Queen  thereby  ;) — 
*'  In  a  book  't  is  writ  that  this  same  year 

A  King  shall  in  Scotland  die. 

"  And  I  have  pondered  the  matter  o'er, 
And  this  have  I  found.  Sir   Hugh, — 

There    are  but    two  Kings  on   Scottish 
ground. 
And  those  Kings  are  I  and  you. 

"  And  I  have  a  wife  and  a  newborn  heir, 
And  you  are  yourself  alone  ; 

So  stand  you  stark  at  my  side  with  me 
To  guard  our  double  throne. 

"  For  here  sit  I  and  my  wife  and  child, 
As  well  your  heart  shall  approve, 

In  full  surrender  and  soothfastness, 
Beneath  your  Kingdom  of  Love." 


And  the  Knight,  laughed,  and  the  Queen 
too  smiled  ; 
But  1  knew  her  heavy  thought, 
And  I  strove  to  find  in  the  good   King's 
jest 
What  cheer  might  thence  be  wrought. 

And  I  said,  "  My  Liege,  for  the  Queen's 
dear  love 
Now  sing  the  song  that  of  old 
You  made,  when  a   captive   Prince   j'ou 

lay, 
And  the  nightingale  sang  sweet  on    the 
spray, 
In  Windsor's  castle-hold." 

Then  he  smiled  the  smile  I  knew  so  well 
When  he  thought  to  please  the  Queen  ; 

The  smile  which  under  all  bitter  frowns 
Of  hate  that  rose  between, 

For  ever  dwelt  at  the  poet's  heart 
Like  the  bird  of  love  unseen. 

And  he  kissed   her   hand   and   took   his 
harp, 
And  the  music  sweetly  rang  ; 
And    when    the    song    burst    forth,    it 
seemed 
'T  was  the  nightingale  that  sang. 

"  Worship,  ye  lovers,  on  this  May : 
Of  bliss  your  kalends  are  begun  : 
sin,/  with  us,  Away,  Winter,  away! 
Come,  Summer,  the  sweet  season  and 

sun  ! 
Awake  for   shame, — your    heaven   is 
won, — 
And  amorously  your  heads  lift  all : 
Thank  Ijove,  that  you  to  his  grace  doth 
call !  " 

But  when   he  bent  to  the  Queen,  and 
sang 
The  speech  whose  pi-aise  was  hers, 
It  seemed  his  voice  was  the  voice  of  tha 
Spring 
And  the  voice  of  the  bygone  years. 

"  The  fairest  and  the  freshest,  floiver 
That  ever  I  sain  before  that  hour, 
The  which  o'  the  sudden  made  to  start 
The  blood  of  my  body  to  my  heart. 
****** 

Ah,  sweet,  are  ye  a  worldly  creature 
Or  heavenly  thing  in  form  of  nature  ?  " 

And  the  song  was  long,  and  richly  stored 

With  wonder  and  beauteous  things  ; 
And  the  harp  was  tuned  to  every  change 


ROSSETTI 


ii7 


Of  minstrel  ministerings ; 
But  when  he  spoke  of  the  Queen  at  the 
last. 
Its  strings  were  his  own  heart-strings. 

"  Unworthy  but  only  of  her  grace, 

Upon  Love's  rock  that's  easy  and  sure, 

In  guerdon  of  all  my  love's  space 
She  took  me  her  humble  creature. 
Tims  fell  my  blissful  aventure 

hi  youth  of  love  that  from  clay  to  clay 

Flowereth  aye  new,  and  further  I  say. 

"  To  reckon  all  the  circumstance 
As  it  happed  when  lessen  gan  my  sore, 

Of  my  rancor  and  woful  chance. 
It  were  too  long, — than'  done  therefor. 
And  of  this  flower  I  say  no  more 

But  until  my  help  her  heart  hath  tended 

And  even  from  dcatlt  herman  defended" 

"  Aye,  even  from   death,"   to   myself  I 
said ; 
For  I  thought  of  the  day  when  she 
Had   borne   him   the   news,  at   Roxbro' 
sie«;e. 
Of  the  fell  confederacy. 

But  Death  even  then  took  aim  as  he  sang 

With  an  arrow  deadly  bright  ; 
And    the   grinning  skull  lurked  grimly 

aloof. 
And  the  wings  were  spread  far  over  the 
roof 
More  dark  than  the  winter  night. 

Yet  truly  along  the  amorous  song 
Of  Love's  high  pomp  and  state. 

There  were  words  of  Fortune's  trackless 
doom 
And  the  dreadful  face  of  Fate. 

And  oft  have  I  heard  again  in  dreams 

The  voice  of  dire  appeal 
In  which  the  King  then  sang  of  the  pit 

That  is  under  Fortune's  wheel. 

"And  under  the  wheel  beheld  I  there 
An  ugly  Pit  as  deep  as  hell, 

That  to  behold  I  quaked  for  fear : 
Awl  this  I  heard,  that  who  therein  fell 
Came  no  move  up,  tidings  tn  tell: 

Whereat,  astound  of  the  fearful  sight, 

I  wist  not  what  to  do  for  fright." 

And  oft  lias  my  thought  called  up  again 
These  words  of  Hie  changeful  song: — 
"  Wist  thou  thy  pain  and  thy  travail 
To  com'',  well   mighfst   thou    weep  and. 

/rail  !  " 
And  our  wail,  O  God  !  is  long. 

52 


But  the  song's  end  was  all  of  his  love  ; 

And  well  his  heart  was  grac'd 
With  her  smiling  lips  and  her  tear-bright 
eyes 

As  his  arm  went  round  her  waist. 

And  on  the  swell  of  her  long  fair  throat 

Close  clung  the  necklet-chain 
As  he  bent  her  pearl-tir'd  head  aside, 
And  in  the  warmth  of  his  love  and  pride 
He  kissed  her  lips  full  fain. 

And  her  true  face  was  a  rosy  red, 

The  very  red  of  the  rose 
That,  couched  on  the  happy  garden-bed, 

In  the  summer  sunlight  glows. 

And  all  the  wondrous  things  of  love 
That  sang  so  sweet  through  the  song 

Were  in  the  look  that  met  in  their  eyes, 
And  the  look  was  deep  and  long. 

"T  was  then  a  knock  came  at  the  outer 
gate. 
And  the  usher  sought  the  King. 
"The  woman  you   met  by  the  Scottish 
Sea, 
My  Liege,  would  tell  you  a  thing  ; 
And  she  says  that  her  present  need  for 
speech 
Will  bear  no  gainsaying." 

And  the  King  said  : — "The  hour  is  late  ; 
To-morrow  will  serve.  I  ween." 
Then  he  charged  the  usher  strictly,  and 
said  : 
"  No  word  of  this  to  the  Queen." 

But  the  usher  came  again  to  the  King, 
"  Shall  I  call  her  back?  "quoth  he  : 

"  For  as  she  went  on  her  way.  she  cried, 
'Woe!      Woe!  then   the   thing    must 
be!'" 

And  the   King  paused,  but  he  did  not 
speak. 

Then  he  called  for  tin-  Voidee-cup  : 
Ami  as  we  heard  the  twelfth  hour  strike, 
There  by  true  lips  and  false  lips  alike 

Was  the  draught  of  trust  drained  up. 

So   with   reverence   meet   to   King  and 
Queen, 

To  bed  went  all  from  the  board  ; 
A  if  1  the  last  to  leave  of  i  he  courtly  train 
Was  Roberl  Stuart  Hi"  chamberlain 

Who  had  sold  his  sovereign  lord. 

A  n '1  ;\\\  I  lie  lucks  (if  t  he  chaiuber-door 
Had  the  traitor  riven  and  brast  ; 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  that  Fate  might  win  sure  way  from 
alar, 

He  had  drawn  out  every  bolt  and  bar 

That  made  the  entrance  fast. 

And  now  at  midnight  he  stole  his  way 
To  the  moat  of  the  outer  wad, 

And  laid  strong  hurdles  closely  across 
Where  the  traitors'  tread  should  fall. 

But  we  that  were  the   Queen's  bower- 
maids 

Alone  were  left  behind  ; 
And    with   heed   we   drew  the   curtains 
close 
Against  the  winter  wind. 

And  now  that  all  was  still  through  the 
hall, 

More  clearly  we  heard  the  rain 
That  clamored  ever  against  the  glass 

And  the  boughs  that  beat  on  the  pane. 

But  the  fire  was  bright  in  the  ingle-nook, 

And  through  empty  space  around 
The  shadows  cast  on  the  arras'd  wall 
'Mid  the  pictured  kings  stood  sudden  and 
tall 
Like  spectres  sprung  from  the  ground. 

And  the  bed  was  dight  in  a  deep  alcove  ; 

And  as  lie  stood  l>y  the  fire 
The  king  was  still  in  talk  with  the  Queen 

While  he  doffed  his  goodly  attire. 

And   the   song  had  brought  the  image 
back 
Of  many  a  bygone  year  ; 
And  many  a  loving  word  they  said 
With  hand  in  hand  and    head    laid    to 
head  ; 
And  none  of  us  went  anear. 

But  Love  was  weeping  outside  the  house, 

A  child  in  the  piteous  rain  ; 
And  as  lie  watched  the  arrow  of  Death, 
He  wailed  for  his  own  shafts  close  in  the 
sheath 

That  never  should  fly  again. 

And  now  beneatb  the  window  arose 

A  wild  voice  suddenly  : 
And    the   King  reared  straight,  but  the 
Queen  fell  hack 

As  for  bitter  dule  to  dree  : 
Ami  all  of  us  knew  the  woman's  voice 

Who  spoke  by  the  Scottish  Sea. 

"  0  King,"  she  cried,  "  in  an  evil  hour 
They  drove  me  from  thy  gate  ; 


And    yet    m\r    voice   must   rise  to  thine 
ears  : 
But  alas  !  it  comes  too  bite  ! 

"  I  .ast  night  at  mid-watch,  by  Aherdour, 
When  the  moon  was  dead  in  the  skies 

O  King,  in  a  death-light  of  thine  own 
I  saw  thy  shape  arise. 

"  And  in  full  season,  as  erst  I  said, 
The  doom  had  gai I  its  growth  ; 

And  the  shroud  had  risen  above  thy  neck 
And  covered  thine  eyes  and  mouth. 

"  And  no  moon  woke,  but  the  pale  dawn 
broke. 
And  still  thy  soul  stood  there  ; 
And  I  thought  its  silence   cried  to  my 
soul 
As  the  first  rays  crowned  its  hair. 

"Since  then  have  I  journeyed  fast  and 
lain 
In  very  despite  of  Fide, 
Lest  Hope  might  still  be  found  ill  God's 
will: 
But  they  drove  me  from  thy  gate. 

"  For   every    man   on    God's    ground,  O 
King, 
His  death  grows  up  from  his  birth 
In  a  shadow-plant  perpetually  ; 
And    thine  towers   high,  a  black  yew- 
tree, 
O'er  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth  !" 

That;   room  was  built  far  out  from  the 

house  ; 
And  none  but  we  in  the  room 
Might  hear  tin:  voice  that  rose  beneath, 
Nor  the  tread  of  the  coming  doom. 

For  now  there  came  a  torchlight-glare, 
And  a  clang  of  arms  there  came  ; 

And  not  a  soul  in  that  space  but  thought 
Of  the  foe  Sir  Robert  Graeme. 

Yea,  from  the  country  Of  the  Wild  Scots, 
O'er  mountain,  valley,  and  glen. 

He  had  brought  with  him  in  murderous 
league 
Three  hundred  armed  men. 

The  King  knew  all  in  an  instant's  flash, 
And  like  a  King  did  Ik;  stand  ; 

But  there  was  no  armor  in  all  the  room, 
Nor  weapon  lay  to  his  hand. 

And  all  we  women  flew  to  the  door 
And  thought  to  have  made  it  fast: 


ROSSETTI 


But  the  bolts  were  gone  and  the  bars 
were  gone 
And  the  locks  were  riven  and  brast. 

And   he  caught   the   pale   queen  in  his 
arms 
As  the  iron  footsteps  fell. — 
Then   loosed   her,    standing   alone,   and 
said. 
"  Our  bliss  was  our  farewell !  " 

And   'twixt    his    lips   he   murmured    a 
prayer, 

And  he  crossed  his  brow  and  breast ; 
And  proudly  in  royal  hardihood 
Even  so  with  fulled  arms  he  stood, — 

The  prize  of  the  bloody  quest. 

Then   on   me   leaped   the  Queen   like   a 
deer  : 
"  Catherine,  help  !  "  she  cried. 
And  low  at  his  feet  we  clasped  his  knees 

Together  side  by  side. 
"  Oh !  even    a    King,    for    his    people's 
sake, 
From  treasonous  death  must  hide  !  " 

"For   her  sake   most!'*  I   cried,  and  I 
marked 
The  pang  that  my  words  would  wring. 
And   the   iron  tongs  from  the  chimney- 
nook 
I  snatched  and  held  to  the  King  : — 
'•  Wrench  up  the  plank  !  and  the  vault 
beneath 
Shall  yield  safe  harboring." 

With   brows   low-bent,   from   my  eager 
hand 
The  heavy  heft  did  lie  take ; 
And  the  plank  at  his  feet  he  wrenched 

and  tore  : 
And   as  lie   frowned  through  the  open 
lloor, 
Again  1  sai  1.  "For  her  sake  !  " 

Then  he  cried  to  the  Queen.  "  God's  will 
be  done  !  *' 
For  her  hands  were  clasped  in  prayer. 
And  down  he  sprang  to  the  inner  crypt  ; 
And  straight  we  closed  the  plank  he  had 
ripp'd 
And  toiled  to  smoothe  it  fair 

(Alas  !  in  that  vault  a  gap  once  was 
Wherethro'  the  King  might  have  lied  ; 

But  three  days  since  close-walled  had  it 
1 n  [therein 

By   his    will  ;    for   the   ball   would   roll 
When  without  at  the  palm  he  play VI.) 


Then  the  Queen  cried,  "  Catherine,  keep 
the  door, 
And  I  to  this  will  suffice  !  " 
At   her    word   I   rose   all   dazed   to   my 
feet, 
And  my  heart  was  fire  and  ice. 

And  louder  ever  the  voices  grew. 

And  the  tramp  of  men  in  mail ; 

Until  to  my  brain  it  seemed  to  be 

As  though  I  tossed  on  a  ship  at  sea 

In  the  teeth  of  a  crashing  gale. 

Then  back  I  flew  to  the  rest.  ;  and  hard 

We  strove  with  sinews  knit 
To  force  the  table  against  the  door  ; 

But  we  might  not  compass  it. 

Then  my  wild  gaze  sped  far  down  the 
hall 

To  the  place  of  the  hearthstone-sill  ; 
And   the   Queen   bent    ever    above   the 
floor. 
For  the  plank  was  rising  still. 

And   now   the   rush    was  heard  on  the 
stair. 

And  ••  God,  what  help?  "  was  our  cry. 
And  was  I  frenzied  or  was  I  bold  ? 
I  looked  at  each  empty  stanchion-hold, 

And  no  bar  but  my  arm  had  I  ! 

Like  iron  felt  my  arm.  as  through 

The  staple  I  made  it  pass  : — 
Alack  !  it  was  flesh  and  bone — no  more  ! 
T  was  (  latherine  Douglas  sprang  to  the 
door, 

But  I  fell  back  Kate  Barlass. 

With  that  they  all  thronged    into   the 
hall. 
Half  dim  to  my  failing  ken  ; 

And  the  space  that  was  hut  a  void  before 
Was  a  crowd  of  wrathful  men. 

Behind  the  door  1  had  fall'ii  and  lay. 
Yet  my  sense  was  wildly  aware. 

And  for  all    the    pain  of    my  shattered 
arm 
I  never  fainted  then'. 

Even  as  T  fell,  iny  eyes  were  cast 

Where  the   King  leaped  down  to  the 
pit ; 
And  lo  I  the   plank    was  smooth    in    its 
place, 
And  the  Queen  stood  far  from  it. 

And  under  the  litters  and  through  the 
bed 

And  within  the  presses  all 


S20 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  traitors  sought   for  the  King,  and 
pierced 
The  arras  around  the  wall. 

And  through  the  chamber  they  ramped 
and  stormed 
Like  lions  loose  in  the  lair, 
And   scarce  could   trust   to   their   very 
eyes. — 
For  behold  !  no  King  was  there. 

Than  one  of  them  seized  the  Queen,  and 
cried. — 
"  Now  tell  us,  where  is  thy  lord  ?  " 
And  he  held  the  sharp  point   over  her 
heart :  [start, 

She    drooped    not  her  eyes  nor  did  she 
But  she  answered  never  a  word. 

Then   the   sword    half  pierced  the  true 
true  breast : 
But  it  was  the  Graeme's  own  son 
Cried,    "  This   is   a  woman, — we  seek  a 
man  !  " 
And  away  from  her  girdle-zone 
He  struck   the  point  of  the  murderous 
steel  ; 
And  that  foul  deed  was  not  done. 

And  forth  flowed  all  the  throng  like  a 
sea, 
And  't  was  empty  space  once  more  ; 
And  my  eyes  sought  out  the  wounded 
Queen 
As  I  lay  behind  the  door. 

And  I  said  :  "  Dear  Lady,  leave  me  here, 

For  I  cannot  help  you  now  ; 
But  fly  while  you   may,  and  none  shall 
reck 

Of  my  place  here  lying  low." 

And  she  said,  "  My  Catherine,  God  help 

thee  ! " 

Then  she  looked  to  the  distant  floor, 

And  clasping  her  hands,  "  Oh  God  help 

him," 

She  sobbed,  "  for  we  can  no  more  !  " 

But  God  He  knows  what  help  may  mean, 

If  it  mean  to  live  or  to  die  ; 
And  what  sore  sorrow  and  mighty  moan 
On   earth  it  may  cost  ere  yet  a  throne 

Be  filled  in  His  house  on  high. 

And  now  the  ladies  fled  with  the  Queen '. 

And  through  the  open  door 
The  night-wind  wailed  round  the  empty 
room 

And  the  rushes  shook  on  the  floor. 


And  the  bed  drooped  low  in  the  dark  re- 
cess 
Whence  the  arras  was  rent  away  : 
And   the  firelight   still  shone  over  the 
space 
Where  our  hidden  secret  lay. 

And  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  moon- 
beams lit 
The  window  high  in  the  wall, — 
Bright  beams  that  on  the  plauk  that  I 
knew 
Through  the  painted  pane  did  fall 
And    gleamed    with    the    splendor    of 
Scotland's  crown 
And  shield  armorial. 

But  then  a  great  wind  swept  up  the  skies, 
And  the  climbing  moon  fell  back  ; 

And  the  royal  blazon  fled  from  the  floor, 
And  nought  remained  on  its  track  ; 

And  high  in  the  darkened  window-pane 
The  shield  and  the  crown  were -black. 

And  what  I  say  next  I  partly  saw 
And  partly  I  heard  in  sooth, 

And   partly  since  from  the  murderers' 
lips 
The  torture  wrung  the  truth. 

For  now  again  came  the  armed  tread 
And  fast  through  the  hall  it  fell  ; 

But  the  throng  was  less  ;  and  ere  I  saw, 
By  the  voice  without  I  could  tell 

That  Robert  Stuart  had  come  with  them 
Who  knew  that  chamber  well. 

And  over  the  space  the  Graeme  strode 
dark 

With  his  mantle  round  him  flung; 
And  in  his  eye  was  a  flaming  light 

But  not  a  word  on  his  tongue. 

And  Stuart  held  a  torch  to  the  floor, 
And  he  found  the  tiling  he  sought  ; 

And  they  slashed  the  plank  away  with 
their  swords  ; 
And  O  God  1  I  fainted  not ! 

And  the  traitor  held  his  torch  in  the  gap, 
All  smoking  and  smouldering  ; 

And  through  the  vapor  and  fire,  beneath 
In  the  dark  crypt's  narrow  ring, 

With  a  shout  that  pealed  to  the  room's 
high  roof 
They  saw  their  naked  King. 

Half  naked  lie  stood,  but  stood  as  one 
Who  yet  could  do  and  dare  : 


ROSSETTI 


821 


With   the  crown,  the   King   was  stript 
away, — 

The    Knight    was    reft    of    his    battle- 
array, — 
But  still  the  Man  was  there. 

From  the   rout   then  stepped  a  villain 
forth  — 
Sir  John  Hall  was  his  name  ; 
With  a  knife  unsheathed  he  leapt  to  the 
vault 
Beneath  the  torchlight-flame. 

Of  his  person  and  stature  was  the  King 

A  man  right  manly  strong, 
And  mightily  by  the  shoulder-blades 

His  foe  to  his  feet  he  flung. 

Then  the  traitor's  brother,  Sir  Thomas 
Hall. 
Sprang  down  to  work  his  worst ; 
And  the  King  caught  the  second  man 
by  the  neck 
And  flung  him  above  the  first. 

And    he     smote     and   trampled     them 
under  him  ; 
And  a  long  month  thence  they  bare 
All  black  their  throats  with    the  grip  of 
his  hands 
When  the  hangman's  hand  came  there. 

And  sore  he   strove  to   have   had   their 
knives, 
But  the  sharp  blades  gashed  his  hands. 
Oh  James  !  so  armed,  thou  hadst  battled 
there 
Till  hel|>  had  come  of  thy  bands  ; 
And  oh  !  once  more  thou  hadst  held  our 
throne 
And  ruled  thy  Scottish  lands  ! 

But  while  the  King  o'er   his   foes   still 
raged 
With  a  heart  that  nought  could  tame, 
Another  man  sprang  down  to  the  crypt  ; 
And  with  his   sword  in    his  hand    hard- 
gripp'd 
There  stood  Sir  Robert  Graeme. 

(Now   shame   on   the   recreant  traitor's 
heart 

AVho  durst  not  face  his  King 
Till  the  body  unarmed   was  wearied  out 

With  two-fold  combating  ! 

All  !  well  might  the  people  sing  and  say, 

As  ofl  ye  have  heard  aright : — 
"  0  Hubert  Graeme,  O  Robert  Gvceme, 


Who    slew    our   King,     God  give    thee 
shame!  " 
For  he  slew  him  not  as  a  knight.) 

And  the  naked  King  turned  round  at  bay, 

But  his  strength    had  passed  the  goal, 

And  he  could  but  gasp  : — "  Mine  hour  is 

come  ; 
But    oh  !    to   succor     thine   own   soul's 
doom , 
Let  a  priest  now  shrive  my  soul !  " 

And   the   traitor  looked   on   the   King's 
spent  strength, 
And  said  : — "  Have  I  kept  my  word  ? — 
Yea,    King,    the   mortal   pledge   that  I 

gave  ? 
No  black  friar's  shrift  thy  soul  shall  save, 
But  the  shrift  of  this  red  swoi'd  !  " 

With  that   he  smote   his  King   through 
the  breast ; 
And  all  they  three  in  that  pen 
Fell  on  him  and  stabbed  and  stabbed  him 
there 
Like  merciless  murderous  men. 

Yet  seemed     it  now   that     Sir  Robert 
Graeme, 
Ere  the  King's  last  breath  was  o'er, 
Turned   sick  at   heart   with  the   deadly 
sight 
And  would  have  done  no  more. 

But  a  cry  came  from  the  troop  above  : 

"  If  him  thou  do  not  slay, 
The  price  of  his  life  that  thou  dost  spare 

Thy  forfeit  life  shall  pay  ! " 

O  God  !  what  more  did  I  hear  or  see, 
Or  how  should  I  tell  the  rest  ? 

But  there  at  length  our  King  lay  slain 
With  sixteen  wounds  in  his  breast. 

O  God  !  and  now  did  a  bell  boom  forth, 

And  the  murderers  turned  and  fled  ; — 
Too  late,  too  late,  O  God;,  did  it  sound  ! — 
And  I   heard   the   true   men   mustering 
round, 
And  the  cries  and  the  coming  tread. 

But  ere  they  came  to  the  black   death- 
gap 
Somewise  did  I  creep  and  steal ; 
And  1. 1 !  or  ever  I  swooned  away, 
Through  the  dusk  I  saw  where  the  white 
face  lay 
In  the  Pit  of  Fortune's  Wheel. 


BRITISH   POETS 


And   now,  ye  Scottish  maids  who  have 
heard 

Dread  things  of  the  days  grown  old, — 
Even  at  the  last,  of  true  Queen  Jane 

~.\\i\\  somewhat  yet  be  told. 
And  now  she  dealt  for  her  dear  lord's  sake 

Dire  vengeance  manifold. 

'T  was  in  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth, 
In  the  fair-lit  Death-ehapelle, 

That  the  slain  King's  corpse  on  bier  was 
lain 
With  chant  and  requiem-knell. 

And  all  with  royal  wealth  of  balm 

Was  the  body  purified  : 
And  none   could  trace  on  the  brow   and 
lips 

The  death  that  he  had  died. 

In  his  robes  of  state  he  lay  asleep 
With  orb  and  sceptre  in  hand  ; 

And  by  the  crown  he  wore  on  histhrone 
Was  his  kingly  forehead  spann'd. 

And.  girls,  't  was  a  sweet  sad  thing  to  see 
How  the  curling  golden  hair, 

As  in  the  day  of  the  poet's  youth, 

From  the  King's  crown  clustered  there. 

And  if  all  had  come  to  pass  in  the  brain 

That  throbbed  beneath  those  curls, 
Then  Scots  had  said  in  the  days  to  come 
That  this  their  soil  was  a  different  home 
And  a  different  Scotland,  girls  ! 

And  the  Queen  sat  by  him  night  and  day, 

And  oft  she  knelt  in  prayer, 
All  wan  and  pale  in  the  widow's  veil 

That  shrouded  her  shining  hair. 

And  I  had  got  good  help  of  my  hurt  : 

And  only  to  me  some  sign 
She    made ;  and    save   the    priests  that 
were  there 

No  face  would  she  see  but  mine. 

And  the  month  of  March  wore  on  apace  ; 

A  nl  now  fresh  couriers  fared 
Still  from  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots 

With  news  of  the  traitors  snared. 

And  still  as  I  told  her  day  by  day, 
Her  pallor  changed  to  sight, 


And  the  frost  grew  to  a  furnace-flame 
That  burnt  her  visage  white. 

And  evermore  as  I  brought  her  word, 
She  bent  to  her  dead  King  James, 

And  in  the    cold  ear    with  fire-drawn 
breath 
She  spoke  the  traitors'  names. 

But  when  the  name  of  Sir  Robert  Graeme 
Was  the  one  she  had  to  give, 

I  ran  to  hold  her  up  from  the  floor ; 

For  the  froth  was  on  her  lips,  and  sore 
I  feared  that  she  could  not  live. 

And  the  month  of  March  wore    nigh  to 
its  end, 
And  still  was  the  death-pall  spread  ; 
For  she  would  not  bury  her  slaughtered 
lord 
Till  his  slayers  all  were  dead. 

And  now  of   their  dooms   dread  tidings 
came, 
And  of  torments  fierce  and  dire  ; 
And  nought  she  spake, — she   had  ceased 
to  speak, — 
But  her  eyes  were  a  soul  on  fire. 

But  when  I  told  her  the  bitter  end 
Of  the  stern  and  just  award, 

She   leaned  o'er   the     bier,    and  thrice 
three  times 
She  kissed  the  lips  of  her  lord. 

And  then  she  said, — "  My  King,  they  are 
dead ! " 
And  she  knelt  on  the  chapel-floor, 
And  whispered  low  with  a  strange  proud 
smile, — ■ 
"  James,  James,  they  suffered  more  !  " 

Last  she  stood  up  to  her  queenly  height, 

But  she  shook  like  an  autumn  leaf, 
As  though  the  fire  wherein  she  burned 
Then  left  her  body,  and  all  were  turned 
To  winter  of  life-long  grief. 

And    "O     James!"    she     said, — "My 
James  !  "  she  said. — 

"  Alas  for  the  woful  thing, 
That  a  poet  true  and  a  friend  of  man, 
In  desperate  days  of  bale  and  ban, 

Should  needs  be  born  a  King  I  "    1881 


MORRIS 

LIST  OF  REFERENCES 

Editions 

*  Poetical  Works  of  William  Morris,  11  volumes,  Longmans,  Green  & 
Co.,  1896-8.  The  Earthly  Paradise,  1  volume,  Reeves  &  Turner,  1890. 
The  Defence  of  Gueuevere,  Kelmscott  Press,  1892.  The  Life  and  Death 
of  Jason,  Kelmscott  Press,  1S95.  The  Earthly  Paradise,  8  volumes, 
1896-7.  Poems  by  the  Way,  Kelmscott  Press,  1831.  *  Collected  Works 
of  William  Morris,  24  volumes,  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  1911,  et  seq. 

Biography 

*  Mackail  (J.  W.),  Life  of  William  Morris,  2  volumes,  1899  (The 
standard  biography).  Vallance  (Aymer),  The  late  William  Morris, 
1896.  *  Vallance  (Aymer),  William  Morris;  His  Art,  his  Writings  and 
his  Public  Life.  A  Record,  1897.  Cary  (E.  L.),  William  Morris  :  Poet, 
Craftsman,  Socialist,  1902.  Clarke  (William),  William  Morris,  A  Sketch 
of  the  Man;  in  F.  W.  Lee's  William  Morris.  *  Noyes  (Alfred),  Morris, 
1908  (English  Men  of  Letters).  See  also  S.  C.  Cockerell's  History  of  the 
Kelmscott  Press,  Percy  H.  Bate's  History  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Move- 
ment, and  the  other  biographical  references  under  Rossetti. 

Criticism 

-Cazalis  (IT.)  ("  Jean  Labor  "),  William  Morris  et  le  Mouvement  nou- 
veau  de  l'Art  decoratif.  Chesterton  (G.  K.),  Twelve  Types:  William 
Morris  and  his  School.  Crane  (Walter),  William  Morris,  in  Scribner's 
Magazine,  July,  1897.  Dowden  (E.),  Transcripts  and  Studies:  Victorian 
Literature.  Form  an  (II.  B.),  Our  Living  Poets.  Hewlett  (M.),  Wil- 
liam Morris;  in  The  National  Review,  August,  1891.  *  Hubbard  (E.), 
The  Philistine,  Vol.  IX,  No.  4.  Hubbard  (E.),  Little  Journeys  to  the 
Homes  of  English  Authors.  Lang  (A.),  The  Poetry  of  William  Morris; 
in  the  Contemporary  Review,  August,  1882.  Lang  (A.),  William  Morris's 
Poems  ;  in  Longman's  Magazine,  October,  1896.  Lovett  (R.  M.),  Wil- 
liam Morris  ;  in  the  Harvard  Monthly,  1891  ;  Vol. XII,  p.  149.  Mackail 
(J.  W.),  William  Morris  :  An  address.  Myers  (F.  W.  II.),  William  Mor- 
ris and  the  Meaning  of  Life ;  in  The  Nineteenth  Century,  January,  1893. 
More  (Paul  E.),  Shelburne  Essays,  Sixth  Series,  1909:  William  Morris. 

823 


824 


BRITISH    POETS 


Norton  (C.  E.),  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason;  in  The  Nation,  August  22, 
1867.  Payne  (W.  M.),  Editorial  Echoes,  1902.  Payne  (W.  M.),  Greater 
English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907.  *Saintsbury  (G.), 
Corrected  Impressions.  *Sharp  (W.),  William  Morris:  The  Man  and  his 
Work;  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  December,  1896.  Shaw  (G.  B.),  Morris 
as  Actor  and  Dramatist;  in  The  Saturday  Review,  October  10,  1896. 
Shaw  (G.  B.),  William  Morris  as  a  Socialist;  in  The  Daily  Chronicle, 
October  6,  1896.  Stedman  (E.  C),  Victorian  Poets.  **Swinburne 
(A.  C),  Essays  and  Studies:  Morris's  Life  and  Death  of  Jason.  Symons 
(Arthur),  Studies  in  two  Literatures.  Watts- Dunton  (T.),  _  William 
Morris;  in  The  Athenseum,  October  10,  1896.  Wyzewa  (T.  de),  Ecrivains 
etrangers.  Yeats  (W.  B.),  Ideas  of  Good  and  Evil;  The  Happiest  of  the 
Poets. 

Benson  (A.  C),  At  Large,  1908:  Kelmscott  and  William  Morris.  Brooke 
(S.  A.),  Four  Victorian  Poets,  1908.  Jackson  (H.),  William  Morris,  Crafts- 
man-Socialist, 1909.  Oliphant  (Margaret),  The  Victorian  Age.  Riegel 
(Julius),  Die  Quellen  von  William  Morris's  Dichtung,  "The  Earthly  Para- 
dise," Erlanger  Beitriige  zur  Englischen  Philologie.  Scudder  (V.  D.),  Life 
of  the  Spirit  in  Modern  English  Poetry.  Spargo  (J.),  The  Socialism  of 
Morris,  1909. 

Bibliography 

*  Scott  (Temple),  A  Bibliography  of  the  Works  of  William  Morris. 
*  Forman  (IL  B.),  The  Books  of  William  Morris. 


M  ORRIS 


WINTER  WEATHER 

We  rode  together 

In  the  winter  weather 

To  the  broad  mead  under  the  hill  ; 
Though  the  skies  did  shiver 
With  the  cold,  the  river 

Ran,  and  was  never  still, 

No  cloud  did  darken 

The  night ;  we  did  harken 

The  hound's  bark  far  away. 
It  was  solemn  midnight 
In  that  dread,  dread  night, 

In  the  years  that  have  pass'd  for  aye. 

Two  rode  beside  me, 
My  banner  did  hide  me, 

As  it  drooped  adown  from  my  lance 
With  its  deep  blue  trapping, 
The  mail  over-lapping. 

My  gallant  horse  did  prance. 


So  ever  together 

In  the  sparkling  weather 

Moved  my  banner  and  lance ; 
And  its  laurel  trapping, 
The  steel  over-lapping, 

The  stars  saw  quiver  and  dance. 

We  met  together 

In  the  winter  weather 

By  the  town-walls  under  the  hill ; 
His  mail  rings  came  clinking, 
They  broke  on  my  thinking, 

For  the  night  was  hush'd  and  still. 

Two  rode  beside  him, 
His  banner  did  hide  him, 

As  it  drooped  down  straight  from  his 
lance ; 
With  its  blood-red  trapping, 
The  mail  over-lapping. 

His  mighty  horse  did  prance. 


MORRIS 


825 


And  ever  together 

In  the  solemn  weather 

Moved  his  banner  and  lance; 
And  the  holly  trapping, 
The  steel  over-lapping. 

Did  shimmer  and  shiver,  and  dance. 

Back  reined  the  squires 
Till  they  saw  the  spires 

Over  the  city  wall  ; 
Ten  fathoms  between  us, 
No  dames  could  have  seen  us 

Tilt  from  the  city  wall. 

There  we  sat  upright 
Till  the  full  midnight 

Should  be  told  from  the  city's  chimes  ; 
Sharp  from  the  towers 
Leaped  forth  the  showers 

Of  the  many  clanging  rhymes. 

'Twas  the  midnight  hour, 
Deep  from  the  tower 

Boom'd  the  following  bell ; 
Down  go  our  lances, 
Shout  for  the  lances  ! 

The  last  toll  was  his  knell. 

There  he  lay,  dying  ; 
He  had,  for  his  lying, 

A  spear  in  his  traitorous  mouth  ; 
A  false  tale  made  he 
Of  my  true,  true  lady  : 

But  the  spear  went  through  his  mouth. 

In  the  winter  weather 
We  rode  back  together 

From  the  broad  mead  under  the  hill ; 
And  the  cock  sung  his  warning 
As  it  grew  toward  morning, 

But  the  far-off  hound  was  still. 

Black  grew  his  tower 
As  we  rode  down  lower, 

Black  from  the  barren  hill ; 
And  our  horses  strode 
Up  the  winding  road 

To  the  gateway  dim  and  still. 

A  t  ( he  gate  of  his  tower, 
In  the  quiet  hour, 

We  laid  his  body  there; 
But  his  helmet  broken, 
We  took  as  a  token  ; 

Shout  for  my  lady  fair! 

We  rode  back  together 
In  the  wintry  weather 

From  the  broad  mead  nnder  the  bij!  ; 


No  cloud  did  darken 

The  night ;  we  did  barken 

How  the  hound  bay'd  from  the  hill. 
January,  1856. 1 

RIDING  TOGETHER 

For  many,  many  da}Ts  together 

The  wind  blew  steady  from  the  East ; 

For  many  days  hot  grew  the  weather, 
About  the  time  of  our  Lady's  Feasts 

For  many  days  we  rode*together, 
Yet  met  we  neither  friend  nor  foe  ; 

Hotter  and  clearer  grew  the  weather. 
Steadily  did  the  East  wind  blow. 

We  saw  the  trees  in   the  hot,   bright 
weather, 

Clear-cut,  with  shadows  very  black, 
As  freely  we  rode  on  together 

With  helms  unlaced  and  bridles  slack. 

And  often  as  we  rode  together, 
We,   looking  down  the   green-bank'd 
stream. 

Saw  flowers  in  the  sunny  weather, 
And  saw  the  bubble-making  bream. 

And  in  the  night  lay  down  together, 

And  hung  above  our  heads  the  rood. 
Or    watch'd    night-long     in    the   dewy 
weather, 
The   while    the   moon   did  watch  the 
wood. 

Our   spears   stood  bright  and  thick  to- 
gether, 
Straight    out    the    banners    stream'd 
behind. 
As  we  gallop'd  on  in  the  sunny  weather, 
With  faces  turn'd  towards  the  wind. 

Down   sank   our   threescore   spears    to- 
gether. 

As  thick  we  saw  the  pagans  ride; 
His  eager  face  in  the  clear  fresh  weather, 

Shone  out  that  last  time  by  my  side. 

Up  the  sweep  of  the  bridge  we  dash'd 
together, 
It  rock'd  to  the  crash  of  the  meeting 
spears, 

1  The  dates  for  Morris's  poems  have  been  com- 
piled  with  the  help  of  Mr.  Temple  Scott's  excel- 
lent Bibliography  of  UeWorks  of  William 
Monk's  •i»1-'-  ^.r  Furmau's  me  Books  of  'William 
>Iocria. 


BRITISH   POE'J  S 


,  rain'd  the  buds  of  the  dear  spring 
'J').  flowers  fell  like  tears. 

ill'd  and  writhed  together, 
I  threw  my  arms  above  my  head, 
by   my  side,    in    the    J 

him  reel  and  fall  back  dead. 

I  and  the  slayer  her, 

He  u-aiu-d  the  death-stroke  there   in 

his  p] 
"With  thoughts   o"f   death,  in   the  lovely 
■  her, 
Gapingly mazed  at  mymadden'd  face. 

Madly  I  fought  ;<~  we  fought  together  ; 

In  vain  :  the  little  Christian 
The    pagans     drown'd,    as     in     stormy 

The  i  land. 

They  hound  my  blood-stain'd  hands  to- 
gether, 
They  hound   his  corpse  to  nod  by  my 
side  : 
Then  on  we  rode,  in  the  bright  March 
•  her, 
"With  clash  of  cymbals  did  we  ride. 

We  ride  no  more,  no  more  together  ; 
■  t  hick  a ad  •' rong, 
no  heed  of  a  ny  weal  her, 

The  sweet  Saint*  grant  i  live  not  Ion/. 

May,  1866.   ' 

THE  CHAPEL  J.'.'  LYONESS 

Sip.      <>/..:%      i.i:    CURE     HARDY.       SlR 
Gal 

.  ir  Ozana.    All  day  long  and  everyday, 
I  rom  Chi  i  troa  s-Eve  to  Whit 

Within  that.  Chapel-aisle  I  lay, 
And  no  man  came  a-j-ear. 

Naked  to  the  waist  w;      I 

And  deep  within  my  breasi  did  lie, 

Though  no  man  any  blood  could  spy, 

The  truncheon  of  a  spear. 

N  >  rii<-at.  did  ever  pass  ray  lips 

an  light  slips 
From  off  the  gilded  parclose,  dips, 
And  night  comes  on  apace. 

i  1;  behind  my  I 

d-up  knee-,  was  spread 

s  and  red  ; 

A  rose  lay  on    my  ! 


Man\'  a  time  I  tried  to  shout  , 
But  as  in  drea m  of  battle-rout, 
My  frozen  Bpeech  would  not  well  out ; 
J  could  not  even  v.  •  ep. 

With  inward  sigh  I  see  the  sun 
iff  t  he  pillars  one  by  one. 
My  hearl  faints  when  t  lie  day  is  done, 
Because  I  cannot  sleep. 

Sometimes      strange      thoughts      pass 

through  my  head  ; 
Not  like  a  tomh  i-  this  my  bed. 

Yet  oft  1  think  that  I  am  dead  ; 
That  round  my  tomh  is  writ, 

;-  Ozana  of  tin-  hardy  heart, 
Knighl  of  the  Table  Bound, 

Pray  for  his  soul,  lords,  of  your  part ; 
A  true  knight  he  was  found." 

Ah  !  me,  I  cannot  fathom  it.  [He  sleeps. 

Sir  Galahad.   All  daylong  and  every  day, 
Till  his  ma  'd  away, 

I  watch'd  ( >z  le  lay 

Within  the  gilded  screen. 

All  my  singing  moved  him  not ; 

I    ung  my  In-art  grew  hot, 
With  the  thought  of  Launcelot 

far  away.  I  ween. 

So  I  went  a  little  space 
From  out  the  chapel,  bathed  my  face 
In  tin-  stream  that  runs  apace 
By  the  churchyard  wall. 

There  T  pluck'd  a  faint  wild  rose, 
1  iii  i  by  where  the  linden  grows, 
Sighing  over    ilver  rows 
Of  the  lilies  tall. 

(  laid  t  In-  flower  across  his  mouth  ; 

parkling  drops   seem'd   good    for 

drouth  ; 
He   smiled,   turn'd    round   towards  the 

it.h, 
Held  up  a.  golden  tress. 

The  light  '-mote  on  it   from  the  west  ; 

He  drew  the  covering  from  his  breast, 
Aga.ii,  i  his  heart  that  bair  he  pressed ; 
I >ea1  ii  him    oon  will  bless, 

Sir  l:>><  8.     I  entei  'd  by  t  he  -  a  tern  door; 
J  saw  a  knight's  helm  lying  there  ; 
;  i    .  i    e    from  on  the  floor, 

And  caught  the  gleaming  of  his  hair. 


.MORRIS 


--- 


I  stepi  full  softly  up  to  him  : 
I  laid  my  chin  upon  his  head  : 
I  felt  him  smile  :  my  eyes  -       n, 

I  was  so  glad  iie        -  .id. 

I  heard  Ozaua  murmur  low. 

••  There  comes  no  sleep  nor  auy  lore." 
But  G  -    lop'd  ana  kiss'u  his  brow: 

He  shiverVi  :  I  saw  his  pale  lips  move. 

SjV  Oznna,     There    comes    no  sleep  nor 
any  love  : 
Ah  me  !    I  shiver  with  delig 
I  am  90  weak  I  cannot  n: 
I  move  me  to  thee,    I 
'  help!  I  nave  but  little  wit  : 
My  life  went  wrong  :  I  see  it  writ. 

na  of  the  hardy  heart. 
_:ir  of  the  .  :nd. 

Pray  for  his  soul,  lords  ir  part  : 

1  knight  lie  was  found." 


Now  I  Iv^rin  to  fathom  it. 


[He  dies. 


Sir  B     -  sits   Ireamily  : 

What  strange  tilings  may  his  eye-  - 

.  full  on  n 
On  his  soul.  Lord,  have  mercy. 

tlahad.     C  shall  I  pray  for 

thee  : 
Her  cheek  i<  laid  to  thi 
No  long  time  hence,  also  I  see 
Thj        -  g   rs  twine 

Within  the         -   -     :'  her  hair 

That  shineth  gl 
Thin'.. 

::i?t  the  jasper  - 

tember,  IS 

SUMMER  DAWN 

Pray  but  one  prayer  for  iue 

Think  but  one  thought  of  me  up  in  the 

The  summer  night  waneth,  the  m< 
i 
Fai:  _  sof  the 

-twixt  t  -bars 

That  are  patiently  waitii  _  r  the 

dawn  : 
ent  and  colorless  - 

g  with 
the  - 

rn, 


The  heavv  elms  wait,  and  restli  ss 
ool  I  ' 

The  uneasy    wind    rises  roses 

dun  ; 
They   pray   the   long  gloom  through  for 

daylig 
Round  the    lone  house  in  the  mi ist 
the  . 
Speak  r  the 

n. 
Over  the    ten  ier,  bow'd  locks  of  the 
corn.  Ootr 

HANI  - 

Twixt  the  sunlight  and  the  shade 
Float  up  memories  of  my  ma 

rernenibc  i  .en ! 

ter  yellow  rip^. 

a  veil,  hi  "en  ! 

Twixt  the  s        -      and  the  sh 
My  roug  5  so  si 

'.en. 

-     -  _        the  s  hilt  hard, 

Frain 

Tears  fell  down  from  Guendolen. 

"d. 

- 

no  more  of  Guendolen. 

g    I 
_ 

ae  pray  for  Guendok 

GOLD  HAIR 

ery  day 
iiubeth  up  the  same  strange  way. 



Orei      f  go!  aii  . 

I 

thes 

grass 

On.     _ 

See  on  the  marble  parapet. 

..  my  brow    -  b    " 

athoms  - 

..iir. 

•n  the  ma 

j  years  pass 


S2S 


BRITISH   POETS 


And  yet  :  but  I  am  growing  old. 
For  want  of  love  my  heart  is  cold  : 
Years  pass,  the  while  I  loose  and  fold 
The  fathoms  of  my  hair. 

1S5S.1 

THE  DEFENCE   OF  GUENEVERE 

But,  knowing  now  that  they  would  have 

her  speak. 
She  threw  her  wet  hair   backward  from 

her  brow, 
Her  hand  close  to  her  mouth  touching 

her  cheek, 

As  though  she  had  had  there  a  shameful 

blow, 
And  feeling  it   shameful   to  feel  aught 

but  shame 
All  through  her  heart,  yet  felt  her  cheek 

burned  so, 

She  must  a  little  touch  it ;  like  one  lame 
She  walked  away  from  Gauwaine,  with 

her  head 
Still  lifted  up ;    and  on  her  cheek  of 

flame 

The  tears   dried  quick ;  she  stopped  at 

last  and  saicl : 
"  O  knights  and  lords,  it  seems  but  little 

skill 
To  talk  of  well-known  things  past  now 

and  dead. 

"  God  wot  I  ought  to  say,  T  have  done  ill, 
And  pray  you  all  forgiveness  heartily  ! 
Because  you   must  be   right,  such  great 
lords  ;  still 

"  Listen,  suppose  your  time  were  come 

to  die, 
And   you   were   quite    alone    and   very 

weak  ; 
Yea,  laid  a  dying  while  very  mightily 

"The  wind  was  ruffling  up  the  narrow 
streak 

Of  river  through  your  broad  lands  run- 
ning well  : 

Suppose  a  hush  should  come,  then  some 
one  speak : 

" '  One  of  these  cloths  is  heaven,  and  one 
is  hell, 

1  The  preceding,  poem,  Hands,  published 
under  that  title  in  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
Magazine,  185G,  and  the  lyric  stanzas  to  which  I 
have  here  given  the  title  Gold  Hair,  both  form 
part  of  Eapunzel  in  the  Guenevere  volume,  18D8. 


Now  choose  one   cloth   for  ever  ;  which 

they  be, 
I  will  not  tell   you,  you  must  somehow 

tell 

"  'Of  your  own  strength  and  mightiness  ; 

here,  see  ! ' 
Yea,  yea,  my  lord,  and  you  to  ope  your 

eyes, 
At  foot  of  your  familiar  bed  to  see 

"A  great   God's  angel   standing,    with 

such  dyes, 
Not  known  on  earth,  on  his  great  wings, 

and  hands, 
Held  out  two  ways,  light  from  the  inner 

skies 

' '  Showing  him   well,   and   making   his 

commands 
Seem  to  be  God's  commands,  moreover, 

too, 
Holding  within  his  hands  the  cloths  on 

wands  ; 

"  And  one  of  these  strange    choosing 

cloths  was  blue, 
Wavy  and  long,  and  one  cut  short  and 

red ; 
No  man  could  tell  the  better  of  the  two. 

"  After  a  shivering  half-hour  you  said  : 
'  God   help  !   heaven's  color,  the  blue  ; ' 

and  he  said,  '  hell.' 
Perhaps  you  would  then  roll  upon  your 

bed, 

"  And  cry  to  all  good  men   that   loved 

you  well, 
'  Ah    Christ !    if    only    I     had    known, 

known,  known  ; ' 
Launcelot  went  away,  then  I  could  tell, 

"  Like  wisest  man  how  all  things  would 

be,  moan, 
And  roll  and  hurt  myself,  and  long  to  die, 
And  yet  fear  much  to  die  for  what  was 

sown. 

"  Nevertheless  you,  O  Sir  Gauwaine,  lie, 
Whatever  may  have  happened   through 

these  years, 
God  knows  I  speak  truth,   saying  that 

you  lie." 

Her   voice  was  low-  at  first,  being  full  of 

tears, 
But   as  it  cleared,  it  grew  full  loud  and 

si  i rill, 
Growing  a   windy   shriek   in   all   men's 

ears, 


MORRIS 


829 


A  ringing  in  their  startled  brains,  until 
She  said  that  Gauwaine  lied,   then  her 

voice  sunk. 
And   her  great  eyes  began  again  to  fill, 

Though    still    she   stood    right   up,  and 

never  shrunk. 
But  spoke  on  bravely,  glorious  lady  fair  ! 
Whatever   tears  her  full  lips  may   have 

drunk, 

She   stood,   and   seemed   to   think,   and 

wrung  her  hair, 
Spoke  out  at  last  with  no  more  trace   of 

shame, 
With  passionate  twisting   of   her   body 

there : 

"  It  chanced  upon  a  day  that  Launcelot 
came 

To  dwell  at  Arthur's  court:  at  Christ- 
mastime 

This  happened  ;  when  the  heralds  sung 
his  name, 

"  Son  of  King  Ban  of  Benwick,  seemed 

to  chime 
Along  with  all  the  bells  that   rang   that 

day, 
O'er  the  White  roofs,  with   little   change 

of  rhyme. 

"  Christmas  and  whitened  winter  passed 

away, 
And  over  me  the  April  sunshine  came, 
Made  very  awful  with  black  hail-clouds, 

yea 

"  And  in  the  Summer  I  grew  white  with 

flame, 
And  bowed    my   head   down :  Autumn, 

and  the  sick 
Sure   knowledge  things  would  never   be 

the  same, 

"However  often  Spring  might  be   most 

thick 
Of  blossoms  and  buds,  smote  on  me,  and 

I  grew 
Careless   of   most  things,  let   the   clock 

tick,  tick, 

"To  my  unhappy  pulse,  that  beat  right 

through 
My  eager  body  ;  while  I  laughed  out  loud, 

And  lit  my  lips  curl  up  at  false  or  true, 

"  Seemed  cold  and  shallow  without  any 
cloud. 


Behold,  my  judges,  then  the  cloths  were 

brought ; 
While   I    was  dizzied  thus,  old  thoughts 

would  crowd, 

"  Belonging  to  the  time  ere  I  was  bought 
By   Arthur's  great  name  and  his  little 

love  ; 
Must  I  give  up  for  ever  then,  I  thought, 

"That    which    I    deemed    would    ever 

round  me  move 
Glorifying  all  things  ;  for  a  little  word, 
Scarce  ever  meant  at  all,  must   I  now 

prove 

"Stone-cold  for  ever?    Pray  you,  does 

the  Lord . 
Will  that  all  folks  should  be  quite  happy 

and  good  ? 
I  love  God  now  a  little,  if  this  cord 

"  Were  broken,  once  for  all  what  striving 

could 
Make  me    love    anything    in    earth    or 

heaven  ? 
So  day  by  day  it  grew,  as  if  one  should 

"Slip   slowly   dowm    some    path    worn 

smooth  and  even, 
Down  to  a  cool  sea  on  a  summer  day  ; 
Yet  still   in   slipping   there    was    some 

small  leaven 

"  Of    stretched    hands    catching   small 

stones  by  the  way, 
Until  one  surely  reached  the  sea  at  last, 
And  felt  strange  new  joy  as  the   worn 

head  lay 

"Back,   with  the    hair   like   sea-weed, 

yea  all  past 
Sweat  of  the  forehead,  dryness  of  the  lips, 
Washed   utterly  out  by  the   dear  waves 

o'ercast, 

"  In  the  lone  sea,  far  off  from  any  ships  I 
Do  I  not  know  now  of  a  day  in  Spring? 
No  minute  of  that  wild  day  ever  slips 

"  From  out  my  memory  ;  I  hear  thrushes 

sing, 
And  wheresoever  I  may  be,  straightway 
Thoughts   of   it  all   come  up   with  most 

fresh  sting : 

"I   was  half  mad  with   beauty  on  that 

day, 
And  went  without  my  ladies  all  alone. 
Ina  quiet  garden    walled  round  evert 

way  ; 


83o 


BRITISH   POETS 


"  I  was  right  joyful  of  that  wall  of  stone, 
That  shut  the  flowers  and  trees  up  with 

the  sky, 
And  trebled  all  the  beauty  :  to  the  bone, 

'•  Yea  right  through  to  my  heart,  grown 

very  shy 
With    wary    thoughts,    it     pierced,   and 

made  me  glad  ; 
Exceedingly  glad,  and  I  knew  verily, 

"  A  little  thing  just  then  had   made  me 

mad  ; 
I  dared  not  think,  as  I  was  wont  to  do, 
Sometimes,  upon  my  beauty  ;   if  I  had 

"  Held  out  my  long  hand  up  against  the 

blue, 
And,  looking  on   the  tenderly  darken'd 

fingers, 
Thought  that  by  rights  one  ought  to  see 

quite  through, 

"There,   see  you,  where   the   soft   still 

light  yet  lingers, 
Round  by  the  edges  ;  what  should  I  have 

done, 
If  this  had  joined  with   yellow   spotted 

singers, 

"  And  startling  green  drawn  upward  by 

the  sun  ? 
But  shouting,  loosed  out,  see  now  !  all 

my  hair, 
And  trancedly  stood  watching  the  west 

wind  run 

"With    faintest     half-heard    breathing 

sound  :  why  there 
I  lose  my  head  e'en  now  in  doing  this  ; 
But  shortly  listen  :  in  that  garden  fair 

"  Came  Launcelot  walking  ;  this  is  true, 

the  kiss 
Wherewith    we   kissed  in  meeting  that 

spring  day, 
I  scarce  dare  talk  of  the  remember'd  bliss, 

"  When  both  our  mouths  went  wander- 
ing in  one  way, 

And  aching  sorely,  met  among  the 
leaves ; 

Our  hands  being  left  behind  strained 
far  away. 

"Never  within  a    yard    of  my    bright 

sleeves 
Had  Launcelot  come  before :  and  now 

so  nigh  ! 
After   that   day   why     is   it   Guenevere 

grieves  ? 


"  Nevertheless  you,  O  Sir  Gauwaine,  lie, 
Whatever    happened    on    through    all 

those  years, 
God   knows  I   speak   truth,  saying  that 

you  lie. 

"  Being  suoh   a  lady   could  I  weep  these 

tears 
If  this  were  true  ?  A  great  queen  such  as  I 
Having   sinn'd   this   way,   straight   her 

conscience  sears ; 

"  And  afterwards  she  liveth  hatefully, 
Slaying    and     poisoning,    certes     never 

weeps : 
Gauwaine   be   friends     now,   speak   me 

lovingly. 

"  Do  I  not  see  how  God's  dear  pity  creeps 
All  through  your  frame,  and  trembles  in 

your  mouth  ? 
Remember  in   what  grave  your  mother 

sleeps, 

"  Buried  in  some  place  far  down  in  the 

south 
Men  are  forgetting  as  I  speak  to  you  ; 
By  her  head  sever'd  in  that  awful  drouth 

"  Of  pity  that  drew  Agravaine's  fell  blow. 
I  pray  your  pity  1  let  me  not  scream  out 
For  ever  after,  when  the  shrill  winds  blow 

"Through    half  your   castle-locks!   let 

me  not  shout 
For  ever  after  in  the  winter  night 
When  you  ride  out  alone !  in  battle-rout 

''  Let  not  my  rusting   tears   make   your 

sword  light ! 
Ah  !  God  of  mercy,  how  he  turns  away  ! 
So,  ever  must  I  dress  me  to  the  fight, 

"  So  :  let  God's  justice  work  !  Gauwaine, 

I  say, 
See  me  hew  down   your  proofs  :  yea   all 

men  know 
Even  as  you  said  how  Mellyagraunce  one 

day, 

"  One  bitter  day  in  la  Fausse  Garde,  for  so 
All  good  knights  held  it  after,  saw  : 
Yea,  sirs,  by  cursed  unknightly  outrage  ; 
though 

"  You,  Gauwaine,  held  his  word  without 
a  flaw. 

Not    so,  fair    lords,  even    if  the  world 
should  end 


MORRIS 


831 


"  This   very  day,  and   you  were   judges 

here 
Instead  of   God.     Did   you   see   Mellya- 

graunce 
When   Launeelot  stood  by   him  ?  what 

white  fear 

"  Curdled  his  blood,  and  how  his  teeth 

did  dance, 
His  side  sink  in  ?  as  my  knight  cried  and 

said  : 
'  Slayer  of  unarm'd  men,  here  is  a  chance  ! 

"  '  Setter  of  traps,  I  pray  you  guard  your 

head, 
By  God  I  am  so  glad  to  fight  with  you, 
Stripper  of  ladies,  that  my  hand  feels  lead 

"'For   driving    weight;    hurrah    now! 

draw  and  do, 
For   all  my   wounds  are  moving   in  my 

breast, 
And  I  am  getting  mad  with  waiting  so.' 

"  He  struck  his  hands  together  o'er  the 

beast, 
Who  fell  down  flat,  and  grovell'd  at  his 

feet, 
And  groan'd  at  being  slain  so  young : 

'  At  least,' 

"  My  knight  said,  '  Rise  you,  sir,  who  are 

so  fleet 
At    catching  ladies,    half-arm'd   will  I 

fight, 
My  left  side  all  uncovered  ! '  then  I  weet, 

"Up   sprang   Sir     Mellyagraunce   with 

great  delight 
Upon   his   knave's   face  ;  not  until   just 

then 
Did  I  quite  hate  him,  as  I  saw  my  knight 

"  Along  the  lists  look  to  my  stake  and 

pen 
With  such  a  joyous   smile,  it   made  me 

sigh 
From   agony  beneath   my   waist-chain, 

when 

"  The  fight  began,  and  to  me  they  drew 

nigh  ; 
Ever  Sir  Launeelot  kept  him  on  the  right, 
And  traversed  warily,  and  ever  high 

"  And  fast  leapt  caitiff' s  sword,  until  my 

knight 
Sudden    threw  up  his  sword  to  Ins  left 

hand, 
Caught  it  and  swung  it ;  that  was  all  the 

fight  ; 


"  Except  a  spout  of  blood  on  the  hot  laud  ; 
For  it  was  hottest  summer  ;  and  I  know 
I  wonder'd  how  the   fire,  while  I  should 
stand, 

"  And  burn,  against  the  heat,  would 
quiver  so, 

Yards  above  my  head  ;  thus  these  mat- 
ters went ; 

Which  things  were  only  warnings  of 
the  woe 

"  That  fell  on  me.     Yet  Mellyagraunce 

was  shent, 
For  Mellyagraunce  had  fought  against 

the  Lord ; 
Therefore,  my  lords,  take  heed  lest  you 

be  blent 

"  With  all  his  wickedness  ;  say   no  rash 

word 
Against  me,  being  so  beautiful  ;  my  eyes 
Wept  all  away  to  gray,  may  bring  some 

sword 

"To  drown  you  in  your  blood  ;  see  my 
breast  rise, 

Like  waves  of  purple  sea,  as  here  I  stand  ; 

And  how  my  arms  are  moved  in  won- 
derful wise, 

"  Yea  also  at  my  full  heart's  strong  com- 
mand, 

See  through  my  long  throat  how  the 
words  go  up 

In  ripples  to  my  mouth  ;  how  in  my  hand 

"  The  shadow  lies  like  wine  within  a  cup 
Of  marvellously  color'd  gold  ;  yea  now 
This  little  wind  is  rising,  look  you  up, 

"  And  wonder  how  the  light  is  falling  so 
Within  my  moving  tresses  :  will  you  dare 
When  you  have  looked  a  little  on  my 
brow, 

"  To  say  this  thing  is  vile  ?  or  will  you 

care 
For  any  plausible  lies  of  cunning  woof, 
When  you  can  see  my  face  with  no  lie 

there 

"  For  ever  ?  am  I  not  a  gracious  proof  ?— 
•  lint   in   your  chamber  Launeelot   was 

found  ' — 
Is  there  a  good  knight  then  would  stand 
aloof, 

"  When    a    queen     says     with     gentle 
queenly  sound  : 


S32 


BRITISH    POETS 


•  0  true  as  steel,  come  now  and  talk  with 

nif. 
1  love  to  sec  your  step  upon  the  ground 

"  •  Unwavering,  also  well  T  love  to  see 
That  gracious  smile   Light  up  your  face, 

and  hear 
Your  wonderful  words,    that   all    mean 

verily 

"  '  The  thing  they  seem  to  mean  :  good 

friend,  so  dear 
To  me  in  everything,  come  hereto-night, 
Or  else  the  hours  will  pass  most  dull  and 

drear  ; 

"  '  If  you  come  not,  I  fear  this  time  I 

might 
Get  thinking  over  much  of  times  gone 

by, 
^  hen  I  was  young,  and  green  hope  was 

in  sight : 

"  '  For  no  man  cares  now  to  know  why  I 

sigh  ; 
And  no  man  comes  to  sing  me  pleasant 

songs. 
Nor  any  brings   me   the   sweet   flowers 

that  lie 

"  '  So   thick   in   the  gardens  ;  therefore 

one  so  longs 
To  see  you,  Launcelot ;  that  we  may  be 
Like  children  once  again,  free  from  all 

wrongs 

"  '  Just  for  one  night.'     Did  he  not  come 

to  me  ? 
What  thing  could  keep  true  Launcelot 

away 
If  I  said,    '  Come  ? '  there  was  one  less 

than  three 

"  In  my  quiet  room  that  night,  and  we 

were  gay  : 
Till  sudden  I  rose  up,  weak,  pale,  and 

sick, 
Because  a  bawling  broke  our  dream  up, 

yea 

"  I  looked  at  Launcelot's  face  and  could 

not  speak, 
For  he  looked  helpless  too,  for  a   little 

while  ; 
Then  I  remember  how  I  tried  to  shriek, 

"  And  could  not,  but  fell  down  ;  from 

tile  to  tile 
The  stones   they   threw   up   rattled   o'er 

my  head  [while 

And    made    me   dizzier  ;    till    within  a 


"  My  maids  were  all  about  me,  and  my 
head 

On  Launcelot's  breast  was  being  soothed 
away 

From  its  white  chattering,  until  Launce- 
lot said  :  .  .   . 

"  By  God  !  I  will  not  tell  you  more  to- 
day, 

Judge  any  way  you  will :  what  matters 
it? 

You  know  quite  well  the  story  of  that 
fray, 

"  How  Launcelot  still'd  their  bawling, 

the  mad  fit 
That    caught    up    Gauwaine,    all,    all, 

verily , 
But   just   that   which   would   save  me ; 

these  things  flit. 

"  Nevertheless  you,  O  Sir  Gauwaine,  lie, 
Whatever  may  have  happen'd  these  long 

years, 
God  knows  I  speak  truth,   saying  that 

you  lie  ! 

"  All  I  have   said   is   truth,   by  Christ's 

dear  tears." 
She  would  not  speak  another  word,  but 

stood 
Turn'd  sideways  ;  listening,  like  a  man 

who  hears 

His  brother's  trumpet  sounding  through 

the  wood 
Of  his  foes'  lances.     She  leaned  eagerly, 
And  gave  a  slight  spring  sometimes,  as 

she  could 

At  last  hear  something  really  ;  joyfully 
Her  cheek  grew  crimson,  as  the  head- 
long speed 
Of  the  roan  charger  drew  all  men  to  see, 
The  knight  who  came  was  Launcelot  at 
good  need.  1858. 

THE  GILLIFLOWER  OF  GOLD 

A  golden  gilliflower  to-day 
I  wore  upon  my  helm  alway, 
And  won  the  prize  of  this  tourney. 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

However  well  Sir  Giles  might  sit, 
His  sun  was  weak  to  wither  it, 
Lord  Miles's  blood  was  dew  on  it : 
Hah !  hah  I  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 


MORRIS 


*33 


Although  my  spear  in  splinters  flew. 
From    John's    steel-coat,    my   eye  was 

true  ; 
I  wheel'd  about,  and  cried  for  you. 
Hah!  Jiali!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

Yea,  do  not  doubt  my  heart  was  good, 
Though  my  sword  flew  like  rotten  wood, 
Tt»  shout,  although  I  scarcely  stood, 
Hah  I  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

My  hand  was  steady  too,  to  take 
My  axe  from  round  my  neck,  and  break 
John's  steel-coat  up  for  my  love's  sake. 
Hah  I  hah !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

When  I  stood  in  my  tent  again, 
Arming  afresh,  I  felt  a  pain 
Take  hold  of  me,  I  was  so  fain — 

Hah  !  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee — 

To  hear  :  Honneur  aux  fils  des preux ! 
Right  in  my  ears  again,  and  shew 
The  gilliflower  blossom'd  new. 

Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

The  Sieur  Guillaume  against  me  came, 
His  tabard  bore  three  points  of  flame 
From  a  red  heart :  with  little  blame. — 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee, — 

Our  tough  spears  crackled  up  like  straw  ; 
He  was  the  first  to  turn  and  draw 
His  sword,  that  had  nor  speck  nor  flaw  ; 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

But  I  felt  weaker  than  a  maid, 
Ami  my  brain,  dizzied  and  afraid, 
Within  my  helm  a  fierce  tune  play'd, 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee, 

Until  I  thought  of  your  dear  head, 
Bow'd  to  the  gilliflower  bed. 
The  yellow  flowers  stain'd  with  red  ; 
Huh!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

Crash  !  how  the  swords  met  :  giroflee! 
The  fierce  tune  in  my  helm  would  play. 
La  belle!  la  belle!  jaune  giroflee! 

Halt !  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

Once  more  the  great  swords  met  again  : 

"  La  belle!  labellef"  but  who  fell  then? 

Le  Sieur  Guillaume,  who  struck  down 

ten  ; 

Halt  !  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

And  as  with  mazed  and  unarm'd  face, 
Toward  my  own  crown  and  the  Queen's 
place, 

53. 


They  led  me  at  a  gentle  pace. — 

Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  giroflee,— = 

I  almost  saw  your  quiet  head 
Bow'd  o'er  the  gilliflower  bed. 
The  yellow  flowers  stain'd  with  red. 
Hah!  hah!  la' belle  jaune  giroflee. 

1858. 

SHAMEFUL  DEATH 

There  were  four  of  us  about  that  bed  ; 

The  mass-priest  knelt  at  the  side, 
I  and  his  mother  stood  at  the  head, 

Over  his  feet  layr  the  bride  ; 
We  were  quite  sure  that  he  was  dead, 

Though  his  eyes  were  open  wide. 

He  did  not  die  in  the  night, 

He  did  not  die  in  the  dayr, 
But  in  the  morning  twilight 

His  spirit  pass'd  away, 
When  neither  sun  nor  moon  was  bright, 

And  the  trees  were  merely  gray. 

He  was  not  slain  with  the  sword, 
Knight's  axe,  or  the  knightly  spear, 

Yet  spoke  he  never  a  word 
After  he  came  in  here  ; 

I  cut  away  the  cord 

From  the  neck  of  my  brother  dear. 

He  did  not  strike  one  blow, 
For  the  recreants  came  behind, 

In  a  place  where  the  hornbeams  grow, 
A  path  right  hard  to  find, 

For  the  hornbeam  boughs  swing  so, 
That  the  twilight  makes  it  blind. 

They  lighted  a  great  torch  then. 

When  his  arms  were  pimon'd  fast, 
Sir  John  the  knight  of  the  Fen, 

Sir  Guy  of  the  Dolorous  Blast, 
With  knights  threescore  and  ten, 

Hung  brave  Lord  Hugh  at  last. 

I  am  threescore  and  ten, 

And  my  hair  is  all  turn'd  gray, 

But  I  met  Sir  John  of  the  Fen 
Long  ago  on  a  summer  day, 

And  am  glad   to   think  of   Vie  moment 
when 
I  took  his  life  away. 

I  am  threescore  and  ten, 

And  my  strength  is  mostly  pass'd, 
But  long  ago  1  and  my  men, 

When  the  sky  was  overcast, 
And  the  smoke  roll'd  over  the  reeds  of 
t  he  fen, 

Slew  Guv  of  the  Dolorous  Blast. 


»34 


BRITISH    POETS 


Ami  now,  knights  all  of  you, 
I  pray  you  pray  for  Sir  Hugh, 

A  good  knight  and  a  true, 
And  for  Alice,  his  wife,  pray  too. 

1858. 

THE  EVE  OF  CRECY 

Gold  on  her  head,  and  gold  on  her  feet. 
And  gold  where  the  hems  of  her  kirtle 

meet , 
And  a  golden  girdle  round  my  sweet ; 
Ah !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Margaret's  maids  are  fair  to  see, 
Freshly  dress'd  and  pleasantly  ; 
Margaret's  hair  falls  down  to  her  knee  ; 
Ah!  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

If  I  were  rich  I  would  kiss  her  feet ; 
I  would  kiss  the  place  where  the  gold 

hems  meet, 
And  the  golden  kirtle  round  my  sweet : 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle   La  Marguerite. 

Ah  me  !  I  have  never  touch'd  her  hand  ; 
When  the  arriere-ban  goes  through  the 

land, 
Six  basnets  under  my  pennon  stand  ; 
Ah  !  qiCelle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

And  many  an  one  grins  under  his  hood  : 
Sir  Lambert  du  Bois,  with  all  his  men 

good, 
Has  neither  food  nor  firewood  ; 

Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

If  I  were  rich  I  would  kiss  her  feet, 
And  the  golden  girdle  of  my  sweet, 
And  thereabouts   where   the  gold  hems 
meet ; 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Yet  even  now  it  is  good  to  think, 
While    my    poor   varlets   grumble   and 

drink 
In   my   desolate   hall,    where    the   fires 

sink, — 
Ah  I  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite, — 

Of  Margaret  sitting  glorious  there, 
In  glory  of  gold  and  glory  of  hair, 
Ami  glory  of  glorious  face  most  fair; 
Aft !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Likewise  to-night  I  make  good  cheer, 
Because  this  battle  draweth  near  : 
For  what  have  I  to  lose  or  fear  V 

Ah !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 


For,  look  you,  my  horse  is  good  to  prance 
A  right  fair  measure  in  this   war-dance 
Before  the  eyes  of  Philip  of  France  ; 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite, 

And  sometime  it  may  hap.  perdie, 
While  my  new  towers  stand   up   three 

and  three, 
And  my  hall  gets  painted  fair  to  see — 
Ah!  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite— 

That  folks  may  say  :  Times  change,  by 

the  rood, 
For  Lambert,  banneret  of  the  wood, 
Has  1  leaps  of  food  and  firewood  ; 

Ah  I  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

And  wonderful  eyes,  too,  under  the  hood 
Of  a  damsel  of  right  noble  blood. 
St.  Ives,  for  Lambert  of  the  WTood  ! 

Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

1858. 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  SWORD 

Across  the  empty  garden-beds, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

I  scarcely  saw  my  sisters'  heads 
Bowed  each  beside  a  tree. 

I  could  not  see  the  castle  leads, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

Alicia  wore  a  scarlet  gown, 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

But  Ursula's  was  russet  brown  : 
For  the  mist  we  could  not  see 

The  scarlet  roofs  of  the  good  town, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

Green  holly  in  Alicia's  hand, 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea  ; 

With  sere  oak-leaves  did  Ursula  stand  ; 
Oli  !  yet  alas  for  me  ! 

I  did  but  bear  apeel'd  white  wand, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

O,  russet  brown  and  scarlet  bright, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

My  sisters  wore  ;  I  wore  but  white  : 
Red,  brown,  and  white,  are  three  ; 

Three  damozels  ;  each  had  a  knight, 
When  the  Sword  loent  out  to  sea. 

Sir  Robert  shouted  loud,  and  said  ; 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 
'  Alicia,  while  I  see  thy  head, 

What  shall  I  bring  for  thee?  ' 
"  O.  my  sweet  Lord,  a  ruby  red :  " 

The  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 


MORRIS 


835 


Sir  Miles  said,  while  the  sails  hung  down, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

"  O,  Ursula  !   while  I  see  the  town, 
What  shall  I  bring  for  thee?" 

"  Dear    knight,    bring    back    a    falcon 
brown  :  " 
The  Sword  went  out  to  Sea. 

But  my  Roland,  no  word  he  said 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

But  only  turn'd  away  his  head  ; 
A  quick  shriek  came  from  me  : 

'"Come   back,  dear  lord,  to  your  white 
maid  !  " 
The  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

The  hot  sun  bit  the  garden-beds 

When  the  Sioord  came  back  from  sea  ; 

Beneath  an  apple-tree  our  heads 
Stretched  out  toward  the  sea  ; 

Gray  gleamed  the  thirsty  castle-leads, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea. 

Lord  Robert  brought  a  ruby  red, 

When  the  Sicortl  came  back  from  sea ; 

He  kissed  Alicia  on  the  head  : 
"  I  am  come  back  to  thee  ; 

T  is   time,  sweet  love,   that    we  were 
wed. 
Now  the  Sword  is  back  from  sea  /" 

Sir  Miles  he  bore  a  falcon  brown, 

When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea ; 

His  arms  went  round  tall  Ursula's  gown  : 
"  What  joy,  O  love,  but  thee? 

Let  us  be  wed  in  the  good  town, 
Now  the  Sword  is  back  from  sea!" 

My  heart  grew  sick,  no  more  afraid, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea  ; 

Upon  the  deck  a  tall  white  maid 
Sat  on  Lord  Roland's  knee  ; 

His  chin  was  press'd  upon  her  head, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea! 

1858. 

THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

The  Damozels 

Lady  Alice,  lady  Louise, 
Between  the  wash  of  the  tumbling  seas 
We  are  ready  to  sing,  if  so  ye  please  : 
So  lay  your  long  hands  on  the  keys  ; 
"  Sing.  Laudate  pueri." 

And  ever  the  great  belt  overhead 
Boom'd  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
Though  no  one  tolfd  if,  a  knell  for  the 

ihiul. 


Lady  Louise 

Sister,  let  the  measure  swell 
Not  too  loud  ;  for  you  sing  not  well 
If  you  drown  the  faint  boom  of  the  bell ; 
He  is  weary,  so  am  I. 

And  ever  the  chevron  overhead 
Flapp'd  on  the  banner  of  the  dead; 
(  Was  lie  asleep,  or  ivas  he  dead  ?) 

Lady  Alice 

Alice  the  Queen,  and  Louise  the  Queen, 
Two  damzels  wearing  purple  and  green, 
Four  lone  ladies  dwelling  here 
From  day  to  day  and  year  to  year  ; 
And  there  is  none  to  let  us  go  ; 
To  break  the  locks  of  the  doors  below, 
Or  shovel  away  the  heaped-up  snow  ; 
And  when  we  die  no  man  will  know 
That   we  are   dead ;  but  they  give  us 

leave, 
Once  every  year  on  Christmas-eve, 
To  sing  in  the  Closet  Blue  one  song  ; 
And  we  should  be  so  long,  so  long. 
If  we  dared,  in  singing ;   for  dream  on 

d  rea  m , 
They  float  on  in  a  happy  stream  ; 
Float  from  the  gold  strings,  float  from 

the  keys 
Float  from  the  open'd  lips  of  Louise  ; 
But,  alas  !  the  sea-salt  oozes  through 
The  chinks  of  the  tiles  of  the  Closet 

Blue  ; 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 
Booms  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
The  wind  plays  on   it  a   knell  for  the 
dead. 

They  Sing  all  Together. 

How  long  ago  was  it.  how  long  ago, 
He  came  to  this  tower  with  hands  full  of 
snow  ? 

"  Kneel    down,    O   love    Louise,    kneel 

down  ! "  he  said, 
And  sprinkled  the  dusty  snow  over  my 

head. 

He  watch'd   the  snow    melting,  it  ran 

through  my  hair, 
Ran  over  my  shoulders,  white  shoulders 

and  bare. 

"I    cannot  weep   for   thee,    poor   love 

Louise, 
For  my  tears  are  all  hidden  deep  under 

the  seas  ; 


S36 


BRITISH   POETS 


"In  a  gold  and  l>lue  casket  she  keeps  all 

inv  tears. 
But  my  eyes  are  no  longer  blue,  as  in  old 
years  ; 

"Yea,  they  grow  gray  with  time,  grow 

small  and  dry, 
I  am  so  feeble  now,  would  I  might  die." 

And  in  truth  the  great  bell  overhead 
Left  off  his  pealing  for  thedead, 
Perchance,  because  the  wind  was  dead. 

Will  he  come  back  again,  or  is  he  dead  ? 
O  !  is  he  sleeping,  my  scarf  round  his 
head  ? 

Or  did  they  strangle  him  as  he  lay  there, 
With  the  long  scarlet  scarf  I  used  to 
wear  ? 

Only  I  pray  thee,   Lord,  let  him  come 

here  ! 
Both  his  soul  and  his  body  to  me  are 

most  dear. 

Dear  Lord,  that  loves  me,  I  wait  to  re- 
ceive 

Either  body  or  spirit  this  wild  Christmas- 
eve. 

Tli  rough  the  floor  shot  up  a  lily  red, 
With  a  patch  of  earth  from  the  land  of 

the  dead, 
For  he  was  strong  in  the  land  of  the  dead. 

What  matter  that  his  cheeks  were  pale, 
His  kind  kiss'd  lips  all  gray  ? 

"  O,  love  Louise,  have  you  waited  long  ?  " 
"  O,  my  lord  Arthur,  yea." 

What  if  his  hair  that  brushed  her  cheek 

Was  stiff  with  frozen  rime  ? 
His  eyes  were  grown  quite  blue  again, 

As  in  the  happy  time. 

"  O,  love  Louise,  this  is  the  key 

Of  the  happy  golden  land  ! 
O,  sisters,  cross  the  bridge  with  me, 

My  eyes  are  full  of  sand. 
AVhat  matter  that  I  cannot  see, 

If  ye  take  me  by  the  hand  ?  " 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overliead, 

And  the  tumbling  seas  mourn'd  for  the 

dead ; 
For  their  song   ceased,   and  they  were 

dead !  1858. 


THE   HAYSTACK   IN  THE    FLOODS 

Had  she  come  all  the  way  for  this, 
To  part  at  last  without  a  kiss  V 
Yea,  had  she  borne  the  dirt  and  rain 
That  her  own  eyes  might  see  him  slain 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods  ? 

Along  the  dripping  leafless  woods, 
The  stirrup  touching  either  shoe, 
She  rode  astride  as  troopers  do  : 
With  kirtle  kilted  to  her  knee, 
To  which  the  mud  splash'd  wretchedly  ; 
And  the  wet  dripp'd  from  every  tree 
Upon  her  head  and  heavy  hair, 
And  on  her  eyelids  broad  and  fair  ; 
The  tears  and  rain  ran  down  her  face. 

By  fits  and  starts  they  rode  apace, 
And  very  often  was  his  place 
Far  off  from  her  ;  he  had  to  ride 
Ahead,  to  see  what  might  betide 
When  the  roads  cross'd  ;  and  sometimes, 

when 
There  rose  a  murmuring  from  his  men, 
Had  to  turn  back  with  promises. 
Ah  me  !  she  had  but  little  ease  ; 
And  often  for  pure  doubt  and  dread 
She  sobb'd,  made  giddy  in  the  head 
By  the  swift  riding  ;  while,  for  cold, 
Her  slender  fingers  scarce  could  hold 
The  wet  reins  ;  yea,  and  scarcely,  too, 
She  felt  the  foot  within  her  shoe 
Against  the  stirrup  :  all  for  this, 
To  part  at  last  without  a  kiss 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods. 

For  when  they  near'd  that    old  soak'd 

hay, 
They  saw  across  the  oidy  way 
That  Judas,  Godmar,  and  the  three 
Red  running  lions  dismally 
Grinn'd  from  his  pennon,  under  which 
In  one  straight  line  along  the  ditch, 
They  counted  thirty  heads. 

So  then 
While  Robert  turn'd  round  to  his  men, 
She  saw  at  once  the  wretched  end, 
And,  stooping  down,  tried  hard  to  rend 
Her  coif  the  wrong  way  from  her  head, 
And  hid  her  eyes  ;  while  Robert  said  : 
"  Nay,  love,  'tis  scarcely  two  to  one  ; 
At  Poictiers  where  we  made  them  run 
So   fast— why,    sweet    my     love,    good 

cheer, 
The  Gascon  frontier  is  so  near, 
Nought  after  us." 

But  :  "O!"  she  said, 
"  My  God  !  my  God  !  I  have  to  tread 


MORRIS 


837 


The  long  way  back  without  you  ;  then 
The  court  at  Paris  ;  those  six  men  ; 
The  gratings  of  the  Chatelet  ; 
The  swift  Seine  on  some  rainy  day 
Like  this,  and  people  standing  by, 
And   laughing,   while   my   weak   hands 

try 
To  recollect  how  strong  men  swim. 
All  this,  or  else  a  life  with  him, 
For  which  I  should  be  damned  at  last, 
Would   God   that   this  next  hour   were 

past !  " 

He  answer'd  not,  but  cried  his  cry, 
"  St.  George  for  Marny  !  "  cheerily  ; 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  her  rein. 
Alas  !  no  man  of  all  his  train 
Gave  back  that  cheery  cry  again  ; 
And,  while  for  rage  his  thumb  beat  fast 
Upon  his  sword-hilt,  some  one  cast 
About  his  neck  a  kerchief  long, 
And  bound  him. 

Then  they  went  along 
To  Godmar  ;  who  said  :  "  Now,  Jehane, 
Your  lover's  life  is  on  the  wane 
So  fast,  that,  if  this  very  hour 
You  yield  not  as  my  paramour, 
He  will  not  see  the  rain  leave  off : 
Nay,  keep  your  tongue  from  gibe  and 

scoff 
Sir  Robert,  or  I  slay  you  now." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  bi'ow, 
Then  gazed  upon  the  palm,  as  though 
She  thought   her   forehead   bled,   and  : 

"  No  ! " 
She  said,  and  turn'd  her  head  away, 
As  there  was  nothing  else  to  say. 
And  everything  was  settled  :  red 
Grew  Godmar's  face  from  chin  to  head  : 
"  Jehane,  on  y^onder  hill  there  stands 
My  castle,  guarding  well  my  lauds  ; 
What  hinders  me  from  taking  you, 
And  doing  that  I  list  to  do 
To  your  fair  wilful  body,  while 
Your  knight  lies  dead  ?  " 

A  wicked  smile 
Wrinkled  her  face,  her  lips  grew  thin, 
A  long  way  out  she  thrust  her  chin  : 
•'  You  know  that  I  should  strangle  you 
Whileyou  were  sleeping  ;  or  bite  through 
Your  throat,  by  God's  help  :  ah  !  "  she 

said, 
"Lord  Jesus,  pity  your  poor  maid  ! 
For  in  such  wise  they  hem  me  in, 
I  cannot  choose  but  sin  and  sin, 
Whatever  happens  :  yet  I  think 
They  could  not  make  me  eat  or  drink, 
And  so  should  I  just  reach  my  rest." 


'•  Nay,  if  you  do  not  my  behest, 

O  Jeliane*!  though  I  love  you  well," 

Said  Godmar.  "  would  I  fail  to  tell 

All   that   1   know?"     "Foul   lies,"   she 

said. 
"  Eh?  lies,  my  Jeliane  ?  by  God's  head, 
At  Paris  folks  would  deem  them  true  ! 
Do  you  know.  Jeliane,  they  cry  for  you: 
'  Jehane  the  brown  !  Jeliane  the  brown  ! 
Give  us  Jeliane  to  burn  or  drown  !  ' 
Eh  ! — gag  me  Robert  ! — sweet  my  friend, 
This  were  indeed  a  piteous  end 
For  those  long  fingers,  and  long  feet. 
And  long   neck,  and   smooth   shoulders 

sweet ; 
An  end  that  few  men  would  forget 
That  saw  it.     So,  an  hour  yet  : 
( 'onsider,  Jehane,  which  to  take 
Of  life  or  death  !  " 

So,  scarce  awake, 
Dismounting,  did  she  leave  that   place, 
And  totter  some  yards:  with  her  face 
Turn'd  upward  to  the  sky  she  lay, 
Her  head  on  a  wet  heap  of  hay, 
And  fell  asleep  :  and  while  she  slept, 
And  did  not  dream,  the  minutes  crept 
Round  to  the  twelve  again  ;  but  she, 
Being  waked  at  last,  sigh'd  quietly, 
And  strangely  childlike  came,  and  said  : 
"  I  will     not."    Straightway    Godmar's 

head , 
As  though    it    hung    on  strong    wires, 

turn'd 
Most  sharply  round,  ami  his  face  burn'd. 

For  Robert,  both  his  ey^es  were  dry, 
He  could  not  weep,  but  gloomily 
He  seem'd  to  watch  the  rain  ;  yea,  too, 
His  lips  were  firm  ;  he  tried  once  more 
To  touch  her  lips  ;  she  reach'd  out,  sore 
And  vain  desire  so  tortured  them, 
The  poor  gray  lips,  and  now  the  hem 
Of  his  sleeve  brush'd  them. 

With  a  start 
Up  Godmar  rose,  thrust  them  apart ; 
From    Robert's    throat   he    loosed     the 

1  ninds 
Of  silk  and  mail  ;  with  empty  hands 
Held  out,  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  saw, 
The  long  bright  blade  without  a  flaw 
Glide  out  from   Godmar's  sheath,    his 

hand 
In  Robert's  hair :  she  saw  him  bend 
Back  Robert's  head  ;  she  saw  him  send 
The  thin  steel  down  :  l  lie  blow  told  well, 
Right  backward  the  knighl  Robert  fell, 
And  moaned  as  dogs  do,  being  half  dead, 
Unwitting,  as  T  deem  :  so  then 
Godmar  turn'd  grinning  to  his  men, 


SiS 


BRITISH   POETS 


Who  ran,  some  five  or  six,  and  beat 
His  head  to  pieces  at  their  feet. 

Then  Godmar  turn'd  again  and  said  : 
■•  So,  Jehane,  the  first  ritte  is  read  ! 
Take  note,  my  lady,  that  your  way 
Lies  backward  to  the  Chatelet!" 
She  shook  her  head  and  gazed  awhile 
At  her  cold  hands  with  a  rueful  smile. 
As  though  this  thing  had  made  her  mad. 

This  was  the  parting  that  they  had 
Beside  tho  haystack  in  the  floods. 

1858. 

TWO  RED  ROSES  ACROSS  THE 
MOON 

There  was  a  lady  lived  in  a  hall, 
Large  of  her  eyes  and  slim  and  tall ; 
And  ever  she  sung  from  noon  to  noon, 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

There  was  a  knight  came  riding  by 
In  early  spring,  when  the  roads  were  dry; 
And  he  heard  that  lady  sing  at  the  noon, 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

Yet  none  the  more  he  stopp'd  at  all, 
But  he  rode  a-gallop  past  the  hall ; 
And  left  that  lady  singing  at  noon, 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

Because,  forsooth,  the  battle  was  set, 
And  the  scarlet  and  blue  had  got  to  be 

met, 
He  rode  on  the  spur  till  the  next   warm 

noon : 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

But  the  battle  was  scatter'd  from  hill 

to  hill, 
From  the  windmill  to  the  watermill ; 
And  he  said  to  himself,  as  it  near'd  the 

noon, 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

You  scarce  could  see  for  the  scarlet  and 

blue, 
A  golden  helm  or  a  golden  shoe  : 
So  he  cried,  as  the  fight  grew  thick  at 

the  noon, 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon  ! 

Verily  then  the  gold  bore  through 

The  huddled  spears  of  the  scarlet  and 

blue  ; 
And  they  cried,  as  they  cut  them   down 

at  the  noon. 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon  ! 


I  trow  he  stopp'd  when  he  rode  again 
By  the  hall,  though  draggled  sore  with 

the  rain  ; 
And  his  lips  were  pinch'd  to  kiss  at  the 

noon 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

Under  the  may  she  stoop' d  to  the  crown, 
All  was  gold,  there  was  nothing  of  brown, 
And  the  horns  blew  up  in  the  hall  at  noon, 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon.      1858. 

SIR  GILES'  WAR-SONG  i 

Ho  !  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me, 
Sir  Giles,  le  bon  des  barrieres  9 

The  clink  of  arms  is  good  to  hear, 
The  flap  of  pennons  fair  to  see  ; 
Ho  I  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me, 
Sir  Giles,  le  bon  des  barrieres  ? 

The  leopards  and  lilies  are  fair  to  see  ; 
St.  George  Guienne  !  right  good  to  hear: 
Ho  !  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me ; 
Sir  Giles,  le  bon  des  barrieres  ? 

I  stood  by  the  barrier, 
My  coat  being  rjflazon'd  fair  to  see  ; 
Ho!  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me, 
Sir  Giles,  le  bon  des  barrieres  f 

Clisson  put  out  his  head  to  see, 
And  lifted  his  basnet  up  to  hear  ; 
I  pull'd  him  through  the  bars  to  me, 
Sir  Giles,  le  bon  des  barrieres. 

1858.      . 

NEAR  AVALON 

A  ship  with  shields  before  the  sun, 
Six  maidens  round  the  mast, 
A  red-gold  crown  on  every  one, 
A  green  gown  on  the  last. 

The  fluttering  green  banners  there 
Are  wrought  with    ladies'   heads   most 

fair. 
And  a  portraiture  of  Guenevere 
The  middle  of  each  sail  doth  bear. 

A  ship  which  sails  before  the  wind, 
And  round  the  helm  six  knights, 

1  Brow  ning  wrote  to  Morris,  on  the  appearance 
of  the  Earthly  Paradise:  "It  is  a  double  delight 
to  me  to  read  such  poetry,  and  know  you,  of  all 
the  world,  wrote  it,— you  whose  songs  I  used 
to  sing  while  galloping  by  Fiesole  in  old  days,— 
'  Ho.  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me  ?  '  "—(.I.  W. 
MackaiPs  Life  of  William  Morris,  Vol.  I.,  p.  133.) 


MORRIS 


839 


Their   heauines  are  on,    whereby,   half 

blind, 
They  pass  by  many  sights. 

The  tatter'd  scarlet  banners  there, 
Right  soon   will  leave  the   spear-heads 

bare, 
Those  six  knights  sorrowfully  bear. 
In  all  their  heauines  some  yellow  hair. 

1858. 

IN  PRISON 

Wearily,  drearily, 
Half  the  day  long, 
Flap  the  great  banners 
High  over  the  stone  ; 
Strangely  and  eerily 
Sounds  the  wind's  song, 
Bending  the  banner-poles. 

While,  all  alone. 

Watching  the  loophole's  spark, 

Lie  I,  with  life  all  dark. 

Feet  tether'd.  hands  fetter'd 

Fast  to  the  stone, 

The  grim  wall,  square  letter'd 

With  prison 'd  men's  groan. 

Still  strain  the  banner-poles 
Through  the  wind's  song. 
Westward  the  banner  rolls 
Over  my  wrong.  1858. 

FROM  THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF 
JASON 

TO  THE    SEA 

O  bitter  sea,  tumultuous  sea, 
Full  many  an  ill  is  wrought  by  thee  ! — 
Unto  the  wasters  of  the  land 
Thou  boldest  out  thy  wrinkled  hand  ; 
And   when   they   leave    the    conquered 

town, 
Whose  black   smoke  makes  thy   surges 

brown, 
Driven  betwixt  thee  and  the  sun, 
As  tin'  long  day  of  blood  is  done, 
From  many  a  league  of  glittering  waves 
Thou  smilest  on  them  and  their  slaves. 

The  thin  bright-eyed  Phoenician 
Thou  drawest  to  thy  waters  wan, 
With  ruddy  eve  anil  golden  morn 
Thou  temptest  him,  until,  forlorn, 
Unburied,  under  alien  skies 
<  last  up  ashore  his  body  lies. 

Yea,  whoso  sees  thee  from  his  door, 
Must  ever  long  for  more  and  more  ; 
Nor  will  the  beechen  bowl  suffice, 


Or  homespun  robe  of  little  price, 
Or  hood  well-woven  from  the  fleece 
Undyed,  or  unspiced  wine  of  Greece  ; 
So  sore  his  heart  is  set  upon 
Purple,  and  gold,  and  cinnamon  ; 
For  as  thou  cravest,  so  he  craves, 
Until  he  rolls  beneath  thy  waves, 
Nor  in  some  landlocked,  unknown  bayt 
Can  satiate  thee  for  one  day. 

Now,  therefore,  O  thou  bitter  sea, 
With  no  long  words  we  pray  to  thee, 
But  ask  thee,  hast  thou  felt  before 
Such  strokes  of  the  long  ashen  oar  ? 
And  hast  thou  yet  seen  such  a  prow 
Thy  rich  and  niggard  waters  plough? 

Nor  yet,  O  sea,  shalt  thou  be  cursed, 
If  at  thy  hands  we  gain  the  worst, 
And,  wrapt  in  water,  roll  about 
Blind-eyed,  unheeding  song  or  shout, 
Within  thine  eddies  far  from  shore, 
Warmed  by  no  sunlight  any  more. 

Therefore,  indeed,  we  joy  in  thee. 
And  praise  thy  greatness,  and  will  we 
Take  at  thy  hands  both  good  and  ill, 
Yea,  what  thou  wilt,  and  praise  thee  still, 
Enduring  not  to  sit  at  home, 
And  wait  until  the  last  days  come, 
When  we  no  more  may  care  to  hold 
White  bosoms  under  crowns  of  gold, 
And  our  dulled  hearts  no  longer  are 
Stirred  by  the  clangorous   noise  of  war, 
And  hope  within  our  souls  is  dead, 
And  no  joy  is  remembered. 

So.  if  thou  hast  a  mind  to  slay, 
Fair  prize  thou  hast  of  us  to-day  ; 
And  if  thou  hast  a  mind  to  save, 
Great  praise  and  honor  shalt  thou  have  ; 
But  whatso  thou  wilt  do  with  us, 
Our  end  shall  not  be  piteous. 
Because  our  memories  shall  live 
When  folk  forget  the  way  to  drive 
The  black  keel  through  the  heaped-up 

sea, 
And  half  dried  up  thy  waters  be.  18C7. 

THE  NYMPH'S  SONG    TO  HYLAS  1 

I  know  a  little  garden  close 
Set  thick  with  lily  and  red  rose, 
Where  I  would  wander  if  I  might 
From  dewy  dawn  to  dewy  night, 
And  have  one  with  me  wandering. 

And  though  within  it  no  birds  sing, 
And  though  no  pillared  house  is  there, 

1  This  sons  reappears  under  tlie  title  A  Garden 
by  the  Sea  in  "  Poems  by  the  Way,"  1891,  with 
slight  variations  in  the  text,  the  most  important 
of  which  is  noted  below. 


840 


BRITISH   POETS 


Ami  though  the  apple  boughs  arc  bare 
Of  fruit  and  blossom,  would  to  God, 
Her  feet  upon  the  green  grass  trod, 
And  I  beheld  them  as  before. 

There  comes  a  murmur  from  the  shore, 
And  in  the  place  two  fair  streams  are, 
Draw  n  from  the  purple  lulls  afar. 
Drawn  down  unto  the  restless  sea  ; 
The  hills  whose  flowers  ne'er  fed  the  bee, 
The  shore  no  ship  has  ever  seen, 
Still  beaten  by  the  billows  green,  ' 
"Whose  murmur  conies  unceasingly 
Unto  the  place  for  which  I  cry. 

For  which  I  cry  both  day  and  night, 
For  which  I  let  slip  all  delight, 
That  maketh  me  both  deaf  and  blind, 
Careless  to  win,  unskilled  to  find, 
And  quick  to  lose  what  all  men  seek. 

Yet  tottering  as  T  am?  an(l  weak, 
Still  have  I  left  a  little  breath 
To  seek  within  the  jaws  of  death 
An  entrance  to  that  happy  place, 
To  seek  the  unforgotten  face 
Once  seen,  once  kissed,  once  reft  from 

me 
Anigh  the  murmuring  of  the  sea.     1867. 

ORPHEUS'  SONG  OP  TRIUMPH 

0  death,  that  makest  life  so  sweet, 
O  fear,  with  mirth  before  thy  feet, 
What  have  ye  yet  in  store  for  us, 
The  conquerors,  the  glorious? 

Men  say  :  "  For  fear  that  thou  shouldst 

die 
To-morrow,  let  to-day  pass  by 
Flower-crowned  and  singing,"  yet  have 

we 
Passed  our  to-day  upon  the  sea, 
Or  in  a  poisonous  unknown  land, 
With  fear  and  death  on  either  hand, 
And  listless  when  the  day  was  done 
Have  scarcely  hoped  to  see  the  sun 
Dawn  on  the  morrow  of  the  earth. 
Nor    in    our    hearts    have   thought    of 

mirth. 
And  while  the  world  lasts,  scarce  again 
Shall  any  sons  of  men  bear  pain 
Like  we  have  borne,  yet  be  alive. 
So  surely  not  in  vain  we  strive 
Like  other  men  for  our  reward  ; 
Sweet  peace  and  deep,   the  checkered 

sward 
Beneath  the  ancient  mulberry  trees, 
The  smooth-paved  gilded  palaces, 

1  In  A   Garden  by  the  Sea,  these  three  lines 
read  : 

Dark  hills  whose  heath-hloom  feeds  no  bee, 
Dark  shore  no  ship  has  ever  seen, 
Tormented  by  the  billows  green. 


Where  the  shy  thin-elad  damsels   sweet 
Make  music  with  their  gold-ringed  feet. 
The  fountain  court  amidst  of  it, 
Where   the   short-haired   slave-maidens 

sit, 
While  on  the  veined  pavement  lie 
The  honied  tilings  and  spicery 
Their  arms   have   borne    from   out   the 
town. 

The  dancers  on  the  thymy  down 
In  summer  twilight,  when  the  earth 
Is  still  of  all  things  but  their  mirth, 
And  echoes  borne  upon  the  wind 
Of  others  in  like  way  entwined. 

The    merchant-town's     fair     market- 
place, 
Where  over  many  a  changing  face 
The  pigeons  of  the  temple  flit, 
And  still  the  outland  merchants  sit 
Like  kings  above  their  merchandise, 
Lying  to  foolish  men  and  wise. 

Ah  !  if  they  heard  that  we  were  come 
Into  the  bay,  and  bringing  home 
That  which   all   men  have  talked  about, 
Some  men   with  rage,   and  some   with 

doubt. 
Some  with  desire,  and  some  with  praise  ; 
Then  would  the  people  throng  the  ways, 
Nor  heed  the  outland  merchandise, 
Nor  any  talk,  from  fools  or  wise, 
But  tales  of  our  accomplished  quest. 

What  soul  within  the  house  shall  rest 
When  we  come  home  ?    The  wily  king 
Shall  leave  his  throne  to  see  the  thing  ; 
No  man  shall  keep  the  landward  gate, 
The  hurried  traveller  shall  wait 
Until  our  bulwarks  graze  the  quay  ; 
Unslain  the  milk-white  bull  shall  be 
Beside  the  quivering  altar-flame  ; 
Scarce  shall  the  maiden  clasp  for  shame 
Over  her  breast  the  raiment  thin 
The  morn  that  Argo  cometh  in. 

Then  cometh  happy  life  again 
That  payeth  well  our  toil  and  pain 
In  that  sweet  hour,  when  all  our  woe 
But  as  a  pensive  tale  we  know, 
Nor  yet  remember  deadly  fear  ; 
For  surely  now  if  death  be  near, 
Unthought-of  is  it,  and  unseen 
When  sweet  is,  that  hath  bitter  been. 

18G7. 

SONGS  OF  ORPHEUS  AND  THE  SIRENS 

Sirens 

O  happy  seafarers  are  ye, 

And  surely  all  your  ills  are  past, 

And  toil  upon  the  land  and  sea, 
Since  ye  are  brought  to  us  at  last. 


MORRIS 


841 


To  you  the  fashion  of  the  world. 

Wide    lauds    laid   waste,    fair    cities 
burned, 
And  plagues,  and  kings  from   kingdoms 
hurled, 
Are    nought,    since    hither    ye    have 
turned. 

For  as  upon  this  beach  we  stand. 

And  o'er  our  heads  the  sea-fowl  flit, 
Our  eyes  behold  a  glorious  land, 

And  soon  shall  ye  be  kings  of  it. 

Orpheus 

A  little  more,  a  little  more. 

O  carriers  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 
A  little  labor  with  the  oar. 

Before  we  reach  the  land  of  Greece. 

E'en  now  perchance  faint  rumors  reach 
Men's  ears  of  this  our  victory, 

And  draw  them  down  unto  the  beach 
To  gaze  across  the  empty  sea. 

But  since  the  longed-for  day  is  nigh, 
And  scarce  a  God  could  stay  us  now, 

Why  do  ye  hang  your  heads  and  sigh, 
Hindering  for  nought  our  eager  prow  ? 

Sirens 

All,  had  ye  chanced  to  reach  the  home 
On  which  your  fond  desires  were  set, 

Into  what  troubles  had  ye  come? 
Short  love  and  joy,  and  long  regret. 

But  now,  but  now,  when  ye  have  lain 
Asleep  with  us  a  little  while 

Beneath  the  washing  of  the  main, 

How  calm  shall  be  your  waking  smile  ! 

For  ye  shall  smile  to  think  of  life 
That    knows   no  troublous  change  or 
fear, 

No  unavailing  bitter  strife, 

That  ere  its  time  brings  trouble  near. 

Orpheus 

Is  there  some  murmur  in  your  ears, 
That  all  that  we  have  done  is  nought, 

And  nothing  ends  our  cares  or  fears, 
Till  the  last  fear  is  on  us  brought? 

Sirens 

Alas  !  and  will  ye  stop  your  ears, 

In  vain  desire  to  do  aught, 
And  wish  to  live  'mid  cares  and  fears, 

Until  the  last  fear  makes  you  nought  ? 


Orpheus 

Is  not  the  Ma\T-time  now  on  earth, 
When  close  against  the  city  wall 
The  folks  are  singing  in  their  mirth, 
While  on  their  heads  the  May-flowers 
fall? 

Sirens 

Yes,  May  is  come,  and  its  sweet  breath 
Shall  well-nigh  make  you  weep  to-day, 

And  pensive  with  swift-coming  death, 
Shall  ye  be  satiate  of  the  May. 

Orpheus 

Shall  not  July  bring  fresh  delight, 

As  underneath  green  trees  ye  sit, 
And  o'er  some  damsel's  body  white 
The     noontide    shadows   change   and 
flit? 

Sirens 

No  new  delight  July  shall  bring 
But  ancient  fear  and  fresh  desire, 

And  spite  of  every  lovely  thing, 
Of  July  surely  shall  you  tire. 

Orpheus 

And  now,  when  August  comes  on  thee, 
And  'mid  the  golden  sea  of  corn 

The  merry  reapers  thou  mayst  see, 
Wilt  thou  still  think  the  earth  forlorn  ? 

Sire)is 

Set  flowers  upon  thy  short-lived  head, 
And  in  thine  heart  forgetfulness 

Of  man's  hard  toil,  and  scanty  bread, 
And  weary  of  those  days  no  less. 

Orpheus 

Or  wilt  thou  climb  the  sunny  hill, 

In  the  October  afternoon, 
To  watch  the  purple  earth's  blood  fill 

The  gray  vat  to  the  maiden's  tune? 

Sirens 

When  thou  beginnest  to  grow  old, 
Bring  back  remembrance  of  thy  bliss 

With  that  the  shining  cup  doth  hold, 
And  weary  helplessly  of  this. 

Orpheus 

Or  pleasureless  shall  we  pass  by 

The  long  cold  night  and  leaden  day, 

That  song,  ami  tale,  and  minstrels}' 
Shall  make  as  merry  as  the  May  ? 


842 


BRITISH   POETS 


Sirens 

tiisi  then,  to-night,  to  some  old  tale 
Until  the  tears  o'erflow  thine  eyes  ; 

But  what  shall  all  these  things  avail. 
When  sad  to-morrow  comes  and  dies? 

Orjjheus 

And  when  the  world  is  horn  again, 
And  with  some  fair  love,  side  hy  side, 

Thou  wamlerest  'twixt  the  sun  and  rain, 
In  that  fresh  love-begetting  tide  ; 

Then,  when  the  world  is  horn  again, 
And  the  sweet  world  before  thee  lies, 

Shall  thy  heart  think  of  coming  pain, 
Or  vex  itself  with  memories  ? 

Sirens 

Ah  !  then  the  world  is  born  again 
With  burning  love  unsatisfied, 

And  new  desires  fond  ami  vain, 
And  weary  days  from  tide  to  tide. 

Ah  !  when  the  world  is  born  again, 

A  little  day  is  soon  gone  by, 
When  thou,  unmoved  by  son  or  rain. 

Within  a  cold  straight  house  shalt  lie. 


^.h.  will  ye  go,  and  whither  then 
Will  ye  go  from  us,  soon  to  die. 

To  fill  your  three-score  years  and  ten, 
With  many  an  unnamed  misery  ? 

And  this  the  wretchedest  of  all, 
That  when  upon  your  lonely  eyes 

The  last  faint  heaviness  shall  fall 
Ye  shall  bethink  you  of  our  cries. 

Come  back,  nor  grown  old,  seek  in  vain 
To  hear  us  sing  across  the  sea. 

Come  back,  come  back,  come  back  again, 
Come  back,  O  fearful  Minyae  ! 

Orpheus 

Ah,  once  again,  ah,  once  again, 
The  black  prow  plunges  through  the 
sea, 

Nor  yet  shall  all  your  toil  be  vain, 
Nor  yet  forgot,"  O  Minyae.  1867. 

INVOCATION   TO  CHAUCER 

(From  the  last  book  of  the  Life  and  Death 
of  Jason) 

So    ends    the    winning    of  the   Golden 
Fleece — 


So  ends  the  tale  of  that  sweet  rest  and 

peace 
That  unto  Jason  and  his  love  befell  ; 
Another  story  now  my  tongue  must  tell, 
And    tremble    in    the    telling.     Would 

that  I 
Had  but  some  portion  of  that  mastery 
That  from  the  rose-hung  lanes  of  woody 

Kent 
Through  these  five  hundred  years  such 

songs  have  sent 
To  us,   who  meshed  within  this  smoky 

net 
Of  unrejoicing  labor,  love  them  yet. 
And  thou,  O  Master !— Yea,  my  Master 

still, 
Whatever  feet  have  scaled  Parnassus' 

hill, 
Since  like  thy  measures,  clear  and  sweet 

and  strong, 
Thames'  stream  scarce  fettered  drave  the 

dace  along 
Unto    the    bastioned    bridge,   his    only 

chain. — 

0  Master,  pardon  me.  if  yet  in  vain 
Thou  art  my  Master,  and  I  fail  to  bring 
Before  men's  eyes  the  image  of  the  thing 
My   heart   is   filled   with :    thou    whose 

dreamy  eyes 
Beheld  the  flush  to  Cressid's  cheeks  arise, 
When  Troilus  rode  up  the  praising  street, 
As  clearly  as  they  saw  thy  townsmen 

meet  [stood 

Those  who  in  vineyards  of  Poictou  with- 
The  glittering  horror  of  the  steel-topped 

wood.  1867. 

AN   APOLOGY 

PROLOGUE  OF  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to 
sing, 

1  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears. 
Or    make  quick-coining   death  a  little 

tiling, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your 

tears, 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh. 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 
Made 'the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet 

days  die — 
— Remember  me  a  little  then  I  pray, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


MORRIS 


843 


The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  cave 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn 

our  bread, 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear  ; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 
Because   they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be 

dead. 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite 

away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due 

time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked 

straight  ? 
Let  it  suffice   me  that  my  murmuring 

rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory 

gate. 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleep;'  region  stay, 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 


At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things 

did  show, 
That   through  one  window  men  beheld 

the  spring, 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer 

glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines 

a-row, 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted 

way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December 

day. 

So  witli  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive   to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of 

bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea, 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men 

must  be  ; 
Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men 

shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

1868. 


ATALANTA'S  RACE 


ARGUMENT 


Atalanta,  daughter  of  King  Schceneus,  not  willing  to  lose  her  virgin's  estate,  made  it  a  law  to  all 
suitors  that  they  should  run  a  race  with  her  in  the  public  place,  and  if  they  failed  to  over- 
come her  should  die  unrevenged  ;  and  thus  many  brave  men  perished.  At  last  came  Milanion, 
the  son  of  Amphidamas,  who,  outruuniug  her  with  the  help  of  Venus,  gained  the  virgin  and 
wedded  her. 


Through  thick  Arcadian  woods  a  hunter 
went, 

Following  the  beasts  upon  a  fresh  spring 
day; 

But  since  his  horn-tipped  bow  but  seldom 
bent, 

Now  at  the  noontide  nought  had  happed 
to  slay, 

Within  a  vale  he  called  his  hounds  away, 

Darkening  the  echoes  of  his  lone  voice 
cling 

About  the  cliffs  and  through  the  beech- 
trees  ring. 

But  when   they   ended,  still  awhile   he 

stood. 
And  but  the  sweet  familiar  thrush  could 

hear, 
And  all  the  day-long  noises  of  the  wood. 
And  o'er  the  dry  leaves  of  the  vanished 

year 
His  hounds'  feet  pattering  as  they  drew 

anear, 


And  heavy  breathing  from  their  heads 

low  hung, 
To  see  the  mighty  cornel  bow  unstrung. 

Then  smiling  did  he  turn  to  leave  the 

place, 
But  with  his  first  step  some  new  fleeting 

thought 
A    shadow    cast   across    his    sun-burnt 

face  ; 
I     think     the     golden    net    that    April 

brought 
From  some  warm   world   his   wavering 

soul  had  caught ; 
For,  sunk  in  vague  sweet  longing,  did  he 

go 
Betwixt  the  trees  with  doubtful  steps 

and  slow. 

Yet  howsoever  slow  he  went,  at  last 
The  trees  grew  sparser,  and  the   wood 
was  done  ;  feast, 

Whereon  one  farewell  backward  look  he 


844 


BRITISH    POETS 


Then,  turning  round  to  see  what  place 

w  as  won, 
With  shaded  eyes  looked  underneath  the 

sun. 
And  o'er  green  meads  and  new-turned 

furrows  brown 
Beheld  the  gleaming  of  King  Sehoeneus' 

town. 

So  thitherward  he  turned,  and  on  each 

side 
The   folk   were   busy    on   the   teeming 

laud. 
And  man  and  maid  from  the  brown  fur- 
rows cried. 
Or  midst  the  newly  blossomed  vines  did 

stand, 
And  as  the  rustic  weapon   pressed  the 

hand 
Thought  of  the  nodding  of  the  well-filled 

ear, 
Or  how  the  knife  the  heavy  bunch  should 

shear. 

Merry  it  was :  about  him  sung  the 
birds, 

The  spring  flowers  bloomed  along  the 
firm  dry  road, 

The  sleek-skinned  mothers  of  the  sharp- 
horned  herds 

Now  for  the  barefoot  milking-maidens 
towed  ; 

While  from  the  freshness  of  his  blue 
abode, 

Glad  his  death-bearing  arrows  to  forget, 

The  broad  sun  blazed,  nor  scattered 
plagues  as  yet. 

Through  such  fair  things  unto  the  gates 

he  came, 
And  found  them  open,  as  though  peace 

were  there  ; 
Wherethrough,     unquestioned     of     his 

race  or  name, 
He  entered,  and  along  the  streets  'gan 

fare. 
Which  at  the  first  of  folk  were  well-nigh 

bare  ; 
But  pressing  on,  and  going  more  hastily, 
Men  hurrying  too  he  'gan  at  last  to  see. 

Following  the  last  of  these  he  still 
pressed  on, 

Until  an  open  space  he  came  unto, 

Where  wreaths  of  fame  had  oft  been  lost 
and  won. 

For  feats  of  strength  folks  there  were 
wont  to  do. 

And  now  our  hunter  looked  for  some- 
thing new, 


Because  the  whole  wide  space  was  bare, 

and  stilled 
The  high  seats  were,  with  eager  people 

filled. 

There  with  the  others  to  a  seat  he  gat, 
Whence  he  beheld  a  broidered  canopy, 
'Neath  which  in  fair  array  King  Shceneus 

sat 
Upon     his     throne     with      councillors 

thereby  ; 
And  underneath  his  well-wrought  seat 

and  high, 
He  saw  a  golden  image  of  the  sun, 
A  silver  image  of  the  Fleet-foot  One. 

A  brazen  altar  stood  beneath  their  feet 
Whereon  a  thin  flame   flicker'd  in  the 

wind  ; 
Nigh  this  a  herald  clad  in  raiment  meet 
Made  ready  even  now  his  horn  to  wind, 
By   whom   a   huge  man  held   a   sword, 

entwin'd 
With  yellow  flowers  ;  these  stood  a  little 

space 
From  off  the  altar,  nigh  the  starting 

place. 

And  there    two    runners   did  the   sign 

abide, 
Foot  set  to  foot, — a  young  man  slim  and 

fair, 
Crisp-hair'd,  well  knit,  with  firm  limbs 

often  tried 
In  places  where  no  man  his  strength  may 

spare : 
Dainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair 
A  golden  circlet  of  renown  lie  wore, 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  garland  bore. 

But  on  this  day  with  whom  shall  lie  con- 
tend ? 

A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 

When  in  the  wToods  she  lists  her  bow  to 
bend, 

Too  fair  for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad, 

Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers 
had, 

If  he  must  still  behold  her  from  afar  ; 

Too  fair  to  let  the  world  live  free  from 
war. 

She  seem'd  all  earthly  matters  to  forget ; 
Of   all   tormenting   lines   her   face  was 

clear  ; 
Her  wide  gray  eyes  upon  the  goal  were 

set 
Calm  and  umov'd  as  though  no  soul  were 

near. 


MORRIS 


845 


But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear, 
Nor   from    her   loveliness   one   moment 

turn'd 
His  anxious  face  with  fierce  desire  that 

burn'd, 

Now  through  the  hush   there  broke  the 

trumpet's  clang 
Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 
Then   from   light   feet   a   spurt  of  dust 

there  sprang. 
And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by 

side  ; 
But  silent  did  the  thronging  folk  abide 
Until  the   turning-post   was  reach'd  at 

last, 
And  round   about  it  still  abreast  they 

passed. 

But  when  the  people  saw  how  close  they 

ran, 
When    half-way    to    the   starting-point 

they  were, 
A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the 

man 
Headed  the  white-foot  runner,  and  drew 

near 
Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear ; 
And  scarce  his  straining  feet  the  ground 

could  feel, 
And  bliss  unhop'd  for  o'er  his  heart  'gan 

steal. 

But  'midst  the  loud  victorious  shouts  he 

heard 
Her  footsteps  drawing  nearer,  and  the 

sound 
Of     fluttering     raiment,     and     thereat 

a feared 
His  flush'd  and   eager  face   he  turn'd 

around, 
And   even    then   he   felt   her    past   him 

bound 
Fleet  as  the  wind,  but  scai-cely  saw  her 

there 
Till  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers  fair. 

There  stood   she  breathing   like  a  little 

child 
Amid  some  warlike  clamor  laid  asleep. 
For  no  victorious  joy  her  red  lips  smif'd, 
Her  cheek  its    wonted  freshness  did  but 

keep  ; 
No  glance  lit  up  her  clear  gray  eyes  and 

deep, 
Though  some  divine  thought  soften'd  all 

her  face 
As  once  more  rang  the  trumpet  through 

the  place. 


But  her  late  foe  stopp'd  short  amidst  his 

course, 
One  moment  gaz'd  upon  her  piteously. 
Then  with  a  groan  his  lingering  feet  did 

force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes 

could  see  ; 
And,  changed   like  one  who  knows  his 

time  must  be 
But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword  ; 

Then  high  rose  up  the  gleaming  deadly 

blade, 
3ar'd  of  its  flowers,   and  through    the 

crowded  place 
Was  silence  now,  and  midst  of  it   the 

maid 
Went  by  the  poor   wretch  at  a   gentle 

pace, 
And  he  to  hers  upturn'd  his  sad  white 

face  ; 
Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 
Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  light. 

So  was  the  pageant  ended,  and  all  folk 

Talking  of  this  and  that  familiar  tiling 

In  little  groups  from  that  sad  concourse 
broke. 

For  now  the  shrill  bats  were  upon  the 
wing, 

And  soon  dark  night  would  shty  the 
evening, 

And  in  dark  gardens  sang  the  nightin- 
gale 

Her  little-heeded,  oft-repeated  tale. 

And  with  the  last  of  all  the  hunter  went, 
Who,  wondering  at  the  strange  sight  he 

had  seen, 
Prayed  an  old  man  to  tell  him  what  it 

meant, 
Both  why  the  vanquished  man  so  slain 

had  been, 
And    if    the    maiden    were    an   earthly 

queen. 
Or  rather  what  much  more  she  seemed 

to  be, 
No  sharer  in  this  world's  mortality. 

"  Stranger,"  said  he,   "I  pray  she  soon 

may  die 
Whose  lovely  youth  has  slain  so  many 

an  on.'  ! 
King  Schceneus'  daughter  is  she  verily, 
Who  when  her  eyes-first  looked  upon  the 

sun 
Was  fain  to  end  her  life  but  new  begun, 


O-fO 


BRITISH   POETS 


For  he   had   vowed   to   leave   but   men 

alone 
Sprung   from   his   loins  when  he    from 

earth  was  gone. 

"  Therefore  he  bade   one  leave  her  in 

the  wood, 
And  let  wild  things  deal  with  her  as 

they  might, 
But    this   being  done,  some  cruel  god 

thought  good 
To    save    her    beauty    in    the    world's 

despite ; 
Folk  say  that  her,  so  delicate  and  white 
As  now  she  is,  a  rough   root-grubbing 

bear 
Amidst  her  shapeless  cubs  at  first  did 

rear. 

"  In  course  of  time  the  woodfolk  slew 
her  nurse, 

And  to  their  rude  abode  the  youngling 
brought, 

And  reared  her  up  to  be  a  kingdom's 
curse  ; 

Who  grown  a  woman,  of  no  kingdom 
thought, 

But  armed  and  swift,  'mid  beasts  de- 
struction wrought, 

Nor  spared  two  shaggy  centaur  kings  to 
slay 

To  whom  her  body  seemed  an  easy  prey. 

"  So  to  this  city,  led  by  fate,  she  came 
Whom    known    by     signs,    whereof    I 

cannot  tell, 
King  Schceneus  for  his  child  at  last  did 

claim. 
Nor  otherwhere  since  that  day  doth  she 

dwell 
Sending  too  many  a  noble  soul  to  hell — 
What  !  thine  eyes  glisten  !  what  then, 

thinkest  thou 
Her  shining  head  unto  the  yoke  to  bow  ? 

"  Listen,  my  son,  and  love  some  other 

maid 
For  she   the  saffron  gown   will    never 

wear, 
And   on  no  flower-strewn    couch   shall 

she  be  laid, 
Nor  shall  her  voice  make  glad  a  lover's 

ear  : 
Yet  if  of  Death  thou  hast  not  any  fear, 
Yea.  rather,  if  thou  lov'st  him  utterly, 
Thou    still   niay'st    woo    her    ere   thou 

com'st  to  die, 

;'  Like  him  that  on  this  day  thou  sawest 
lie  dead ; 


For,  fearing  as  I  deem  the  sea-born  one, 

The  maid  has  vowed  e'en  such  a  man  to 
wed 

As  in  the  course  her  swift  feet  can  out- 
run , 

But  whoso  fails  herein,  his  days  are 
done : 

He  came  the  nighest  that  was  slain  to- 
day, 

Although  with  him  I  deem  she  did  but 
play. 

"  Behold,  such  mercy  Atalanta  gives 
To  those  that  long  to  win  her  loveliness  ; 
Be  wise  !  be  sure  that  many  a  maid  there 

lives 
Gentler  than  she,  of  beauty  little  less, 
Whose  swimming  eyes  thy  loving  words 

shall  bless, 
When  in  some  garden,  knee  set  close  to 

knee. 
Thou  sing'st  the  song   that   love   may 

teach  to  thee." 

So  to  the  hunter  spake  that  ancient  man, 

And  left  him  for  his  own  home  pre- 
sently : 

But  he  turned  round,  and  through  the 
moonlight  wan 

Reached  the  thick  wood,  and  there 
'twixt  tree  and  tree 

Distraught  he  passed  the  long  night 
feverishly. 

'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  and  at  dawn 
arose 

To  wage  hot  war  against  his  speechless 
foes. 

There  to  the  hart's  flank   seemed   his 

shaft  to  grow, 
As  panting  down  the  broad  green  glades 

he  flew, 
There  by  his  horn  the  Dryads  well  might 

know 
His  thrust  against  the  bear's  heart  had 

been  true. 
And  there  Adonis' bane  his  javelin  slew, 
But    still    in   vain   through   rough   and 

smooth  he  went, 
For  none  the  more  his  restlessness  was 

spent. 

So  wandering,  he  to  Argive  cities  came, 
And   in   the   lists   with  valiant  men  he 

stood , 
And  by  great  deeds  he  won  him  praise 

and  fame, 
And  heaps  of   wealth  for  little-valuec 

blood  ' 


MORRIS 


847 


But   none   of   all  these   things,  or  life, 

seemed  good 
Unto  his  heart,  where  still  unsatisfied 
A  ravenous  longing  warred   with   fear 

and  pride. 

Therefore  it  happed  when  but  a  month 

had  gone 
Since  he  had  left  King  Schceneus'  city 

old, 
In  hunting-gear  again,  again  alone 
The  forest-bordered  meads  did  he  behold, 
Where   still  mid   thoughts  of  Augusts 

quivering  gold 
Folk   hoed  the  wheat,  and  clipped  the 

vine  in  trust 
Of  faint  October's  purple-foaming  must. 

And  once  again  he  passed  the  peaceful 

gate, 
While  to  his  beating  heart  his  lips  did 

lie, 
That  owning  not  victorious  love  and  fate, 
Said,  half  aloud,  "  And  here  too  must  I 

try, 
To  win  of  alien  men  the  mastery, 
And  gather  for  my  head   fresh  meed  of 

fame 
And    cast    new    glory   on   my   father's 

name." 

In   spite   of  that,   how  beat   his  heart, 

when  first 
Folk  said  to  him,  "And  art  thou  come 

to  see 
That  which  still  makes  our  city's  name 

accurst 
Among  all  mothers  for  its  cruelty? 
Then  know  indeed  that  fate  is  good  to 

thee 
Because  to-morrow  a  new  luckless  one 
Against  the  whitefoot  maid  is  pledged 

to  run." 

So  on  the  morrow  with  no  curious  eyes 
As  once   he  did,  that   piteous  sight  he 

saw, 
Nor  did  that  wonder  in  his  heart  arise 
As  toward  the  goal  the  conquering  maid 

11  draw, 
Nor  did  he  gaze  upon  her  eyes  with  awe, 
Too  full    the   pain   of  longing    iilled  Ids 

heart 
For  fear  or  wonder  there  to  have  a  part. 

But  O,   how  long  the  night  was  ere  it 

went  ! 
How  long  it  was  before  the  dawn  begun 

Showed  to  1  lie  wakening  birds  the  sun's 
intent 


That  not   in  darkness  should  the  world 

be  done  ! 
And   then,   and  then,  how  long  before 

the  sun 
Bade  silently  the  toilers  of  the  earth 
Get   forth  to    fruitless  cares  or  empty 

mirth  ! 

And  long  it  seemed  that  in  the  market- 
place 

He  stood  and  saw  the  chaffering  folk 
go  by, 

Ere  from  the  ivory  throne  King  Schoe- 
neus'  face 

Looked  down  upon  the  murmur  royally, 

But  then  came  trembling  that  the  time 
was  nigh 

When  he  midst  pitying  looks  his  love 
must  claim, 

And  jeering  voices  must  salute  his  name. 

But  as  the  throng  he  pierced  to  gain  the 

throne, 
His  alien  face  distraught   and   anxious 

told 
What  hopeless    errand    he   was   bound 

upon, 
And,  each  to   each,  folk   whispered  to 

behold 
His  godlike  limbs  ;  nay,  and  one  woman 

old 
As  he  went  by  must  pluck  him  by  the 

sleeve 
And  pray  him  yet  that  wretched  love  to 

leave. 

For  sidling  up   she  said,    "  Canst   thou 

live  twice, 
Fair  son  ?  canst  thou  have  joyful  youth 

again, 
That  thus  thou  goest  to  the  sacrifice 
Thy  self  the  victim  ?  nay  then,  all  in  vain 
Thy  mother  bore   her   longing  and  her 

pain, 
And  one  more  maiden  on  the  earth  must 

dwell 
Hopeless  of  joy,  nor  fearing  death  and 

hell. 

"  0,  fool,  thou  knowest  not  the  compact 

then 
That  with  the  three- formed  goddess  she 

has  made 
To  keep  her  from  the  loving  lipsof  men, 
And  in  no  saffron  gown  to  be  arrayed, 
And  therewithal  with  glory  to  be  paid 
And  love  of  her  the  moonlit  river  sees 
White  'gainst  t  he  shadow  of  the  formless 

trees. 


S4S 


BRITISH    POETS 


And  at  my  door  lay  down  thy  luckless 

head, 
Swelling  the  band  of  the  unhappy  dead, 

"Whose  curses  even  now  my  heart  doth 

fear  ? 
Lo,  I  am  old,  and  know  what  life  can  be, 
And  what  a  bitter  thing  is  death  anear. 
O,  Son  !  be  wise,  and  barken  unto  me, 
And  if  no  other  can  be  dear  tc  thee, 
At  least  as  now,  yet  is   the   world  full 

wide, 
And  bliss  in  seeming  hopeless  hearts  may 

hide  : 

"But    if     thou  losest  life,  then    all  is 

lost." 
"  Nay,  King,"  Milanion  said,  "thy  words 

are  vain. 
Doubt  not  that  I  have  counted  well  the 

cost. 
But  say,  on  what  day  wilt  thou  that  I 

gain 
Fulfilled   delight,   or  death   to   end  my 

pain. 
Right  glad  were  I  if  it  could  be  to-day, 
And  all  my  doubts  at  rest  for  ever  lay." 

"Nay,"   said  King  Schoeneus,   "  thus  it 

shall  not  be, 
But  rather  shalt  thou  let  a  month  go  by, 
And  weary  with  thy  prayers  for  victory 
What  god  thou  know'st  the  kindest  and 

most  nigh. 
So  doing,  still  perchance  thou  shalt  not 

die  : 
And   with    my   goodwill   wouldst   thou 

have  the  maid, 
For  of  the  equal  gods  I  grow  afraid. 

"  And  until  then,  O  Prince,  be  thou  my 
guest, 

And  all.  these  troublous  things  awhile 
forget." 

"  Nay,"  said  lie,  "couldst  thou  give  my 
soul  good  rest, 

And  on  mine  head  a  sleepy  garland  set, 

Then  had  I  'scaped  the  meshes  of  the 
net,  [word  ; 

Nor  shouldstthou  hear  from  me  another 

But  now,  make  sharp  thy  fearful  head- 
ing-sword. 

"  Yet  will  I  do  what  son  of  man  may  do, 
And    promise  all    the    gods    may   most 

desire, 
That  to  myself  I  may  at  least  be  true  ; 
And  on  that  day  my  heart  and  limbs  so 

tire, 


'■  Come    back,    and  I    myself    will    pray 

for  thee 
Unto  the  sea-born  framer  of  delights, 
To  give  thee  her  who  on  the  earth  may  be 
The  fairest  stirrer  up  to  death  and  fights, 
To  quench  with  hopeful  days  and  joyous 

nights 
The  flame  that  doth  thy  youthful  heart 

consume  : 
Come  back,  nor  give  thy  beauty  to  the 

tomb." 

How  should   he    listen    to    her    earnest 

speech  ? 
Words,  such  as  he  not  once  or  twice  had 

said 
Unto  himself,   whose    meaning  scarce 

could  reach 
The  firm  abode  of  that  sad  hardihead — 
He    turned    about,    and     through    the 

marketstead 
Swiftly    he     passed,    until   before     the 

throne 
In  the  cleared  space  he    stood  at  last 

alone. 

Then   said   the  King,  "Stranger,  what 

dost  thou  here  ? 
Have  any  of  my  folk  done  ill  to  thee  ? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  forest  men  in  fear  ? 
Or  art  thou  of  the  sad  fraternity 
Who  still  will  strive  my  daughter's  mates 

to  be, 
Staking  their  lives   to  win   an   earthly 

bliss, 
The  lonely  maid,  the  friend  of  Artemis  ?  " 

''  O  King,"   he   said   "  thou   sayest   the 

word  indeed  ; 
Nor  will  I  quit  the  strife  till  I  have  won 
My   sweet   delight,  or   death  to  end  my 

need. 
And  know  that  I  am  called  Milanion, 
Of    King   Amphidamas   the    well-loved 

son : 
So  fear  not  that  to  thy  old  name.  O  King, 
Much   loss   or  shame    my   victory    will 

bring." 

"Nay,  Prince,"  said  Schoeneus,  "wel- 
come to  this  land 

Thou  wert  indeed,  if  thou  wert  here  to 
try 

Thy  strength  'gainst  some  one  mighty 
of  his  hand ; 

Nor  would  we  grudge  thee  well-won 
mastery. 

But  now,  why  wilt  thou  come  to  me  to 
die, 


MORRIS 


849 


With  utmost  strain  and  measureless  de- 
sire, 
That,  at  the  worst,  I  may  hut  fall  asleep 
When  in  the  sunlight  round  that  sword 
shall  sweep." 

He  went  therewith,  nor  anywhere  would 

bide, 
But  unto  Argos  restlessly  did  wend  ; 
And  there,  as  one  who  lays  all  hope  aside, 
Because  the  leech  has  said  his   life  must 

end, 
Silent  farewell  lie  bade  to  foe  and  friend, 
And  took  his  way  unto  the  restless  sea, 
For   there  he   deemed  his   rest  and  help 

might  be. 


Upon  the  shore  of  Argolis  there  stands 
A  temple  to  the  goddess  that  lie  sought, 
That,  turned  unto  the  lion-bearing  lands, 
Fenced  from  the  east,  of  cold  winds  hath 

no  thought. 
Though    to    no     homestead     there    the 

sheaves  are  brought, 
No   groaning   press   torments  the  close- 
clipped  murk, 
Lonely  the  fane  stands,  far  from  all  men's 
work. 

Pass    through   a   close,   set   thick   with 

myrtle-trees, 
Through  the  brass  doors  that  guard  the 

holy  place, 
And   entering,  hear   the  washing  of  the 

seas 
That  twice  a-day  rise  high  above  the  base, 
And  with  the  south-west   urging  them, 

embrace 
The  marble   feet   of   her   that   standeth 

there 
That  shrink  not,  naked   though   they  be 

and  fair. 

Small  is  the  fane  through  which  the  sea- 
wind  sings 

Ab<  >ut  Queen  Venus'  well-wrought  image 
white, 

But  hung  around  are  many  precious 
tilings, 

The  gifts  of  those  who,  longing  for  de- 
light, 

Have  hung  them  there  within  the  god- 
dess' sight, 

And  in  return  have  taken  at  her  hands 

The  living  treasures  of  the  Grecian  lands. 

And  thither  now  lias  conic  Milanion, 
And  showed  unto  the  priests'  wide  open 

eyes 

54 


Gifts   fairer  than   all  those   that   there 

have  shone, 
Silk     cloths,    inwrought     with     Indian 

fantasies, 
And  bowls  inscribed  with  sayings  of  the 

wise 
Above  the  deeds  of  foolish  living  things  ; 
And  mirrors  fit  to  be  the  gifts  of  kings. 

And  now  before  the  Sea-born  One  he 
stands, 

By  the  sweet  veiling  smoke  made  dim 
and  soft, 

And  while  the  incense  trickles  from  his 
hands, 

And  while  the  odorous  smoke-wreaths 
hang  aloft, 

Thus  doth  he  pray  to  her:  ,;  O  Thou, 
who  oft 

Hast  holpen  man  and  maid  in  their  dis- 
tress 

Despise  me  not  for  this  my  wretchedness  ! 

"  O  goddess,  among  us  who  dwell  below, 
Kings  and  great  men,  great  for   a  little 

while, 
Have  pity  on  the  lowly  heads  that  bow, 
Nor  hate  the  hearts  that  love  them  with- 
out guile  ; 
Wilt  thou   be  worse   than   these,  and  is 

thy  smile 
A  vain  device  of  him  who  set  thee  here, 
An  empty  dream  of  some  artificer  ? 

"O  great  one,  some  men  love,  and  are 
ashamed  : 

Some  men  are  weary  of  the  bonds  of  love  ; 

Yea,  and  by  some  men  lightly  art  thou 
blamed, 

That  from  thy  toils  their  lives  they  can- 
not move, 

And  'mid  the  ranks  of  men  their  man- 
hood prove. 

Alas  !  O  goddess,  if  thou  slayest  me 

What  new  immortal  can  I  serve  but  thee  ? 

"  Think  then,  will  it  bring  honor  to  thy 

head 
If  folk  say,  '  Everything  aside  he  cast 
And  to  all  fame  and  honor  was  lie  dead, 
And  to  his  one  hope  now  is  dead  at  last, 
Since  all  unholpen  he  is  gone  and  past  : 
Ah,  the  gods  love  not  man.  Cor  certainly, 
He  to  his  helper  did  not  cease  to  cry.' 

"Nay,  but  thou  wilt  help;  they  who  died 

before 
Not  single-hearted  as  I  deem  came  here, 
Therefore    uu thanked     they    laid   their 

gifts  before 


*5° 


BRITISH    POKTS 


Fhy  stainless  feet,  still  shivering  with 
their  fear. 

Lest  in  their  eyes  their  true  thought 
might  appear, 

Who  sought  to  be  the  lords  of  that  fail- 
town. 

Dreaded  of  men  and  winners  of  renown. 

'•  O  Queen,  thou  knowest  I  pray  not  for 

this  :  • 

0  set  us  down  together  in  some  place 
Where  not  a  voice  can  break  our  heaven 

of  bliss. 
Where   nought  but  rocks  and  I  can  see 

her  face, 
Softening  beneath    the   marvel   of  thy 

grace. 
Where  not  a  foot  our  vanished  steps  can 

track — 
The  go1  den   age,  the  golden  age   come 

back ! 

"  O   fairest,  hear   me   now   who   do  thy 

will, 
Plead  for  thy  rebel  that  she  be  not  slain, 
But   live  and  love  and  be  thy  servant 

still; 
Ah,  give  her  joy  and  take  away  my  pain, 
And   thus   two   long-enduring   servants 

gain. 
An  easy  thing  this  is  to  do  for  me, 
What  need  of  my  vain  words  to  weary 

thee. 

"  But  none  the  less,  this  place  will  I  not 

leave 
Until  I  needs  must  go  my  death  to  meet, 
Or  at  thy  hands  some  happy  sign  receive 
That  in  great  joy  we  twain  may  one  day 

greet 
Thy  presence  here  and  kiss  thy  silver  feet, 
Such  as  we  deem  thee,  fair  beyond  all 

words, 
Victorious   o'er   our    servants    and   our 

lords." 

Then  from  the  altar  back  a  space  he 
drew, 

But  from  the  Queen  turned  not  his  face 
away. 

But  'gainst  a  pillar  leaned,  until  the  blue 

That  arched  the  sky,  at  ending  of  the 
day, 

W  as  turned  to  ruddy  gold  and  changing 
gray, 

And  clear,  but  low,  the  nigh-ebbed 
windless  sea 

In  the  still  evening  murmured  cease- 
lessly. 


And  there  he  stood  when  all  the  sun  was 
down, 

Nor  had  he  moved,  when  the  dim  golden 
light, 

Like  the  far  lustre  of  a  godlike  town. 

Had  left  the  world  to  seeming  hopeless 
night, 

Nor  would  he  move  the  more  when  wan 
moonlight 

Streamed  through  the  pillars  for  a  little 
while, 

And  lighted  up  the  white  Queen's  change- 
less smile. 

Nought  noted  he  the  shallow-flowing  sea 

As  step  by  step  it  set  the  wrack  a-swim  ; 

The  yellow  torchlight  nothing  noted  he 

Wherein  with  fluttering  gown  and  half- 
bared  limb 

The  temple  damsels  sung  their  midnight 
hymn  ;    ' 

And  nought  the  doubled  stillness  of  the 
fane 

When  they  were  gone  and  all  was  hushed 
again. 

But  when  the  waves  had  touched  the 

marble  base, 
And  steps  the  fish  swim  over  twice  a-day, 
The   dawn    beheld   him    sunken   in   his 

place 
Upon  the   floor  ;  and  sleeping   there  he 

lay, 
Not  heeding  aught  the  little  jets  of  spray 
The  roughened  sea  brought  nigh,  across 

him  cast, 
For  as  one  dead  all  thought  from  him 

had  passed. 

Yet  long  before  the  sun  had  showed  his 

head, 
Long  ere  the   varied   hangings   on   the 

wall 
Ilad  gained  once  more  their  blue   and 

green  and  red, 
He  rose  as  one   some  well-known   sign 

doth  call 
When   war   upon   the  city's   gates  doth 

fall, 
And  scarce  like  one  fresh  risen  out  of 

sleep. 
He'gan  again  his  broken  watch  to  keep. 

Then  he  turned  round  ;  not  for  the  sea- 
gull's cry 

That  wheeled  above  the  temple  in  his 
flight, 

Not  for  the  fresh  south  wind  that  lov- 
ingly 


MORRIS 


851 


Breathed  on  the  new-born  day  and  dying 

night. 
But  some  strange  hope  'twixt  fear  and 

great  delight 
Drew  round  his  face,  now  flushed,  now 

pale  and  wan. 
And  still  constrained  his  eyes  the  sea  to 

scan. 

Now  a  faint  light  lit  up  the  southern  sky 
Not  sun  or  moon,  for  all  the  world  was 

gray, 
But    this   a   bright   cloud   seemed,  that 

drew  anigh, 
Lighting  the  dull  waves  that  beneath  it 

lay 
As  toward  the   temple   still  it  took   its 

way. 
And  still  grew  greater,  till  Milanion 
Saw  nought  for  dazzling  light  that  round 

him  shone. 

But  as  he  staggered  with  his  arms  out- 
spread, 

Delicious  unnamed  odors  breathed 
around, 

Fur  languid  happiness  he  bo  wed  his  head, 

And  with  wet  eyes  sank  down  upon  the 
ground, 

Nor  wished  for  aught,  nor  any  dream  he 
found 

To  give  him  reason  for  that  happiness, 

Or  make  him  ask  more  knowledge  of  his 
bliss. 

At  last  his   eyes  were  cleared,  and  he 

could  see 
Through  happy  tears  the  goddess  face  to 

face 
With  that  faint  image  of  Divinity, 
WiiD.se   well-wrought   smile  and  dainty 

changeless  grace 
Until   that  morn  so  gladdened  all   the 

place  ; 
Then  he,  unwitting  cried  aloud  her  name 
And    covered    up   his  eyes  for   fear  and 

shame. 

But  through  the  stillness  he  her  voice 
could  hear 

Piercing  his  heart  with  joy  scarce  bear- 
able, 

That  sa id,  "Milanion,  wherefore  dost 
thou  fear, 

I  am   not  hard    to   those  who   love   mo 

well  ; 
List  to  what  1  a  second  time  will  tell, 

And   thou  mayesl    hear  perchance,  and 

live  to  save 
The  cruel  maiden  from  a  loveli 


'•  See,  by   my    feet  three   golden  apples 

he- 
Such  fruit  among  the  heavy  roses  falls, 
Such   fruit  my   watchful  damsels  care- 

fully 
Store  up  within   the  best  loved  of  my 

walls, 
Ancient  Damascus,  where  the  lover  calls 
Above  my  unseen  head,  and  faint  and 

light 
The  rose-leaves  nutter  round  me  in  the 

night. 

"  And  note,  that  these  are  not  alone  most 
fair 

With  heavenly  gold,  but  longing  strange 
they  bring 

Unto  the  hearts  of  men,  who  will  not 
care 

Beholding  these,  for  any  once-loved  thing 

Till  round  the  shining  sides  their  fingers 
cling. 

And  thou  shalt  see  thy  well-girt  swift- 
foot  maid 

By  sight  of  these  amidst  her  glory  stayed. 

"  For  bearing  these  within  a  scrip  with 

thee, 
When  first  she    heads  thee    from  the 

starting-place 
Cast  down  the  first  one  for  her  eyes  to 

see. 
And   when   she  turns    aside   make    on 

apace, 
And  if  again  she  heads  thee  in  the  race 
Spare  not  the  other  two  to  cast  aside 
If  she  not  long  enough  behind  will  bide. 

"  Farewell,    and   when   has    come    the 

happy  time 
That  she  Diana's  raiment  must  unbind 
And  all    the  world  seems  blessed    with 

Saturn's  clime, 
And   tiiou  with   eager  arms   about  her 

twined 
Beholdest   first  her  gray  eyes   growing 

kind. 
Surely,  O  trembler,    thou  shalt  scarcely 

then 
Forget  the  Helper  of  unhappy  men." 

Milanion  raised   his    head  at    this  last 

word 
For  now  so  soft  and  kind  she  seemed  to 

be 
No  longer  of  her  Godhead  was  he  feared  ; 
Too  late    he  looked  ;  for   nothing   could 

he  see 
But  the  white  image  glimmering  doubt- 

fullv 


^ 


IJRITISH   POETS 


In  the  departing  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
And  those  three  apples  on  the  step  that 
lay. 

These  then  he  caught  up  quivering  with 

delight, 
Yet  fearful  lest  it  all  might  be  a  dream  : 
And  though  aweary  with  the  watchful 

night, 
And  sleepless  nights  of  longing,  still  did 

deem 
He  could   not  sleep  ;  but   yet   the   first 

sunbeam 
That  smote  the  fane  across  the  heaving 

deep 
Shone  on  him  laid  in  calm,  untroubled 

sleep. 

But  little  ere  the  noontide  did  he  rise, 
And  why  be  felt  so  happy  scarce  could 

tell 
Until  the  gleaming  apples  met  bis  eyes. 
Then   leaving  the  fair  place  where  this 

befell 
Oft  he  looked  back  as  one  who  loved  it 

well, 
Then  homeward  to  the  haunts  of    men, 

'gan  wend 
To  bring  all  things  unto  a  happy  end. 


Now  has   the   lingering   month  at   last 

gone  by, 
Again   are   all  folk  round  the   running 

place, 
Nor  other  seems  the  dismal  pageantry 
Than  heretofore,  but   that  another  face 
Looks  o'er   the  smooth   course  read)'  for 

the  race, 
For  now,  beheld  of  all,  Milanion 
Stands  on  the  spot  he  twice  has  look'd 

upon. 

But  yet — what  change  is  this  that  holds 

the  maid  ? 
Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
More  than  disdain  of  the  sharp  shearing 

blade, 
Some  happy  hope  of  help  and  victory? 
The  others  seem'd  to  say,  "  We  come  to 

die  ; 
Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while, 
That,   dead,  we  may  bethink  us  of  thy 

smile." 

But  he — what  look  of  mastery  was  this 
He  cast  on  her?  why  were  his  lips  so  red  ; 
Why  was    bis  face  so  flush'd  with  hap- 
piness? 


So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but 

dead, 
E'en  if  to  death  he  bows  a  willing  head  ; 
So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleas'd  to  find 
Some   earthly  damsel   fashion'd   to   his 

mind. 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lids  before  his 

gaze, 
And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Redden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise, 
And   wish  that  she   were  clad  in   other 

guise  ? 
Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise 
Of  things  unnoticed  when  they  first  were 

heard, 
Some      lover's    song,   some     answering 

maiden's  word  ? 

What    makes   these     longings,    vague, 

without  a  name, 
And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before, 
This  sudden  languor,  this  contempt  of 

fame, 
This  tender  sorrow  for  the  time  past  o'er, 
These   doubts  that   grow   each   minute 

more  and  more  ? 
Why  does  she  tremble  as  the  time  grows 

near, 
And   weak   defeat  and   woeful   victory 

fear  ? 

But  while  she  seem'd  to  hear  her  beat- 
ing heart, 

Above  their  heads  the  trumpet  blast  rang 
out 

And  forth  they  sprang,  and  she  must 
play  her  part ; 

Then  flew  her  white  feet,  knowing  not  a 
doubt, 

Though,  slackening  once,  she  turn'd  her 
head  about, 

But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 

Than  e'er  before,  and  all  men  deemed 
him  dead. 

But   with  no   sound  he   raised  aloft  his 

hand, 
And  thence  what  seemed  a  ray  of  light 

there  flew 
And  past  the  maid   rolled  on   along  the 

sand  ; 
Then  trembling   she  her   feet   together 

drew 
And  in  her   heart  a  strong  desire   there 

grew 
To  have  the  toy  ;  some   god  she  thought 

bad  given  [heaven. 

That   gift   to   her,   to  make   of  earth  a 


MORRIS 


853 


Then  from  the  course  with  eager  steps 
she  ran, 

And  in  her  odorous  bosom  laid  the  gold. 

But  when  she  turned  again,  the  great- 
limbed  man, 

Now  well  ahead  she  failed  not  to  behold, 

And  mindful  of  her  glory  waxing  cold, 

Sprang  up  and  followed  him  in  hot 
pursuit, 

Though  with  one  hand  she  touched  the 
golden  fruit. 

Note  too,  the  bow  that  she  was  wont  to 

bear 
She   laid  aside  to   grasp   the   glittering 

prize, 
And  o'er   her  shoulder  from   the  quiver 

fair 
Three  arrows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who  now  the  turning-post  had  well-nigh 

won. 

But  as  he  set  his  mighty  hand  on  it 
White  fingers  underneath  his  own  were 

laid, 
And  white   limbs  from  his   dazzled  eyes 

did  flit, 
Then   he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the 

maid  : 
She  ran  awhile,  and  then  as  one  afraid 
Wavered  and  stopped,  and  turned   ami 

made  no  stay, 
Until   the  globe  with  its  bright   fellow 

lay. 

Then,  as  a  troubled  glance  she  cast 
around, 

Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see, 

And  in  her  garment's  hem  one  hand  she 
wound 

To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  stren- 
uously 

Sped  o'er  the  course,  and  little  doubt 
had  she 

To  win  the  day,  though  now  but  scanty 
space 

Was  left  betwixt  him  and  the  winning 
place. 

Short  was  the  way  unto   such  winged 

feet, 
Quickly  she  gained  upon  him  till  at  last 
He  turned  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet 
And  from  his  hand  the  third  fair  apple 

cast. 
She  wavered  not,  but  turned  and  ran  so 

fast 


After  the  prize  that  should  her  bliss  ful- 
fil. 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  still. 

Nor  did   she   rest,  but  turned  about  to 

win 
Once  more,  an  unblest  woeful  victory — 
And  yet — and  yet — why  does  her  breath 

begin 
To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily? 
Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
The  goal  is  ?  why  do  her  gray  eyes  grow 

dim  ? 
Why  do  these  tremors  run  through  every 

limb? 

She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay 

to  find 
Else  must  she   fall,  indeed,  and  findeth 

this, 
A  strong   man's  arms   about   her   body 

twined. 
Nor   may   she  shudder  now  to  feel  his 

kiss, 
So   wrapped    she   is   in   new   unbroken 

bliss  : 
Made  happy  that  the  foe  the  prize  hath 

won, 
She  weeps  glad   tears  for  all  her  glory 

done. 


Shatter  the   trumpet,  hew  adown  the 

posts ! 
Upon  the  brazen  altar  break  the  sword, 
And     scatter    incense    to    appease    the 

ghosts 
Of   those  who  died  here  by   their  own 

award. 
Bring   forth  the   image  of  the   mighty 

Lord. 
And  her  who  unseen  o'er   the  runners 

hung, 
And  did  a  deed  for  ever  to  be  sung. 

Here  are  the  gathered  folk ;  make  no 

delay, 
Open   King   Schoeneus'  well-filled   trea- 
sury. 
Bring  out  the  gifts  long  hid  from  light 

of  day, 
The    golden    bowls    o'erwrought    with 

imagery, 
Gold    chains,    and     unguents     brought 

from  over  sea, 
The   saffron    gown   the   old   Phoenician 

brought, 
Within     the     temple   of    the    Goddesa 

wrought. 


BRITISH   POETS 


0  ye.  O  damsels,  who  shall  never  see 
Her,  that    Love's  servant  bringeth  now 

1"  you, 
Returning  from  another  victory, 
In  some  cool  bower  do  all  that  now  is 

ill!  '  ! 

Since  she  in  token  of  her  service  new 
Shall  give  to  Venus  offerings  rich  enow, 
Her  maiden  zone,  her   arrow's  and    her 
bow.  18G8. 

SONG  FROM  THE  STORY  OF  CUPID 
AND   PSYCHE 

O  pensive,  tender  maid,  downcast  and 

shy, 
Who  turnest  pale  e'en  at  the  name  of 

love, 
And   with   flushed   face   must  pass  the 

elm-tree  by, 
Ashamed   to  hear   the   passionate  gray 

dove 
Moan    to   his  mate,   thee   too   the   god 

shall  move, 
Thee  too  the  maidens  shall  ungird  one 

day, 
And   with   thy   girdle    put   thy   shame 

away. 

What,  then,  and  shall  white  winter 
ne'er  l>e  done 

Because  the  glittering  frosty  morn  is 
fair? 

Because  against  the  early-setting  sun 

Bright  show  the  gilded  boughs,  though 
waste  and  bare  ? 

Because  the  robin  singeth  free  from 
care  ? 

Ah  !  these  ai-e  memories  of  a  better  day 

When  on  earth's  face  the  lips  of  sum- 
mer lay. 

Come,   then,   beloved  one,  for   such   as 

thee 
Love  loveth,  and  their  hearts  he  know- 

eth  well, 
Who  hoard  their  moments  of  felicity, 
As  misers  hoard  the  medals  that  they 

tell, 
Lest    on    the   earth   but    paupers   they 

should  dwell : 
"  We  hide  our  love  to  bless  another  day  ; 
The  world  is  hard,  youth  passes  quick," 

they  say. 

Ah,  little  ones,  but  if  ye  could  forget 
Amidst   your  outpoured    love   that  you 
must  die,  [querors  yet, 

Then  ye,  my  servants,  were  death's  con- 


And  love  to  you  should  be  eternity. 
How  quick  soever  might  the  days  go  by: 
Yes,  ye  are  made  immortal  on  the  day 
Ye   cease   the   dusty  grains  of   time  to 
weigh. 

Thou    harkenest,    love?    O    make     no 

semblance  then 
That  thou  art  loved,  but  as  thy  custom 

is 
Turn  thy  gray  eyes  away  from  eyes  of 

men. 
With  hands  down-dropped,  that  tremble 

with  thy  bliss, 
With  hidden  eyes,  take  thy  first  lover's 

kiss  ; 
Call  this  eternity  which  is  to-day, 
Nor  dream  that  this  our  love  can  pass 

away.  1808. 

JUNE 

O  June,  O  June,  that  we  desired  so, 
Wilt   thou  not  make   us  happy  on  this 

day  ? 
Across  the  river  thy  soft  breezes  blow 
Sweet  with  the  scent  of  beanfields  far 

away, 
Above  our  heads  rustle  the  aspens  gray, 
Calm  is  the  sky  with   harmless  clouds 

beset, 
No  thought  of  storm  the  morning  vexes 

yet. 

See,  we  have  left  our  hopes  and  fears  be- 

hind 
To  give  our  very  hearts  up  unto  thee  ; 
What  better  place  than  this  then  could 

we  find 
By  this  sweet  stream  that  knows  not  of 

the  sea, 
That  guesses  not  the  city's  misery, 
This  little  stream  whose  hamlets  scarce 

have  names, 
This    far-off,     lonely     mother     of     the 

Thames? 

Here  then,  0  June,  thy   kindness   will 

we  take  ; 
And  if  indeed  but  pensive  men  we  seem. 
What   should   we  do?  thou  wouldst  not 

have  us  wake 
From  out  the  arms  of  this  rare  happy 

dream 
And   wish  to  leave  the   murmur  of  the 

stream. 
The  rustling  boughs,  the  twitter  of  the 

birds, 
And  all   thy   thousand   peaceful    happy 

words.  1868. 


MORRIS 


855 


AUGUST 

Across  the   gap  made  by  our  English 

hinds, 
Amidst  the  Roman's  handiwork,  behold 
Far   off    the    long-roofed    church ;    the 

shepherd  binds 
The  withy  round  the  hurdles  of  his  fold, 
Down  in  the  foss  the  river  fed  of  old, 
That   through    long   lapse    of   time   has 

grown  to  be 
The  little  grassy  valley  that  you  see. 

Rest  here  awhile,  not  yet  the  eve  is 
still. 

The  bees  are  wandering  yet,  and  you 
may  hear 

The  baHey  mowers  on  the  trenched  hill, 

The  sheep-bells,  and  the  restless  chang- 
ing weir, 

All  little  sounds  made  musical  and  clear 

Beneath  the  sky  that  burning  August 
gives, 

While  yet  the  thought  of  glorious  Sum- 
mer lives. 

Ah,  lova  !  sucli  happy  days,  such  days 

as  these, 
Must   we   still  waste  them,  craving  for 

the  best, 
Like  lovers  o'er  the  painted  images 
Of  those  who  once  their  yearning  hearts 

have  blessed  ? 
Have   we    been   happy   on    our   day   of 

rest  ? 
Thine  eyes  say  "yes," — but  if.it  came 

again, 
Perchance  its  ending  would  not  seem  so 

vain.  1868. 

SONG  FROM  OGIER  THE   DANE 

II-KC 

In  the  white-flowered  hawthorn  brake, 
Love,  be  merry  for  my  sake; 
Twine  tl ie  blossoms  in  my  hair, 
Kiss  me  where  I  am  most  fair — 
Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knowedi 
What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 


Nay.  the  garlanded  gold  hair 
Hides  t  lice  where  thou  art  most  fair  ; 
Hides  the  rose-tinged  hills  of  snow — 
Ah,  sweet  love,  I  have  thee  now! 
Kiss  me.  love  !  for  who  knoweth 
What  thing  cornel  h  a  fter  death? 


HiEC 

Shall  we  weep  for  a  dead  day, 

Or  set  Sorrow  in  our  way  ? 

Hidden  by  my  golden  hair, 

Wilt  thou  weep  that  sweet  days  wear? 

Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 

What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 

ILLE 

Weep,  0  Love,  the  days  that  flit, 
Now,  while  I  can  feel  thy  breath  ; 

Then  may  I  remember  it 

Sad  and  old,  and  near  my  death. 

Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 

What  thing  cometh  after  death  ?  1868. 

SONG  FROM  THE  STORY  OF  ACON« 
TIUS  AND  CYDIPPE 

Fair  is  the  night  and  fair  the  day, 
Now  April  is  forgot  of  May, 
Now  into  June  May  falls  away  ; 
Fair  day,  fair  night,  Ogive  me  back 
The  tide  that  all  fair  things  did  lack 
Except  my  love,  except  my  sweet  I 

Blow  back,  O  wind  !  thou  art  not  kind, 
Though  thou   art  sweet ;  thou  hast  no 

mind 
Her  hair  about  my  sweet  to  wind  ; 

0  flowery  sward,  though  thou  art  bright, 

1  praise  thee  not  for  thy  delight, 
Thou  hast  not  kissed  her  silver  feet. 

Thou  know'st  her  not.  0  rustling  tree, 
What  dost  thou  then  to  shadow  me, 
Whose  shade  her  breast  did  never  see? 
O  flowers,  in  vain  ye  bow  adown  ! 
Ye  have  not  felt  her  odorous  gown 
Brush  past  your  heads  my  lips  to  meet. 

Flow  on,  great  river — thou  mayst  deem 
That  far  away,  a  summer  stream, 
Thousawest  her  limbs  amidst  thee  gleam 
And  kissed  her  foot,  and  kissed  her  knee, 
Yet  get  thee  swift  unto  the  sea  ! 
With  nought  of  true  thou  wilt  me  greet. 

And  thou  that  men  call  by  my  name, 
O  helpless  one,  hast  thou  no  shame 
That  thou  must  even  look  the  same, 
As  while  agone,  as  while  agone, 
When  thou  and  she  were  left  alone, 
And  hands,  and  lips,  and  tears  did  meet ? 

Gfrow  weak  and  pine,  lie  down  to  die, 

0  body  in  thy  misery. 

Because  short  time  and  sweet  goes  by  ; 


s5o 


r.RITISH    POETS 


0  foolish  heart,  how  weak  thou  art! 
Break,  break,  because  thou  needs  must 

part 
From  thine  own  love,  from  thine  own 
sweet !  ly70. 

L'ENVOI 

THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 

Here  are  we   for  the  last  time  face  to 

face, 
Thou  and  I,  Book,  before  I  bid  thee  speed 
Upon  thy  perilous  journey  to  that  place 
For  which  I  have  done  on  thee  pilgrim's 

weed, 
Striving  to  get  thee  all  things  for  thy 

need — 
— I  love  thee,   whatso  time  or  men  may 

say 
Of  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Good    reason    why    I    love    thee,    e'en 

if  thou 
Be  mocked  or  clean  forgot  as  time  wears 

on  ; 
For  ever  as  thy  fashioning  did  grow, 
Kind  word  and  praise  because  of  thee  I 

won 
From   those   without    whom   were    my 

world  all  gone, 
My  hope  fallen  dead,   my  singing  cast 

away, 
And  I  set  soothly  in  an  empty  day. 

1  love  thee  ;  yet  this  last  time  must  it  be 
That  thou  must    hold  thy  peace  and  I 

must  speak, 
Lest  if  thou  babble  I  begin  to  see 
Thy  gear  too  thin,  thy  limbs  and   heart 

too  weak, 
To  find    the   land   thou   goest   forth   to 

seek — 
— Though  what  harm  if  thou  die  upon 

the  way, 
Thou  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day  ? 

But  though  this  land  desired  thou  never 

reach, 
Yet  folk  who  know  it  mayst  thou  meet, 

or  death  ; 
Therefore  a  word  unto  thee  would  I  teach 
To  answer  these,  who,  noting  thy  weak 

breath, 
Thy  wandering  eyes,   thy  heart  of  little 

faith, 
May  make  thy  fond  desire  a  sport  and 

play 
Mocking  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


That  land's  name,  say'st  thou?     and  the 

road  thereto  ? 
Nay,  Book,  thou  mockest,   saying  thou 

know'st  it  not ; 
Surely  no  book  of  verse  I  ever  knew 
But  ever  was  the  heart  within  him  hot 
To  gain  the  Land  of  Matters  Unforgot — 
— There,    now    we  both    laugh — as  the 

whole  world  may, 
At  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Nay,  let    it    pass,    and  harken  1     Hast 

thou  heard 
That  therein  I  believe  I  have  a  friend, 
Of  whom  for  love  I  may  not  be  afeared  ? 
It  is  to  him  indeed  I  bid  thee  wend  ; 
Yea,  he   perchance  may   meet   thee  ere 

thou  end, 
Dying  so  far  off  from  the  hedge  of  bay, 
Tiiou  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day  ! 

Well,  think  of  him,  I  bid  thee,  on  the 

road, 
And  if  it  hap  that  midst  of  thy  defeat, 
Fainting  beneath  thy  follies'  heavy  load, 
My   Master,   Geoffrey  Chaucer,  thou 

do  meet, 
Then  shalt  thou  win  a  space  of  rest  full 

sweet ; 
Then  be  thou  bold,  and  speak  the  words 

I  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  emj)ty  day  ! 

"O  Master,  O  thou  great  of  heart  and 

tongue, 
Thou  well  mayst  ask  me  why  I  wander 

here, 
In  raiment  rent  of  stories  oft  besung  ! 
But  of  thy  gentleness  draw  thou  anear, 
And  then  the  heart  of  one  who  held  thee 

dear 
Mayst  thou  behold  !  So  near  as  that  Hay 
Unto  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

"  For  this  he  ever  said,    who   sent   me 

forth 
To  seek  a  place  amid  thy  company  : 
That  howsoever  little  was  my  worth, 
Yet  was  he  worth  e'en   just  so  much  as 

I; 
He  said  that  rhyme  hath  little  skill  to 

lie  ; 
Nor  feigned  to  cast  his  worser  part  away; 
In  idle  singing  for  an  empty  day. 

"  I  have  beheld  him  tremble  oft  enough 
At  things  he  could  not  choose  but  trust 

to  me, 
Although   he  knew  the  world  was  wise 

and  rough  ; 


MORRIS 


857 


And  never  did  he  fail  to  let  me  see 
His  love, — liis    folly   and   faithlessness, 

maybe  ; 
And  still  in  turn  I  gave  him  voice  to  pray 
Such  prayers  as  cling  about  an  empty 

day. 

"  Thou,  keen-eyed,  reading  me,  mayst 

read  him  through, 
For  surely  little  is  there  left  behind  ; 
No  power  great  deeds  unnameable  to  do  ; 
No  knowledge  for  which  words  he  may 

not  And, 
No  love  of  things  as  vague  as  autumn 

wind — • 
— Earth  of  the  earth  lies  hidden  by  my 

clay, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day  ! 

"  Children  we  twain  are,  saith  he,  late 

made  wise 
In  love,    but  in   all  else  most  childish 

still, 
And  seeking  still  the  pleasure  of  our  eyes, 
And  what  our  ears  with  sweetest  sounds 

may  rill  : 
Not    fearing    Love,  lest  these  tilings  he 

should  kill  : 
Howe'er  his  pain  by  pleasure  doth  he  lay, 
Making  a  strange  tale  of  an  empty  day. 

"Death   have    we   hated,    knowing   not 

what  it  meant ; 
Life  have   we  loved,   thi'ough  green  leaf 

and  through  sere, 
Though  still  the  less  we  knew  of  its  in- 
tent ; 
The  Earth  and  Heaven  through  countless 

year  on  year. 
Slow  changing,  were  to  us  but  curtains 

fair, 
Hung  round  about  a  little  room,  where 

play 
Weeping  and  laughter  of  man's  empty 

day. 

"  O  Master,  if  thine  heart  could  love  us 

yet. 
Spite  of  things  left  undone,  and  wrongly 

done, 
Some  place  in  loving  hearts  then  should 

we  get. 
For    thou,      sweet-souled,    didst    never 

stand  alone. 
But  knew'st  the  joy  and  woe  of  many  an 

one — 
— By  lovers  dead,  who  live  through  thee, 

we  pray, 
Help  thou  us  singersof  an  empty  day  !  " 


Fearest  thou.   Book,  what  answer  thou 

mayst  gain 
Lest  he  should  scorn  thee,  and  thereof 

tlum  die  ? 
Nay,   it  shall  not  be. — Thou  mayst  toil 

in  vain. 
And   never    draw   the   House   of  Fame 

anigh  ; 
Yet  he  and  his  shall  know  whereof  we 

cry , 
Shall  call  it  not,  ill  done  to  strive  to  lay 
The   ghosts     that     crowd     about    life's 

empty  day. 

Then  let  the  others  go  !  and  if  indeed 
In   some   old   garden  thou   and  I   have 

wrought, 
And  made  fresh  flowers  spring  up  from 

hoarded  seed, 
And   fragrance   of   old   days   and  deeds 

have  brought 
Back   to   folk    weary  ;  all    was   not  for 

nought. 
— No  little  part  it  was  for  me  to  play — 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day.      1870. 

THE   SEASONS 

Spring.     Spring  am  I,  too  soft  of  heart 
Much  to  speak  ere  I  depart : 
Ask  the  Summer-tide  to  prove 
The  abundance  of  my  love. 

Summer.    Summer  looked  for  long  am  I 
Much  shall  change  or  e"er  I  die 
Prithee  take  it  not  amiss 
Though  I  weary  thee  with  bliss. 

Autumn.     Laden  Autumn  here  I  stand 
Worn  of  heart,  and  weak  of  hand  : 
Nought  but  rest  seems  good  to  me, 
Speak  the  word  that  sets  me  free. 

Winter.     I  am  Winter,  that  do  keep 
Longing  safe  amidst  of  sleep  : 
Who  shall  say  if  I  were  dead 
What  should  be  remembered  ?       1871. 

ERROR  AND  LOSS  1 

Upon  an  eve  I  sat  me  down  and  wept, 
Because  the  world  to  me  seemed  nowise. 

good  ; 
Still  autumn  was  it,  and  the  meadows 

slept, 
The  misty  hills  dreamed,  and  the  silent 

wood  [mood: 

Seemed    listening   to  the  sorrow  of  my 

1  Originally  with  the  title  Tlte  Dark  Wood. 


8  c  8 


BRITISH    POET3 


I  knew  not   if  the  earth   with   me   did 

ve. 
Or  if  it  mock'd  my  grief  that  bitter  eve. 

rhen  '  twixt  my  tears  a  maiden  did  I  see, 
Who  drew  anigh  me  on  the  leaf-strewn 
grass, 

Then  stood  and  gazed  upon  me  pitifully 
With  grief-worn  eyes,  until  my  woe  did 

pass 
From  me  to  her,  and  tearless  now  I  was, 
And  she  mid  tears  was  asking  me  of  one 
She  long  had  sought  unaided  and  alone. 

I  knew  not  of  him,  and  she  turned  away 
Into   the  dark  wood,  and  my  own   great 

pain 
Still    held  me  there,  till  dark  had  slain 

the  day. 
And  perished  at  the  gray  dawn's  hand 

again  ; 
Then  from  the  wood  a  voice  cried  :    "Ah, 

in  vain, 
In  vain  I  seek  thee,  O  thou  bitter-sweet ! 
In  what  lone  land  are  set  thy  longed-for 

feet?" 

Then  I  looked  up,  and  lo,  a  man  there 
came 

From  midst  the  trees,  and  stood  regard- 
ing me 

Until  my  tears  were  dried  for  very 
shame  ; 

Then  he  cried  out :  "  O  mourner,  where 
is  she 

Whom  I  have  sought  o'er  every  land  and 
sea? 

I  love  her  and  she  loveth  me,  and  still 

We  meet  no  more  than  green  hill  meet- 
eth  hill." 

With  that  he  passed  on  sadly,  and  I  knew 
That   these  had  met  and  missed  in  the 

dark  night, 
Blinded  by  blindness  of  the  world  untrue, 
That  hideth  love  and  maketh   wrong  of 

right. 
Then  midst  my  pity  for  their  lost  delight, 
Yet   more    with  barren  longing  I  grew 

weak, 
Yet  more  I  mourned  that  I  had  none  to 

seek.  1871. 

THE  DAY  OF  LOVE 

(From  love  is  enough) 

Dawn  talks  to-day 
Over  dew-gleaming  flowers, 


Night  flies  away 

Till  the  resting  of  hours  : 
Fresh  are  thy  feet 

And  with  dreams  thine  eyes  glis- 
tening. 
Thy  still  lips  are  sweet 

Though  the  world  is  a-listening. 
O  Love,  set  a  word  in  my  mouth  for  our 

meeting, 
Cast  thine  arms  round  about  me  to  stay 
my  heart's  beating  ! 
O  fresh   day,   O  fair  day,  O  long  day 
made  ours ! 

Morn  shall  meet  noon 

While  the  flower-stems  yet  move, 
Though  the  wind  dieth  soon 

And  the  clouds  fade  above. 
Loved  lips  are  thine 

As  I  tremble  and  barken  ; 
Bright  thine  eyes  shine, 
Though  the  leaves  thy  brow  darken. 
O  Love,  kiss  me  into  silence,  lest  no  word 

avail  me, 
Stay  my  head  with  thy  bosom  lest  breath 
and  life  fail  me  ! 
O  sweet  day,  O  rich  day,  made  long  for 
our  love  1 

Late  day  shall  greet  eve, 

And  the  full  blossoms  shake, 
For  the  wind  will  not  leave 

The  tall  trees  while  they  wake. 
Eyes  soft  with  bliss, 

Come  nig  her  and  niglier  ! 
Sweet  mouth  I  kiss, 
Tell  me  all  thy  desire  ! 
Let  us  speak,  love,  together  some  words 

of  our  story, 
That  our  lips  as  they  part  may  remember 
the  glory  ! 
O  soft  day,  O  calm  day,  made  clear  for 
our  sake ! 

Eve  shall  kiss  night. 

And  the  leaves  stir  like  rain 
As  the  wind  stealeth  light 

O'er  the  grass  of  the  plain. 
Un«een  are  thine  eyes 

Mid  the  dreamy  night's  sleeping, 
And  on  my  mouth  there  lies 
The  dear  rain  of  thy  weeping. 
Hold,    silence,    love,  speak  not    of    the 

sweet  day  departed, 
Cling  close  to  me,  love,  lest  I  waken  sad 
hearted  ! 
O  kind  day,  O  dear   day,    short   day, 
come  again  !  1873. 


MORRIS 


859 


FINAL  CHORUS 
(From  love  is  enough) 

Love  is  enough  :  ho  ye  who  seek  saving, 

Go'  no    further;  come    hither;  there 

have  been  who  have  found  it, 

And  these  know  the  House  of  Fulfilment 

of  Craving  ; 

These  know  the    Cup   with   the   roses 

around  it, 
These  know  the  World's    Wound   and 
the  halm  that  hath  bound  it: 
Cry  out.  the  World  heedeth  not,  "Love, 
lead  us  home  !  " 

He  leadeth.  He  harkeneth,  He  cometh 
to  you-ward  : 
Set  your  faces  as  steel  to  the  fears  that 
assemble 
Bound  his  goad   for   the  faint,   and   his 
scourge  for  the  froward  : 
Lo  his  lips,  how  with  tales  of  last  kisses 

they  tremble  ! 
Lo  his  eyes  of  all  sorrow  that  may  not 
dissemble  ! 
Cry  out,  for  he  heedeth,  "  O  Love,    lead 
us  home  !  " 

O  harken  the  words  of  his  voice  of  com- 
passion : 

"  Come. cling  round  about  me.  ye  faith- 
ful who  sicken 
Of  the    weary   unrest    and    the    world's 
passing  fashion  ! 

As    the    rain    in    mid-morning    your 
troubles  shall  thicken. 

But  surely  within  you  some   Godhead 
dot  h  quicken, 
As  ye  cry  to    me    heeding,    and   leading 
you  home 

•■  ( lome — pain  ye  shall  have,  and  be  blind 
to  the  ending  ! 
Come— fear    ye    shall    have,    mid    the 
sky's  overcasting  ! 
Come— change  ye  shall  have,  for  far  are 
ye  wending  ! 
Gome    -no  crown  ye  shall  have  for  your 

t  hirst  and  your  fasting, 
But  the  kissed   lips  of  Love  and   fair 
life  everlasting  ! 
Cry  out,  for  one   heedeth,   who   leadeth 
you  home  !  " 

Is  lie    gone?   was    he    with    us?^-ho    ye 
who  seek  saving, 
Go  no  further  ;  come  hither  ;  for 

w  e  not  f(  mnd  it  ? 


Here  is  the  House  of  Fulfilment  of  Crav- 
ing ; 
Here  is  the  Cup  with  the  roses  around 

it: 
The  World's  Wound  well  healed,   and 
the  balm  that  bath  bound  it: 
Cry  out!  for  he  heedeth,  fair  Love   that 
led  home.  1873. 

THE  VOICE  OF  TOIL 

I   heard   men   saying,  Leave  hope  and 

praying. 
All  days  shall  be  as  all  have  been  ; 
To-day   and   to-morrow  bring  fear  and 

sorrow, 
The  never  ending  toil  between. 

When  Earth  was  younger  mid  toil  and 

hunger, 
In  hope  we  strove,  and  our  hands  were 

strong  : 
Then  great  men  led  us,  with  words  they 

fed  us, 
And  bade  us  right  the  earthly  wrong. 

Go  read  in  story  their  deeds  and  glory, 
Their  names  amidst  the  nameless  dead  ; 
Turn  then  from  lying  to  us  slow-dying 
In  that  good  world  to  which  they  led  ; 

Where  fast  and  faster  our  iron  master, 
The  thing  we  made,  for  ever  drives. 
Bids  us  grind  treasure  and  fashion  pleas- 
ure 
For  other  hopes  and  other  lives. 

Where    home   is   a   hovel   and   dull   we 

grovel. 
Forgetting  that  the  world  is  fair: 
Where  no  babe  we  cherish,  lest  its  very 

soul  perish  : 
Where  mirth  is  crime,  and  love  a  snare. 

Who  now  shall  lead  us,  what  god  shall 
heed  us 

As  we  lie  in  the  hell  our  hands  have  won? 

For  us  are  no  rulers  but  fools  and  be- 
fool ers. 

The  great  are  fallen,  the  wise  men  gone. 

T  heard  men    saying,    Leave   tears   and 

praying, 
The  -harp  knife  heedeth  not  the  sheep  : 
Are  we  not  stronger  than  the  rich  and 

wronger, 
When  daybreaks  over  dreams  and  sleep  ? 


S6o 


BRITISH    POETS 


Come,    shoulder    to   shoulder,    ere    the 

world  grows  older ! 
Help  lies  in  nought  but  thee  and   me  : 
Hope  is  before  us,  the   long  years  that 

bore  us 
Bore  leaders  more  than  men  may  be. 

Lot    dead  hearts    tarry   and   trade   and 

marry. 
And    trembling  nurse  their  dreams    of 

mirth, 
While  we  the  living  our  lives  are  giving 
To  bring  the  bright  new  world  to  birth. 

Come,  shoulder   to   shoulder,  ere   earth 

grows  older  ! 
The  cause  spreads  over  land  and  sea  ; 
Now     the     world     shaketh,     and     fear 

awaketh, 
And  joy  at  last  for  thee  and  me. 

1884. 

NO  MASTER 

Saith  man   to  man.    We've  heard   and 
known 

That  we  no  master  need 
To  live  upon  this  earth  our  own, 

In  fair  and  manly  deed. 
The  grief  of  slaves  long  passed  away 

For  us  hath  forged  the  chain, 
Till  now  each  worker's  patient  day 

Builds  up  the  House  of  Pain. 

And  we,  shall  we  too,  crouch  and  quail, 

Ashamed,  afraid  of  strife, 
And  lest  our  lives  untimely  fail 

Embrace  the  Death  in  Life? 
Nay,  cry  aloud,  and  have  no  fear, 

We  few  against  the  world  ; 
Awake,  arise  !  the  hope  we  bear 

Against  the  curse  is  hurled. 

It  grows  and  grows— are  we  the  same, 

The  feeble  band,  the  few  ? 
Or  what  are  these  with  eyes  aflame, 

And  hands  to  deal  and  do? 
This  is  the  host  that  bears  the  word, 

"NO  MASTER  HIGH  OR   LOW" — 
A  lightning  flame,  a  shearing  sword, 

A  storm  to  overthrow.  1884. 

THE  DAY  IS  COMING 

Come  hither,  lads,  and  barken,  for  a  tale 

there  is  to  tell, 
Of  the  wonderful  days   a-coming,  when 

all  shall  be  better  than  well. 


And  the  tale  shall  be  told  of  a  country, 
a  land  in  the  midst  of  the  sea, 

And  folk  shall  call  it  England  in  the 
days  that  are  going  to  be. 

There  more  than  one  in  a  thousand  in 
the  days  that  are  .yet  to  come, 

Shall  have  some  hope  of  the  morrow, 
some  joy  of  the  ancient  home. 

For   then,  laugh  not,  but  listen  to  this 

strange  tale  of  mine, 
All   folk  that  are  in  England  shall  be 

better  lodged  than  swine. 

Then  a  man  shall  work  and  bethink  him, 
and  rejoice  in  the  deeds  of  his 
hand, 

Nor  yet  come  home  in  the  even  too  faint 
and  weary  to  stand. 

Men  in  that  time  a-coming  shall  work 

and  have  no  fear 
For  to-morrow's  lack  of  earning  and  the 

hunger- wolf  anear. 

I  tell  you  this  for  a  wonder,   that  no 

man  then  shall  be  glad 
Of  his  fellow's  fall  and  mishap  to  snatch 

at  the  work  he  had. 

For  that  which  the  worker  winneth  shall 

then  be  his  indeed, 
Nor  shall  half  be  reaped  for  nothing  by 

him  that  sowed  no  seed. 

O  strange  new  wonderful  justice  !  But 
for  whom  shall  we  gather  the  gain? 

For  ourselves  and  for  each  of  our  fellows, 
and  no  hand  shall  labor  in  vain. 

Then  all  Mine  and  all  Thine  shall  be  Ours, 
and  no  more  shall  any  man   crave 

For  riches  that  serve  for  nothing  but  to 
fetter  a  friend  for  a  slave. 

And  what  wealth  then  shall  be  left  us 
when  none  shall  gather  gold 

To  buy  his  friend  in  the  market,  and 
pinch  and  pine  the  sold  ? 

Nay,  what  save  the  lovely  citj",  and  the 

little  house  on  the  hill, 
And  the  wastes  and  the  woodland  beauty, 

and  the  happy  fields  we  till  ; 

And  the  homes  of  ancient  stories,  the 
tombs  of  the  mighty  dead  ; 

And  the  wise  men  seeking  out  marvels, 
and  the  poet's  teeming  head  ; 


MORRIS 


861 


And  the  painter's  hand  of  wonder  ;  and 
the  marvelous  fiddle-bow, 

And  the  banded  choirs  of  music :  all 
those  that  do  and  know. 

For  all  these  shall  be  ours  and  all  men's; 

nor  shall  any  lack  a  share 
Of  the  toil  and  the  gain  of   living  in  the 

days  when  the  world  grows  fair. 

Ah  !  such  are  the  days  that  shall  be  !  But 
what  are  the  deeds  of  to-day, 
I  In  the  days  of  the  years  we   dwell   in, 
that  wear  our  lives  away  ? 

Why,  then,  and  for  what  are  we  wait- 
ing? There  are  three  words  to 
speak ; 

We  WILL  it,  and  what  is  the  foeman 
but  the  dream-strong  wakened 
and  weak  ? 

O  why  and   for   what  are  we  waiting? 

while  our  brothers  droop  and  die, 
And  on  every   wind  of  the   heavens  a 

wasted  life  goes  by. 

How  long  shall  they  reproach  us  where 
crowd  on  crowd  they  dwell. 

Poor  ghosts  of  the  wicked  city,  the  gold- 
crushed,  hungry  hell  ? 

Through  squalid    life  they   labored,  in 

sordid  grief  they  died, 
Those  sons  of  a   mighty  mother,  those 

props  of  England's  pride. 

They  are  gone  ;  there  is  none  can  undo 
it,  nor  save  our  souls  from  the 
curse  ; 

But  many  a  million  cometli.  and  shall 
they  be  better  or  worse  V 

It  is  we   must   answer   and  hasten,  and 

open  wide  the  door 
For  the  rich  man's  hurrying  terror,  and 

the  slow-foot  hope  of  the  poor. 

Yea,  the  voiceless  wrath  of  the 
wretched,  and  their  unlearned  dis- 
content, 

We  must  give  it  voice  and  wisdom  till 
the  waiting-tide  be  spent. 

Come,  then,  since  all  things  call  us,  the 
living  and  the  dead, 

And  o'er  the  weltering  tangle  a  glim- 
mering light  is  shed. 


Come,  then,  let  us  cast  off  fooling,  and 

put  by  ease  and  rest, 
For  the  Cause  alone  is  worthy  till  the 

good  days  bring  the  best. 

Come,  join  in  the  only  battle  wherein  no 

man  can  fail, 
Where  whoso   fadeth  and  dieth,  yet  his 

deed  shall  still  prevail. 

Ah  !  come,  nast  off  all   fooling,  for  this, 

at  least,  we  know  : 
That  the  Dawn  and  the  Day  is  coming, 

and  forth  the  Banners  go.       1885. 

THE  DAYS  THAT  WERE 

(MOTTO  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLFINGS) 

Whiles  in  the  early  winter  eve 
We  pass  amid  the  gathering  night 
Some  homestead  that  we  had  to  leave 
Years  past:  and  see  its  candles  bright 
Shine  in  the  room  beside  the  door 
Where  we  were  merry  years  agone, 
But  now  must  never  enter  more, 
As  still  the  dark  road  drives  us  on. 
E'en  so  the  world  of  men  may  turn 
At  even  of  some  hurried  day 
And  see  the  ancient  glimmer  burn 
Across  the  waste  that  hath  no  way  ; 
Then,  with  that  faint  light  in  its  eyes, 
Awhile  I  bid  it  linger  near 
And  nurse  in  waving  memories 
The  bitter  sweet  of  days  that  were. 

1889. 

THE  DAY  OF  DAYS 

Each  eve  earth  falleth  down  the  dark, 
As  though  its  hope  were  o'er  ; 
Yet  lurks  the  sun  when  day  is  done 
Behind  to-morrow's  door. 

Gray  grows  the  dawn  while  men-folk 

sleep, 
Unseen  spreads  on  the  light, 
Till  the   thrush    sings    to    the    colored 

things, 
And  earth  forgets  the  night. 

No  otherwise  wends  on  our  Hope  : 
E'en  as  a  tale  that's  told 
Are  fair  lives  lost,  and  all  the  cost 
Of  wise  and  true  and  bold. 

We've  toiled  and  failed;  we  spake  the 

word  ; 
None  harkened  ;  dumb  we  lie  ; 
Our  Hope  is  dead,  the  seed  we  spread 
Fell  o'er  the  earth  to  die. 


S62 


BRITISH   POETS 


What's  this ?    For  joy  our  hearts  stand 

still. 
And  life  is  loved  and  dear, 
The    lost   and    found    the    Cause    hath 

crowned, 
The  Day  of  Days  is  here.  1890. 

THE  BURGHERS'  BATTLE 

Thick  rise  the  spear-shafts  o'er  the  land 

That  erst  the  harvest  bore  ; 

The  sword  is  heavy  in  the  hand, 

And  ii-''  return  ho  more. 

The  light  wind  waves  the  Ruddy  Fox, 

Our  banner  of  the  war, 

And  ripples  in  the  Running  Ox, 

And  ire  return  no  more. 

Across  our  stubble  acres  now 

The  teams  go  four  and  four  ; 

But  out-worn  elders  guide  the  plough, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

And  now  the  women  heavy-eyed 

Turn  through  the  open  door 

From  gazing  down  the  highway  wide, 

Where  ire  ret  ura  no  more. 

The  shadows  of  the  fruited  close 

Dapple  the  feast-hall  floor  ; 

There  lie  our  dogs  and  dream  and  doze, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

Down  from  the  minster  tower  to-day 

Fall  the  soft  chimes  of  yore 

Amidst  the  chattering  jackdaws'  play  : 

And  ire  return  no  more. 

But  underneath  the  streets  are  still ; 

Noon,  and  the  market's  o'er  ! 

Back  go  the  goodwives  o'er  the  hill  ; 

For  we  return  no  more. 

What  merchant  to  our  gates  shall  come  ? 

What  wise  man  bring  us  lore? 

What  abbot  ride  away  to  Rome, 

Now  we  return  no  more  9 

What  mayor  shall  rule  the  hall  we  built? 

Whose  scarlet  sweep  the  floor? 

What   judge   shall   doom    the    robber's 

guilt, 
Now  tee  return  no  more  ? 
New  houses  in  the  streets  shall  rise 
Where  budded  we  before, 
Of  other  stone  wrought  otherwise  ; 
For  we  return  no  more. 
And  crops  shall  cover  field  and  hill 
Unlike  what  once  they  bore, 
And  all  be  done  without  our  will, 
Noio  ire  return  no  more. 
Look  up  !  the  arrows  streak  the  sky, 
The  horns  of  battle  roar  ; 
The  long  spears  lower  and  draw  nigh, 
And  we  return  no  more. 
Remember  how  beside  the  wain, 


We  spoke  the  word  of  war, 

And  sowed  this  harvest  of  the  plain, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

Lay  spears  about  the  Ruddy  Fox  ! 

The  days  of  old  are  o'er  ; 

Heave  sword  about  the  Running  Ox  \ 

For  ice  return  no  more.  1891. 

AGNES  AND  THE  HILL-MAN 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  DANISH 

AGNES  went   through  the   meadows    a 

weeping, 
Fowl  are  a-singing. 
There  stood  the  hill-man  heed  thereof 

keeping. 
Agnes,  fair  Agnes  ! 

"  Come  to  the  hill,  fair  Agnes,  with  me, 
The  reddest   of  gold    will   I  give  unto 

thee  !  " 

Twice  went  Agnes  the  hill  round  about, 
Then  wended  within,  left  the  fair  world 
without. 

In  the  hillside  bode  Agnes,  three  years 

thrice  told  o'er, 
For  the  green  earth  sithence   fell    she 

longing  full  sore. 

There  she  sat,  and  lullaby  sangvin  her 

singing, 
And  she  heard  how  the  bells  of  England 

were  ringing. 

Agnes  before  her  true-love  did  stand  : 
"  May  I  wend  to  the  church  of  the  Eng- 
lish Land  ?  " 

"To  England's  Church  well  mayst  thou 

be  gone, 
So  that  no  hand  thou  lay  the  red  gold 

upon. 

"  So  that  when  thou  art  come  the  church- 
yard an  ear 
Thou  cast  not  abroad  thy  golden  hair. 

"  So  that  when  thoustandest  the  church 

within 
To  thy  mother  on  bench  thou  never  win. 

"  So  that  when  thou  hearest  the  high 

God's  name, 
No   knee   unto   earth  thou   bow  to  the 

same." 

Hand  she  laid  on  all  gold  that  was  there, 
And  cast  abroad  her  golden  hair. 


MORRIS 


863 


And  when  the  church  she  stood  within 
To  her  mother  on  bench  straight  did  she 

win. 

And    when    she   heard   the   high   God's 

name, 
Knee  unto  earth  she  bowed  to  the  same. 

When  all  the  mass  was  sung  to  its  end 
Home    with   her   mother   dear   did   she 
wend. 

"  Come,  Agnes,  into  the  hillside  to  me. 
For  tliv  seven  small  sons  greet  sorely  for 
thee  !  " 

"  Let   them   greet,    let   them   greet,    as 

they  will   have  to  do  ; 
For  never  again  will  I  hearken  thereto  !  " 

Weird  laid  he  on  her,  sore  sickness  he 

wrought, 
Fowl  are  a-singing. 
That   self-same   hour   to  death  was  she 

brought. 
Agnes,  fair  Agnes.  1891. 

ICELAND  FIRST  SEEN 

Lo  from  our  loitering  ship  a  new  land  at 

last  to  be  seen  ; 
Toothed  rocks  down  the  side  of  the  firth 

on  the  east  guard  a  weary  wide  lea, 
And    black    slope   the   hill-sides  above, 

striped     adown    with    their    desolate 

green  : 
And  a  peak   rises  up  on  the  west  from 

the  meeting  of  cloud  and  of  sea, 
Foursquare   from  base    unto  point  like 

the  building  of  Gods  that  have  been, 
The  last  of  that  waste  of  the  mountains 

all  cloud-wreathed  and  snow-flecked 

and  gray, 
And  bright  with  the  dawn  that   began 

just  now  at  the  ending  of  day. 

Ah  !  what  came  we  forth  for  to  see  that 

our  hearts  are  so  hot  with  desire  ? 
Is  it  enough  for  our  rest  the  sight  of  this 

desolate  strand. 
And   the    mountain-waste    voiceless   as 

death  but  for  winds  that  may  sleep  not 

nor  tire '( 

Why  do  we  long  to  wen  1  forth  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  a    land, 

Dreadful  with  grinding  of  ice,  and 
record  of  scarce  hidden  fire, 


But  that  there  'mid  the  gray  grassy  dales 
sore  scarred  by  the  ruining  streams 

Lives  the  tale  of  the  Northland  of  old 
and  the  undying  glory  of  dreams? 

0  land,  as  some  cave  by  the  sea  where 
the  treasures  of  old  have  been  laid. 

The   sword  it  may  be  of  a  king  whose 

name  was  the  turning-  of  fight ; 
Or  the  staff  of  some  wise  of  the  world 

that  many  things  made  and  unmade. 
Or  the  ring  of  a  woman  maybe  whose 

woe  is  grown  wealth  and  delight. 
No  wheat  and  no  wine  grows  above  it, 

no  orchard  for  blossom  and  shade  ; 
The  few  ships  that  sail  by  its   blackness 

but  deem  it  the  mouth  of  a  grave  ; 
Yet  sure  when  the  world  shall  awaken, 

this  too  shall  be  mighty  to  save. 

Or  rather,  O  land,  if  a  marvel  it  seemeth 

that  men  ever  sought 
Thy  wastes  for  a  field  and  a  garden  ful- 
filled of  all  wonder  and  doubt, 
And  feasted  amidst   of  the  winter  when 

the  fight  of  the  year  had  been  fought. 
Whose   plunder   all   gathered    together 

was  little  to  babble  about : 
Cry    aloud    from    thy    wastes,    O    thou 

land,  "  Not  for  this  nor  for  that  was  I 

wrought 
Amid  waning  of   realms  and  of  riches 

and  death  of  things  worshipped  and 

sure, 

1  abide  here  the  spouse  of  a  God,  and  I 

made  and  I  make  and  endure.-' 

O  Queen  of  the  grief  without  know- 
ledge, of  the  courage  that  may  not 
avail, 

Of  the  longing  that  may  not  attain,  of 
the  love  that  shall  never  forget, 

More  joy  than  the  gladness  of  laughter 
thy  voice  hath  amidst  of  its  wail  : 

More  hope  than  of  pleasure  fulfilled 
amidst  of  thy  blindness  is  set  ; 

More  glorious  than  gaining  of  all.  thine 
unfaltering  hand  that  shall  fail  : 

For  what  is  the  mark  on  thy  brow  but 
the  brand  that  thy  Brynhild  doth 
bear  ? 

Lone  once,  and  loved  and  undone  by  a 
love  that  no  ages  outwear. 

Ah  !  when  thy  Balder  comes  back,  and 
hears  from  l  he  heart  of  the  Sun. 

Peace  and  the  healing  of  pain,  and  the 
wisdom  that  waiteth  no  more  ; 

And    the    lilies    are    laid    on    thy  brow 


864 


BRITISH    POETS 


'mill    the    crown  of   the   deeds  thou 

hast  done  ; 
Ami  the  roses  spring  up  bj  thy  feel  that 
i  In-  rocks  of  the  wilderness  «  ore. 

All  !  when  thy  Haider  comes  back  and 
we  gather  the  gains  he  hath  won. 

Shall  we  not.  linger  a  little  to  talk  of  thy 
sweetness  of  old. 

Yea,  turn  hack  awhile  to  thy  travail 
whence  the  gods  stood  aloof  to  be- 
hold? 1891. 

TO  THE  MUSE  OF  THE  NORTH 

O  muse  that  swayest  the  sad  Northern 

Song, 
Thy  right   hand  full  of  smiting  and  of 

wrong, 
Thy    left    hand    holding   pity;  and    thy 

breast 
Heaving  with  hope   of   that   so  certain 

rest  : 
Thou,  with  the  gray  eyes  kind  and  un- 
afraid, 
The  soft  lips  trembling  not,  though  they 

have  said 
The  doom  of  the  World  and  those  that 

dwell  therein. 
The  lips    that    smile    not    though    thy 

children  win 
The   fated  Love   that   draws   the   fated 

Death. 
O,  borne  adown  the  fresh  stream  of  thy 

breath, 
Let  some  word  reach  my  ears  and  touch 

my  heart, 
That,  if  it  may  be,  I  may  lia^e  a  part 


In   that   great   sorrow   of   thy   children 

dead 
That  vexed  the  brow,  and  bowed  adown 

the  head, 
Whitened    the   hair,  made   life    a  won- 
drous dream, 
And   death   the   murmur   of    a    restful 

stream, 
But  left   no   stain   upon   those  souls  of 

thine 
Whose  greatness  through   the   tangled 

world  doth  shine. 
O  Mother,  and   Love   and   Sister  all  in 

one, 
Come  thou  ;  for  sure  I  am  enough  alone 
That   thou   thine  arms  about  my  heart 

shouldst  throw, 
And  wrap  me  in  the  grief  of  long  ago. 

1891. 

DRAWING  NEAR  THE  LIGHT 

Lo,  when  we  wade  the  tangled  wood, 
In  haste  and  hurry  to  be  there, 
Nought  seem   its  leaves  and  blossoms 

good, 
For  all  that  they  be  fashioned  fair. 

But  looking  up,  at  last  we  see 
The  glimmer  of  the  open  light, 
From  o'er  the  place  where  we  would  be; 
Then  grow  the  very  brambles  bright. 

So  now,  amidst  our  day  of  strife, 
With  many  a  matter  glad  we  play, 
When  once  we  see  the  light  of  life 
Gleam  through  the  tangle  of  to-day. 

1891. 


SWINBURNE 

LIST   OF   REFERENCES 

Editions 

*Poems,  6  volumes,  London,  Chatto  and  Windus,  New  York,  Harper 
and  Bros.,  1904.  —  ^Tragedies,  5  volumes,  Chatto  and  Windus,  and 
Harper  and  Bros.,  1905-1906.  —  The  Duke  of  Gandia,  1  volume,  1908.  — 
♦Selected  Poems,  1  volume,  edited  by  \Y.  M.  Payne,  1905  (Belles  Lettre's 
Series).  —  *Dramas,  s'elected  and  edited  by  Arthur  Beatty,  1909. 

Biography  and  Reminiscences 

New  International  Encyclop.edia,  article  Swinburne,  1903.  — ■ 
Friswell  (L.  H.),  In  the  Sixties  and  Seventies;  Impressions  of  Literary 
People  and  Others,  1906.  —  Taylor  (Mrs.  Bayard),  On  Two  Continents, 
1905.  —  Wratislaw  (T.),  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne,  a  Study,  1900. — 
Gosse  (E.),  Personal  Recollections  of  Swinburne;  in  the  Fortnightly 
Review,  June,  1909.  —  See  also  all  the  Biographical  References  under 
Rossetti  and  Morris. 

Criticism 

Boynton  (H.  W.),  in  the  Critic,  July,  1905.  —  Buchanan  (Robert), 
The  Fleshly  School  of  Poetry,  1872;  from  the  Contemporary  Review,  Oct., 
1871.  —Carman  (Bliss),  The  Poetry  of  Life,  1906.  —  *Gosse  (E.),  in  the 
Century,  Vol.  XLII,  p.  101,  May,  1902.  —  Lowell  (J.  R.),  Prose  Works, 
Vol.  II.  Swinburne's  Tragedies  (essay  of  1866).  —  Mackail  (J.  W.),  Swin- 
burne, 1909. — Meynell  (Alice),  Swinburne's  Lyrical  Poetry;  in  the 
Dublin  Review,  July,  1909.  —  *More  (Paul  E.),  Sherburne  Essays,  Third 
Series,  1906.  —  Nicoll  (W.  R.),  Swinburne;  in  the  Contemporary  Review, 
May,  1909.  —  Patmore  (Coventry),  Principle  in  Art.  —  *Payne  (W.  M.), 
Introduction  to  his  Selected  Poems  of  Swinburne,  1905;  also  The  Greater 
English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  1907.  —  Peck  (H.  T.),  Swinburne 
and  the  Swinburnians;  in  the  Bookman,  June,  1909.  —  Rhys  (E.),  Tribute 
to  Swinburne;  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  June,  1909.  —  Rossetti  (W.  M.), 
Swinburne's  Poems  and  Ballads;  a  Criticism,  1866. — Saintsbury  (G.), 
Corrected  Impressions,  1S95.  — Sharp  (W.),  in  Pall  Mall  Magazine,  Vol. 
XXV,  p.  25,  Dec,  1901.  —  *Stedman  (E.  C),  Victorian  Poets,  1875, 
1887.  — Swinburne,  Notes  on  Poems  and  Reviews  (a  reply  to  the  early 
criticisms  of  Poems  and  Ballads,  firs!  series),  1866.  — Swinburne,  Under 
the  Microscope  (a  reply  to  Buchanan),  1872.  —  Wollaeger,  Studien  Liber 
Swinburne's  poetischen  Stil. — *Woodberry  (G.  E.),  Swinburne,  1905 
(Contemporary  Men  of  Letters  Series).  —  Walker  (ftugh),  Literature  of 
the  Victorian  Era,  1910. 

Bibliography 

Nicoll  and  Wise,  in  Literary  Anecdotes  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 
—  *Shepherd  (R.  H.),  The  Bibliography  of  Swinburne,  1887. 
55  865 


SWINBURNE 


A  SONG  IN  TIME  OF  ORDER 

IS--.' 

Push  hard  across  the  sand, 

For  the  salt  wind  gathers  breath  ; 
Shoulder  and  wrist  and  hand, 

Push  hard  as  the  push  of  death. 

The  wind  is  as  iron  that  rings, 

The  foam-heads  loosen  and  flee  ; 

It  swells  and  welters  and  swings, 
The  pulse  of  the  tide  of  the  sea. 

And  up  on  the  yellow  cliff 

The  long  corn  flickers  and  shakes  ; 
Push,  for  the  wind  holds  stiff, 

And  the  gunwale  dips  and  rakes. 

Good  hap  to  the  fresh  fierce  weather, 
The  quiver  and  beat  of  the  sea  ! 

While  three  men  hold  together 

The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 

Out  to  the  sea  with  her  there, 

Out  with  her  over  the  sand, 
Let  the  kings  keep  the   earth  for  their 
share  ! 
We  have  done  with  the   sharers  of 
land. 

They  have  tied  the  world  in  a  tether, 
They  have  bought  over  God  with  a 
fee  ; 

While  three  men  hold  together, 

The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 

We  have  done  with  the  kisses  that  sting, 
The  thief's  mouth  red  from  the  feast, 

The  blood  on  the  hands  of  the  king, 

And  the  lie  at  the  lips  of  the  priest. 

Will  they  tie  the  winds  in  a  tether, 
Put  a  bit  in  the  jaws  of  the  sea? 

While  three  men  hold  together, 

The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 

Let  our  flag  run  out  straight  in  the  wind ! 
The  old  red  shall  be  floated  again 


When  the  ranks  that  are  thin  shall  be 
thinned, 
When  the  names  that  were  twenty 
are  ten  ; 

When  the  devil's  riddle  is  mastered 

And  the  galley-bench  creaks  with  a 
Pope, 

We  shall  see  Buonaparte  the  bastard 

Kick  heels  with  his  throat  in  a  rope. 

While  the  shepherd  sets  wolves  on  his 
sheep 

And  the  emperor  halters  his  Kine, 
While  Shame  is  a  watchman  asleep 

And  Faith  is  a  keeper  of  swine. 

Let  the    wind    shake    our    flag    like  a 
feather, 
Like  the  plumes  of  the  foam  of  the 
sea ! 
While  three  men  hold  together, 

The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 

All  the  world  has  its  burdens  to  bear, 
From     Cayenne     to    the    Austrian 
whips  ; 

Forth,  with  the  rain  in  our  hair 

And  the  salt  sweet  foam  in  our  lips  : 

In  the  teeth  of  the  hard  glad  weather, 
In  the  blown  wet  face  of  the  sea  ; 

While  three  men  hold  together, 
The  kingdoms  are  less  by  three. 

1862. 

CHORUSES  FROM  ATALANTA  IN 
CALYDON 

THE  YOUTH  OF  THE   YEAR 

When    the    hounds    of   spring    are   on 
winter's  traces, 
The  mother  of  months  in   meadow  or 
plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 
With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 


866 


SWINBURNE 


867 


Arr  1  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amor- 
ous 
Is  naif  assuagod  for  Itylus, 
For  the  Thraciaii   ships  and  the  foreign 

faces. 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  tliepain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying 
of  quivers, 
Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 
With   a   clamor  of  waters,    and  with 
might  ; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals.  O  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet  ; 
For   the   faint   east    quickens,  the   wan 
west  shivers. 
Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet 
of  the  night. 

Where  shall  we   find  her,  how  shall  we 
sing  to  her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and 
cling? 
O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could 
spring  to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of   the   streams 
that  spring  ! 
For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player  ; 
For  the  risen  stars  and   the  fallen  cling- 
to  her, 
And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west- 
wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 

And  all  th"  season  of  snows  and  sins  ; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 
The   light  that  loses,  the   night   that 
wins ; 
And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten, 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  (lowers  begotten, 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  t  ravelling  foot, 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year 
0  ashes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oil  is  heard  above  t  lie  lyre, 
And  the  hooted  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The    chestnut-husk  at   the    chestnut 
root . 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-fool  kid, 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  de- 
light 


The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid  ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And   screen  from  seeing   and  leave  in 
sight 

The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 

Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes  ; 
The     wild   vine    slipping    down   leaves 
bare 
Her     bright  breast    shortening    into 
sighs  ; 
The  wild   vine  slips   with  the  weight  of 

its  leaves, 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs   that   glitter,  the  feet  that 
scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the   fawn  that 
flies. 

THE  LIFE  OF  MAN 

Before  the  beginning  of  years, 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears  ; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran  ; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven  ; 

Summer,  with  flowers  that  fell ; 
Remembrance  fallen  from  heaven, 

And  madness  risen  from  hell  ; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite; 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath  ; 
Night,  the  shadow  of  light, 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 

And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears, 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years  ; 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea  ; 

And  dust  of  the  laboring  earth  ; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth  ; 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow, 

Thai  his  strength  might  endure  for  a 
span 
With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 

The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

From  the    winds  of  the   north   and  the 
south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife  ; 
They  breathed  upon  his  mouth, 

They  filled  his  body  with  life; 


S6S 


BRITISH   POETS 


Eyesight  and  speech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 
A  time  for  labor  and  thought, 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin  ; 
They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways, 

And  love,  and  a  space  for  delight, 
And  beauty  and  Length  of  days, 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night. 
His  speech  is  a  burning  fire  ; 

With  his  lips  he  travaileth; 
In  Ids  heart  is  a  blind  desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death  ; 
He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision; 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap ; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 

LOVE   AND   LOVE'S  MATES 

We   have   seen   thee,   O   Love,  thou  art 

fair  ;  thou  art  goodly,  O  Love  ; 
Thy  wings  make  light  in  the  air  as  the 

wings  of  a  dove. 
Thy  feet  are   as   winds  that   divide  the 

stream  of  the  sea  ; 
Earth  is  thy   covering  to  hide  thee,  the 

garment  of  thee. 
Thou  art  swift  and  subtle  and  blind  as  a 

flame  of  fire ; 
Before  thee  the  laughter,  behind  thee  the 

tears  of  desire  ; 
And  twain  go   forth   beside  thee,  a  man 

with  a  maid  ; 
Her  ej^es  are  the  eyes  of  a  bride  whom 

delight  makes  afraid  ; 
As  the  breath  in  the  buds  that  stir  is  her 

bridal  breath  : 
But  Fate  is   the   name  of   her  ;  and  his 

name  is  Death. 

NATURE 

O  that  I  now,  I  too  were 
By  deep  wells  and  water-floods. 
Streams  of  ancient  hills,  and  where 
All  the  wan   green  places  bear 
Blossoms  cleaving  to  the  sod, 
Fruitless  fruit,  and  grasses  fair, 
Or  such  darkest  ivy-buds 
As  divide  thy  yellow  hair, 
Bacchus,  and  their  leaves  that  nod 
Round  thy  fawnskin  brush  the  bare 
Snow-soft  shoulders  of  a  god  : 
There  the  year  is  sweet,  and  there 
Earth  is  full  of  secret  springs. 
And  the  fervent  rose-cheeked  hours, 
Those  that  marry  dawn  and  noon. 
There  are  sunless,  there  look  pale 
In  dim  leaves  and  hidden  air, 


Pale  as  grass  or  latter  flowers, 

Or  the  wild  vine's  wan   wet  rings 

Full  of  dew  beneath  the  moon, 

And  all  day  the  nightingale 

Sleeps,  and  all  night  sings  ; 

There  in  cold  remote  recesses 

That  nor  alien  eyes  assail, 

Feet,  nor  imminence  of  wings, 

Nor  a  wind  nor  any  tune, 

Thou,  O  queen  and  holiest, 

Flower  the  whitest  of  all  things. 

With  reluctant  lengthening  tresses 

And  with  sudden  splendid  breast 

Save  of  maidens  unbeholden, 

There  art  wont  to  enter,  there 

Thy  divine  swift  limbs  and  golden 

Maiden  growth  of  unbound  hair, 

Bathed  in  waters  white, 

Shine,  and  many  a  maid's  by  thee 

In  moist  woodland  or  the  hill}' 

Flowerless  brakes  where  wells  abound 

Out  of  all  men's  sight  ; 

Or  in  lower  pools  that  see 

All  their  marges  clothed  all  round 

With  the  innumerable  lily, 

Whence  the  golden-girdled  bee 

Flits  through  flowering  rush  to  fret 

White  or  duskier  violet, 

Fair  as  those  that  in  far  years 

With  their  buds  left  luminous 

And  their  little  leaves  made  wet 

From  the  warmer  dew  of  tears, 

Mother's  tears  in  extreme  need, 

Hid  the  limbs  of  Iamus, 

Of  thy  brother's  seed  ; 

For  his  heart  was  piteous 

Toward  him.  even  as  thine  heart  now 

Pitiful  toward  us  ; 

Thine,  O  goddess,  turning  hither 

A  benignant  blameless  brow  ; 

Seeing  enough  of  evil  done 

And  lives  withered  as  leaves  wither 

In  the  blasting  of  the  sun  ; 

Seeing  enough  of  hunters  dead, 

Ruin  enough  of  all  our  year. 

Herds  and  harvest  slain  and  shed, 

Herdsmen  stricken  many  an  one, 

Fruits  and  flocks  consumed  together, 

And  great  length  of  deadly  days. 

Yet  with  reverent  lips  and  fear 

Turn  we  toward  thee,  turn  and  praise 

For  tins  lightening  of  clear  weather 

And  prosperities  begun. 

For  not  seldom,  when  all  air 

As  bright  water  without  breath 

Shines,  and  when  men  fear  not,  fate 

Without  thunder  unaware 

Breaks,  and  brings  down  death. 

Joy  with  grief  ye  great  gods  give, 


SWINBURNE 


869 


&ood  with  bad,  and  overbear 
Ali  the  pride  of  us  that  live. 
All  the  high  estate, 
As  ye  long  since  overbore, 
As  in  old  time  long  before, 
Many  a  strong  man  and  a  great, 
All  that  were. 

But  do  thou,  sweet,  otherwise, 
Having  heed  of  all  our  prayer, 
Taking  note  of  all  our  sighs  : 
We  beseech  thee  by  thy  light, 
By  thy  bow,  and  thy  sweet  eyes, 
And  the  kingdom  of  the  night, 
Be  thou  favorable  and  fair  ; 
By  thine  arrows  and  thy  might 
And  Orion  overthrown  ; 
By  the  maiden  thy  delight, 
By  the  indissoluble  zone 
And  the  sacred  hair. 


Not  as  with  sundering  of  the  earth 

Nor  as  with  cleaving -of  the  sea 
Nor  fierce  foreshadowings  of  a  birth 

Nor  flying  dreams  of  death  to  be, 
Nor  loosening  of  a  large  world's  girth 
And  quickening  of  the  body  of  night, 

And  sound  of  thunder  in  men's  ears 
And  fire  of  lightning  in  men's  sight, 

Fate,  mother  of  desires  and  fears, 

Bore  unto  men  the  law  of  tears  ; 
But  sudden,  an  unfathered  flame, 

And  broken  out  of  night,  she  shone, 
She,  without  body,  without  name, 

In  days  forgotten  and  foregone  ; 
And  heaven  rang  round  her  as  she  came 
Like  smitten  cymbals,  and  lay  bare  ; 

Clouds  and  great  stars,  thunders  and 
snows. 

The  blue  sad  fields  and  folds  of  air. 
The  life  that  breathes,  the  life  that 
grows, 

All  wind,  all  fire,  that  burns  or  blows, 
Even  all  these  knew  her  :  for  she  is  great; 

The  daughter  of  doom,  the  mother  of 
death, 
The  sister  of  sorrow  ;  a  lifelong  weight 

That  no  man's  finger  lighteneth, 
Nor  any  god  can  lighten  fate  ; 
A  landmark  seen  across  the  way 

Where  one  race  treads  as  the  other 
trod  ; 
An  evil  sceptre,  an  evil  stay, 

Wrought  for  a  staff,  wrought  forarod, 

The  bitter  jealousy  of  God. 

For  death  is  deep  as  the  sea, 
And  fate  as  the  waves  thereof. 


Shall  the  waves  take  pity  on  thee 

Or  the  south-wind  offer  thee  love  ? 
Wilt  thou  take  the  night  for  thy  day 
Or  the  darkness  for  light  on  thy  way 
Till  thou  say  in  thine  heart,  Enough? 

Behold,    thou    art   over   fair,    thou    art 

over  wise  ; 
The  sweetness  of  spring   in  thine  hair, 

and  the  light  in  thine  eyes. 
The  light  of  the   spring  in  thine  eyes, 

and  the  sound  in  thine  ears  ; 
Yet  thine  heart  shall  wax  heavy  with 
'   sighs  and  thine  eyelids  with  tears. 
Wilt  thou  cover  thine  hair  with  gold  ; 

and  with  silver  thy  feet? 
Hast  thou  taken  the  purple  to  fold  thee, 

and  made  thy  mouth  sweet? 
Behold,  when  thy  face  is  made  bare,  he 

that  loved  thee  shall  hate  ; 
Thy  face  shall  be  no  more  fair   at  the 

fall  of  thy  fate. 
For  thy  life  shall  fall  as  a  leaf  and  be 

shed  as  the  rain  ; 
And  the  veil  of  thine  head  shall  be  grief ; 

and  the  crown  shall  be  pain. 

THE   DEATH    OF  MELEAGER 

Meleager.  Let  your  hands  meet 
Round  the  weight  of  my  head, 
Lift  ye  my  feet 

As  the  feet  of  the  dead  ; 
For  the  flesh  of  my  body  is  molten,  the 
limbs  of  it  molten  as  lead. 

Choms.  O  thy  luminous  face, 
Thine  imperious  e\res ! 
O  the  grief,  O  the  grace, 
As  of  day  when  it  dies  ! 
Who  is  this  bending  over  thee,  lord,  with 
tears  and  suppression  of  sighs  ! 

Meleager.  Is  a  bride  so  fair? 
Is  a  maid  so  meek  ? 
With  unohapleted  hair. 
With  unfilleted  cheek, 
Atalanta,  the  pure  among  women,  whose 
name  is  as  blessing  to  speak. 

Atalanta.  I  would  that  with  feet, 
Unsandalled,  unshod, 
Overbold,  overfleet, 

I  had  swum  not  nor  trod 
From  Arcadia,  to  Calydon,  northward,  a 
blast  of  the  envy  of  (bid. 

Meleager.  Unto  each  man  his  fate  ; 
Unto  each  as  he  saith 


870 


BRITISH    POETS 


In  whoso  fingers  1  lie  weight 
Of  iln'  world  is  as  breath  ; 
Yet    1  would   that    in  clamor  of  battle 
mine   bands  had  laid  hold   upon 

death. 

( thorns.  Not  with  cleaving  «>f  shields 
And  their  clash  in  thine  ear. 
When  the  lord  of  fought  holds 
Breaketh  spearshaffc  from  spear, 
Thou   art    broken,    our    lord,    thou    art 
broken,    with   travail    and    labor 
and  fear. 

Meleager.  Would  God  he  had  found  me 
Beneath  fresh  boughs  ! 
Would  God  he  had  bound  me 
Unawares  in  mine  house. 
With  light  in  mine  eyes  andsongsinmy 
lips,  and  a  crown  on  my  brows  ! 

Chorus.  Whence  art  thou  sent  from  us? 
Whither  thy  goal  ? 
How  art  thou  rent  from  us, 
Thou  that  wert  whole, 
As  with  severing  of  eyelids  and  eyes,  as 
with  sundering  of  body  and  soul ! 

Meleager.  My  heart  is  within  me 
As  an  ash  in  the  fire  ; 
Whosoever  hath  seen  me, 
Without  lute,  without  lyre, 
Shall  sing  of  me  grievous  things,  even 
things  that  were  ill  to  desire. 

Chorus.  Who  shall  raise  thee 
From  the  house  of  the  dead? 
Or  what  man  praise  thee 

That  thy  praise  may  be  said  ? 
Alas   thy   beauty  !   alas  thy  body  !   alas 
thine  head  ! 

Meleager.  But  thou,  O  mother, 
That  dreamer  of  dreams, 
Wilt  thou  bring  forth  another 
To  feel  the  sun's  beams 
When  I  move  among  shadows  a  shadow, 
and  wail  by  impassable  streams  ? 

(Eiiens.  What  thing  wilt  thou  leave  me 
Now  this  thing  is  done  ? 
A  man  wilt  thou  give  me, 
\  son  for  my  son, 
For  the  light  of  mine  eyes,  the  desire  of 
my  life,  the  desirable  one? 

Chorus.  Thou  wert  glad  ahove  others. 
Yea,  fair  beyond  word  ; 
Thou  wert  glad  among  mothers  ; 


For  eacli  man  that  heard 
Of  thee,  praise  there  was  added  unto  thee, 
as  wings  to  the  feet  of  a  bird. 

(Eneus.  Who  shall  give  back 

Thy  face  of  old  years, 

With  travail  made  black, 

Grown  gray  among  fears. 

Mother  of   sorrow,   mother    of   cursint 

mother  of  tears  ? 

Meleager.  Though  thou  art  as  fire 
Fed  with  fuel  in  vain, 
My  delight,  my  desire, 

Is  more  chaste  than  the  rain, 
More  pure  than  the  dewfall,  more  holy 
than   stars  are  that  live    without 
stain. 

Atalanta.  I  would  that  as  water 
My  life's  blood  had  tJiawn, 
Or  as  winter's  wan  daughter 
Leaves  lowland  and  lawn 
Spring-stricken,  or  ever  mine  eyes  had 
beheld   thee   made    dark    in    thy 
dawn. 

Chorus.  When  thou  dravest  the  men 
Of  the  chosen  of  Thrace, 
None  turned  him  again 
Nor  endured  he  thy  face 
Clothed   round    with   the    blush  of   the 
battle,  with  light  from  a  terrible 
place. 

(Eneus.  Thou  shouldst  die  as  he  dies 
For  whom  none  sheddeth  tears  ; 
Filling  thine  eyes 

And  fulfilling  thine  ears, 
With  the  brilliance  of  battle,  the  bloom 
and   the   beauty,  the   splendor  of 
spears. 

Chorus.  In  the  ears  of  the  world 
It  is  sung,  it  is  told, 
And  the  light  thereof  hurled 
And  the  noise  thereof  rolled 
From   the   Acroceraunian    snow  to  the 
ford  of  the  fleece  of  gold. 

Meleager.  Would  God  ye  could  carry  me 
Forth  of  all  these  ; 
Heap  sand  and  bury  me 
By  the  Chersonese, 
Where  the   thundering    Bosphorus    an- 
swers the  thunder  of  Pontic  seas. 

(Eneus.  Dost  thou  mock  at  our  praise 
A-nd  the  singing  begun 


SWINBURNE 


871 


And  the  men  of  strange  daj's 
Praising  my  son 
In  the  folds  of  the  hills  of  home,  high 
places  of  Cal ydon  ? 

Meleager.  For  the  dead  man  no  home  is  ; 
Ah,  better  to  be 
What  the  flower  of  the  foam  is 
In  fields  of  the  sea, 
That  the  sea-waves  might  be  as  my  rai- 
ment, the  gulf-stream  a  garment 
for  me. 

Chorus.  Who  shall  seek  thee  and  bring 
And  restore  thee  thy  day, 
When  the  dove  dipped  her  wing, 
And  the  oars  won  their  way 
Where    the     narrowing     Symplegades 
whitened  the  straits  of  Propoutis 
with  spray  ? 

Meleager.  Will  ye  crown  me  my  tomb 
Or  exalt  me  my  name. 
Now  my  spirits  consume, 
Now  my  flesh  is  a  flame? 
Let  the  sea  slake  it  once,  and  men  speak 
of  me   sleeping   to   praise   me   or 
shame. 

Chorus.  Turn  back  now,  turn  thee, 
As  who  turns  him  to  wake  ; 
Though  the  life  in  thee  burn  thee, 
Couldst  thou  bathe  it  and  slake 
Where    the    sea-ridge    of    Helle   hangs 
heavier,  and  east  upon  west  watei  s 
break  ? 

Meleager.  Would    the   winds    blow  me 
back 
Or  the  waves  hurl  me  home? 
Ah.  to  touch  in  the  track 

Where  the  pine  learnt  to  roam 
Cold  girdles  and  crowns  of  the  sea-gods, 
cool  blossoms  of  water  and  foam  ! 

Chorus.  The  gods  may  release 
That  they  made  fast  ; 
Thy  soul  shall  have  ease 
In  thy  limbs  at  the  last ; 
But  what  shall   they  p;ive  thee   "or  life, 
sweet  life  that  is  overpast  ? 

Meleag<  r.  Not  the  life  of  men's  veins, 
Not  "f  flesh  that  conceives  ; 
But,  t  he  grace  I  hat  remains, 
The  fair  beauty  that  cleaves 
To  the  life  of  the  rains  in  the  grasses,  the 
life  of  the  dews  on  the  Leaves. 


Chorus.  Thou  wert  helmsman  and  chief ; 
Wilt  thou  turn  in  an  hour, 
Thy  limbs  to  the  leaf. 
Thy  face  to  the  flower. 
Thy  blood  to  the  water,  thy  soul  to  the 
gods  who  divide  and  devour? 

Meleager.  The  years  are  hungry, 
The}'  wail  all  their  days  ; 
The  gods  wax  angry 
And  weary  of  praise  : 
And  who  shall  bridle   their   lips?   anc 
who  shall  straighten  their  ways  ° 

Chorus.  The  gods  guard  over  us 
With  sword  and  with  rod  ; 
Weaving  shadow  to  cover  us, 
Heaping  the  sod. 
That  law   may  fulfil  herself  wholly,  to 
darken  man's  face  before  God. 

FINAL  CHORUS 

Who  shall  contend  with  his  lords 
Or  cross  them  or  do  them  wrong? 

Who  shall  bind  them  as  with  cords? 
Who  shall  tame  them  as  with  song? 

Who  shall  smite  them  as  with  swords  ? 
For   the   hands  of  their   kingdom   are 
strong.  1805, 

SONGS  FROM  CHASTELARD 
MARY  BEATON'S  SONti1 

Le  navire 
Est  a  l'eau  ; 
Entends  rire 
Ce  gros  flot 
Que  fait  luire 
Et  bruire 
Le  vieux  sire 
Aquilo. 

Dans  Tespace 
Du  grand  air 
Le  vent  passe 
Com  me  un  fer  ; 

Siffle  et  Sonne, 
Tomhe  et  tonne  ; 
Prend  et  donne 
A  la  mer. 


1  Probably  110  excuse  is  needed  for  including 

ome examples  of  Swinburne's  French  verse, 

both  for  its  own  light  and  exquisite  beaut  y,  ana 

1 ause  il  so  characteristically  represents  him. 

■  ine  of  his  chief  distinctions  is  that  of  being  per. 
lie  only  Englishman  who  ever  really  un- 
■  i  an  1  appr  ciated  Preach  poetry. 


872 


BRITISH    POETS 


Vois,  la  brise 
Tourne  au  nord, 

Et  la  Wise 
Souffle  et  mord 
Sur  ta  pure 
Chevelure 

Qui  murraure 
Et  se  lord. 

Le  navire 
Passe  et  luit, 
Puis  chavire 
A  grand  bruit ; 
Et  sur  l'onde 
La  plus  blonde 
Tete  au  monde 
Flotte  et  fuit. 

Moi,  je  rarae, 
Et  ['amour, 
C'est  ma  flamme, 
Mon  grand  jour, 
Ma  chandelle 
Blancbe  et  belle, 
Ma  cbapelle 
De  sejour. 

Toi,  mon  ame 
Et  ma  foi, 
Sois  ma  dame 
Et  ma  loi  ; 
Sois  ma  mie, 
Sois  Marie, 
Sois  ma  vie, 
Toute  a  moi ! 

LOVE  AT  EBB 

Between  the  sunset  and  the  sea 
My  love,  laid  hands  and  lips  on  me ; 
Of  sweet  came  sour,  of  day  came  night, 
Of  long  desire  came  brief  delight : 
Ah  love,  and  what  thing  came  of  thee 
Between  the  sea-downs  and  the  sea? 

Between  the  sea-mark  and  the  sea 
Joy  grew  to  grief,  grief  grew  to  me  ; 
Love  turned  to  tears,  and  tears  to  fire, 
And  dead  delight  to  new  desire  ; 
Love's  talk,  love's  touch  there  seemed  to 

be 
Between  the  sea-sand  and  the  sea. 

Between  the  sundown  and  the  sea 
Love  watched  one  hour  of  love  with  me  ; 
Then  down  the  all-golden  water-ways 
His  feet  flew  after  yesterday's  ; 
I  saw  them  come  and  saw  them  flee 
Between  the  sea-foam  and  the  sea 


Between  the  sea-strand  and  the  sea 
Love  fell  on  sleep,  sleep  fell  on  me  ; 
The  first  star  saw  twain  turn  to  one 
Between  the  nioonrise  and  the  sun  ; 
The  next,  that  saw  not  love,  saw  me 
Between  the  sea-banks  and  the  sea. 

THE  QUEEN'S  SONG 

J'ai  vu  faner  bien  des  choses, 
Mainte  feuille  aller  au  vent. 
En  son^eant  aux  vieilles  roses, 
J'ai  pleure  souvent. 

Vois  tu  dans  les  roses  mortes 
Amour  qui  sourit  cache  ? 

0  mon  amant,  a  nos  portes 
L'as-tu  vu  couche  ? 

As-tu  vu  jamais  au  monde 
Venus  chasser  etcourir? 
Fille  de  l'onde,  avec  l'onde 
Doit-elle  mourir? 

Aux  jours  de  neige  et  de  givre 
L'amour  s'effeuille  et  s'endort  ; 
Avec  inai  doit-il  revivre, 
Ou  bien  est-il  mort  ? 

Qui  sait  ou  s'en  vont  les  roses  ? 
Qui  sait  oil  s'en  va  le  vent? 
En  songeant  a  telles  choses, 
J'ai  pleure  souvent.  1865. 

HYMN  TO    PROSERPINE 

(AFTER  THE  PROCLAMATION    IN  ROME  OP 
THE   CHRISTIAN   FAITH) 

Vicisti,  Galilcee 

1  have  lived  long  enough,  having  seen 

one  thing,  that  love  hath  an  end  ; 
Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near 

me  now  and  befriend. 
Thou  art  more  than  the  day  or  the  mor- 
row, the  seasons  that  laugh  or  that 

weep ; 
For  these  give  joy  and  sorrow  ;  but  thou, 

Proserpina,  sleep. 
Sweet  is  the  treading  of  wine,  and  sweet 

the  feet  of  the  dove  ; 
But  a  goodlier  gift  is   thine   than   foam 

of  the  grapes  or  love. 
Yea,  is  not  even  Apollo,  with  hair  and 

harpstring  of  gold, 
A  bitter  God  to  follow,  a  beautiful  God 

to  behold  ? 
I  am  sick  of  singing  ;  the  bays  burn  deep 

and  chafe  :  I  am  fain 


SWINBURNE 


^73 


To  rest  a  little  from  praise  and  grievous 

pleasure  aud  pain. 
For  the  Gods  we  know  not  of,  who   give 

us  our  daily  breath, 
We  know  they  are  cruel  as  love  or  life, 

and  lovely  as  death. 

0  Gods  dethroned  and  deceased,   cast 

forth,  wiped  out  in  a  day  ! 
From  your  wrath  is  the  world   released, 

redeemed  from  your  chains,   men 

say. 
New  Gods  are  crowned  in  the  city,  their 

flowers  have  broken  your  rods  ; 
They  are  merciful,   clothed    with   pity, 

the  young  compassionate  Gods. 
But  for  me  their  new  device  is  barren, 

the  days  are  bare  ; 
Things  long  past   over  suffice,  and  men 

forgotten  that  were. 
Time   and   the   Gods   are   at   strife :  ye 

dwell  in  the  midst  thereof, 
Draining  a  little  life  from  the  barren 

breasts  of  love. 

1  say  to  you.  cease,  take  rest ;  yea,  I  say 

to  you  all.  he  at  peace, 
Till  the  bitter  milk  of  her  breast  and  the 

barren  bosom  shall  cease. 
Wilt   thou   yet  take  all,  Galilean?  but 

these  thou  shalt  not  take. 
The   laurel,  the   palms   and   the   paean, 

the  breast  of  the  nymphs  in  the 

brake  ; 
Breasts   more  soft  than   a   dove's,   that 

tremble  with  tenderer  breath  ; 
And  all  the  wings  of  the  Loves,  and   all 

the  joy  before  death  ; 
All  the  feet  of  the  hours  that  sound  as 

a  single  lyre, 
Dropped  and  deep  in  the  flowers,  with 

strings  that  flicker  like  fire. 
More  than  these  wilt  thou  give,  things 

fairer  than  all  these  tilings  ? 
Nay,  for  a  little  we  live,  and  life   hath 

mutable  wings. 
A  little  while  and  we  die  ;  shall  life  not 

thrive  as  it  may  ? 
For  no  man  under  the  sky  lives  twice, 

outliving  his  day. 
And  grief  is  a  grievous  thing,  ami  a  man 

hath  enough  of  his  tears  : 
Why  should   he   labor,  and   bring   fresh 

grief  to  blacken  his  years? 
Thou  hast  conquered,  O  pale  Galilean; 

the   world   lias  grown  gray  from 

thy  breath  : 
We  have   drunken   of   things   Lethean, 

and  fed  on  the  fulness  of  death. 
Laurel  is  green  for  a  season,  and   love  is 

sweet  for  a  day  ; 


But  love  grows  bitter' with  treason,  and 

laurel  outlives  not  May. 
Sleep,  shall  we  sleep  after  all  ?  for  the 

world  is  not  sweet  in  the  end  ; 
For  the  old  faiths   loosen   and   fall,   the 

new  years  ruin  and  rend. 
Fate  is  a  sea  without  shore,  and  the  soul 

is  a  rock  that  abides  ; 
But  her  ears  are  vexed  with  the  roar  and 

her  face  with  the  foam  of  the  tides. 
O  lips  that  the  live  blood  faints  in,  the 

leavings  of  racks  and  rods  ! 

0  ghastly  glories  of  saints,  dead  limbs  of 

gibbeted  Gods  ! 
Though  all  men  abase  them  before  you 
in  spirit,  and  all  knees  bend, 

1  kneel    not,  neither    adore    yon,    but 

standing,  look  to  the  end. 
All  delicate  days  and  pleasant,  all  spirits 

and  sorrows  are  cast 
Far  out  with  the  foam  of  the  present  that 

sweeps  to  the  surf  of  the  past : 
Where  beyond  the  extreme  sea-wall,  and 

between  the  remote  sea-gates, 
Waste    water    washes,    and    tall    ships 

founder,  and  dee])  death  waits: 
Where,   mighty   with   deepening   sides, 

clad  about  with  the  seas  as  with 

wings. 
And  impelled  of  invisible  tides,  and  ful- 
filled of  unspeakable  things, 
White-eyed  and  poisonous-finned,  shark- 
toothed  and  serpentine-curled, 
Rolls,  under  the  whitening  wind  of  the 

future,  the  wave  of  the  world. 
The  depths  stand  naked  in  sunder  behind 

it,  the  storms  flee  away  ; 
In  the  hollow  before  it  the  thunder  is 

taken  and  snared  as  a  prey  ; 
In  its  sides  is  the  north-wind  hound  ;  and 

its  salt  is  of  all  men's  tears  ; 
With  light  of  ruin,  and  sound  of  changes, 

and  pulse  of  years  : 
With  travail  of  day  after  day.  and  with 

trouble  of  hour  upon  hour  ; 
And  bitter  as  blood  is  the  spray  ;  and  the 

crests  are  as  fangs  that  devour  : 
And  its  vapor  and  storm  of  its  steam  as 

the  sighing  of  spirits  to  be  ; 
And  its  noise  as  the  noise  in  a.  dream  ; 

and  its  depth  as  the  roots  of  the  sea  : 
And  the  heighl  of  its  heads  as  the  height 

of  the  ut  most  stars  of  the  ail'  : 
And  the  ends  of  the  earth  at  the  might 

thereof  tremble,  and  time  is  made 

bare. 
Will  ye  bridle  the  deep  sea  with  reins, 

will  ye  chasten  the  high  sea  with 

rods  ? 


*74 


JiRJTISH   POETS 


Will  ye  take  her  to  chain  her  with  chains, 
who  is  older  than  all  ye  Gods? 

All  ye  as  a  wind   shall  go  by,  as  a  lire 

shall  ye  pass  and  be  past  ; 
Ye  are  Gods,  and  behold  ye  shall  die,  and 

the  waves  be  upon  you  at  last. 
In  the  darkness  of  time,  in   the  deeps  of 

the  years,  in  the  changes  of  things, 
Ye  shall  sleep  as  a  slain   man  sleeps,  and 

the    world    shall    forget    you    for 

kings. 
Though  the  feet  of  thine   high    priests 

tread    where    thy    lords    and    our 

forefathers  trod. 
Though  these  that   were  Gods  are  dead, 

and  thou  being  dead  art  a  God, 
Though  before  thee  the  throned  Cythe- 

reau    be    fallen,    and    hidden    her 

head, 
Yet  thy  kingdom  shad  pass.  Galilean,  thy 

dead  shall  go  down  to  thee  dead. 
Of  the  maiden  thy  mi  ither,  men  sing  as  a 

goddess  with  grace  clad  around  ; 
Thou   art    throned    where   another  was 

king  ;    where  another  was  queen 

she  is  crowned. 
Yea,  once  we  had  sight  of  another  :  but 

now  she  is  queen,  say  these. 
Not'as  thine,  not  asthine  was  our  mother, 

a  blossom  of  flowering  seas, 
Clothed  round  with  the  world's  desire  as 

with  raiment,  and  fair  as  the  foam, 
And  fleeter  than  kindled  fire,  and  a  god- 
dess and  mother  of  Rome. 
For  thine  came  pale  and  a  maiden,  and 

sister  to  sorrow  ;  but  ours. 
Her  deep  hair  heavily  laden  with  odor 

and  color  of  flowers, 
White  rose  of  the    rose-white  water,  a 

silver  splendor,  a  flame, 
Bent  down  unto  us  that  besought  her, 

and  earth  grew  sweet   with    her 

name. 
For  thine  came  weeping,  a  slave  among 

slaves,  and  rejected  ;  but  she 
Came  flushed  from  the  full-flushed  wave, 

and  imperial,  her  foot  on  the  sea. 
And  the  wonderful  waters  knew  her,  the 

winds  and  the  viewless  ways, 
And  the  roses  grew  rosier,  and  bluer  the 

sea-blue  stream  of  the  bays. 
Ye  are  fallen,  our  lords  by  what  token? 

we  wist  that  ye  should  not  fall. 
Ye  were  all  so  fair  that  are  broken  ;  and 

one  more  fair  than  ye  all. 
But  I  turn  to  her  still,  having  seen  she 

shall  surely  abide  in  the  end  ; 
Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near 

me  now  and  befriend. 


0  daughter  of  earth,  of  my  mother,  hei 

crown  and  blossom  of  birth, 

1  am  also,  I  also,  thy  brother  ;  I  go  as  I 

came  unto  earth. 
In  the  night   where   thine    eyes  are  as 

moons   are   in   heaven,  the    night 

where  thou  art, 
Where  the  silence  is  more  than  all  tunes, 

where    sleep   overflows  from   the 

heart, 
Where  the  poppies  are  sweet  as  the  rose 

in  our  world,  and  the  red  rose  is 

white, 
And  the  wind  falls  faint  as  it  blows  with 

the   fume   of   the   flowers    of  the 

night, 
And  the  murmur  of  spirits  that  sleep  in 

the  shadow  of  Gods  from  afar 
Grows  dim  in  thine  ears  and  deep  as  the 

deep  dim  soul  of  a  star, 
In  the  sweet  low  light  of  thy  face,  un- 
der heavens  untrod  by  the  sun, 
Let  my  soul  with  their  souls  find  place, 

and  forget  wdiat  is  done  and  un- 
done. 
Thou   art   more    than    the    Gods    wdio 

number  the  days  of  our  temporal 

breath  ; 
For  these  give  labor  and  slumber;  but 

thou,  Proserpina,  death. 
Therefore  now  at  thy  feet  I  abide  for  a 

season  in  silence.     I  know 
I  shall  die  as  my  fathers  died,  and  sleep 

as  they  sleep  ;  even  so. 
For   the   glass  of    the    year    is    brittle 

wherein  we  gaze  for  a  span  ; 
A  little  soul  for  a  little   bears   up   this 

corpse  which  is  man.1 
So  long  I  endure,  no  longer  ;  and  laugh 

not  again,  neither  weep. 
For  there  is  no  God  found  stronger  than 

death  ;  and  death  is  a  sleep.    18G6. 

A  MATCH 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 

Our  lives  would  grow  together 

In  sad  or  singing  weather, 

Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief  ; 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 

1  tyvxdpiov  e!  fia<TTa£ov  vsupov.     EPICTETUS 


SWINBURNE 


875 


With  kisses  glad  as  birds.are 
That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon  ; 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  ray  darling, 

And  I  your  love  were  death, 
We'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 
With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of  fruitful  breath  ; 
If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy  ; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And  night  were  bright  like  day  ; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein  ; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain.      1866. 

A  BALLAD  OF  BURDENS 

The  burden  of  fair  women.    Vain  delight, 

And    love    self-slain    in    some   sweet 

shameful  way, 

Ami   sorrowful   old  age  that  comes  by 

night 

As  a  thief  comes  that  has  no  heart  by 

day, 
A.nd  change  that  finds  fair  cheeks  and 
leaves  them  gray, 
And  wcarimss  1  hat  keeps  awake  for  hire, 
And  grief  that  says  what  pleasure  used 
to  say  ; 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The   burden   of   bought  kisses.     This  is 
sore, 


A    burden    without    fruit    in    child- 
bearing  ; 
Between    the   nightfall   and   the   dawn 
threescore, 
Threescore    between    the    dawn    and 

evening. 
The  shuddering  in  thy  lips,  the  shud- 
dering 
In  thy  sad  eyelids  tremulous  like  fire, 
Makes    love    seem    shameful    and    a 
wretched  thing. 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The   burden    of  sweet   speeches.     Nay, 

kneel  down, 

Cover  thy  head,  and  weep  ;  for  verily 

These  market-men  that  buy  thy  white 

and  brown 

In  the  last  days  shall  take  no  thought 

for  thee. 
In  the  last  days  like  earth  thy  face 
shall  be, 
Yea,  like   sea-marsh   made   thick   with 
brine  and  mire, 
Sad   with  sick  leavings  of  the  sterile 
sea. 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  long  living.     Thou  shalt 
fear 
Waking,  and  sleeping  mourn  upon  thy 
bed; 
And  say  at  night,  "  Would  God  the  day 
were  here," 
And  say  at  dawn  "  Would  God  the  day 

were  dead." 
With  weary  days  thou  shalt  be  clothed 
and  fed, 
And    wear   remorse  of   heart   for  thine 
attire, 
Pain  for  thy  girdle  and  sorrow  upon 
thine  head  ; 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  bright  colors.     Thou  shalt 
see 
Gold  tarnished,  and  the  gray  above  the 
green  ; 
And  as  the  thing  thou  seest  thy  face 
shall  be, 
And  no  more  as  the  thing  beforetime 

seen. 
And  thou  shalt  say  of  mercy  "It  hath 
been," 
And  living,  watch  the  old  lips  and  loves 
expire, 
And    talking,    tears    shall    take    thy 
bre;it  h  be!  ween. 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 


876 


BRITISH  POETS 


The  burden  of  sad  sayings.     In  that  day 
Thou  shalt  tell  all  thy  days  and  hours, 
and   tell 
Thy  times  and   ways  and  words  of  love, 
and  say 
How  one  was  dear  and  one  desirable, 
And  sweet  was  life  to  hear  and  sweet 
to  smell, 
But  now  with  lights  reverse  the  old  hours 
retire 
And  the  last  hour  is  shod  with  fire  from 
hell. 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The   burden   of   four  seasons.     Rain  in 
spring, 
White  rain  and  wind  among  the  tender 
trees  : 
A  summer  of  green  sorrows  gathering, 
Rank  autumn  in  a  mist  of  miseries, 
With  sad  face  set  towards  the  year, 
that  sees 
The  charred  ash  drop  out  of  the  dropping 
pyre, 
And  winter  wan  with  many  maladies  ; 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  dead  faces.     Out  of  sight 

And  out  of  love,  beyond  the  reach  of 

hands, 

Changed  in  the  changing  of  the  dark  and 

light. 

They  walk  and  weep  about  the  barren 

lands 
Where  no  seed  is  nor  any  garner  stands, 
Where  in  short  breaths  the  doubtful  days 
respire, 
And  time's  turned  glass  lets  through 

the  sighing  sands  ; 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

The  burden  of  much  gladness.     Life  and 

lust  [light ; 

Forsake  thee,  and  the  face  of  thy  de- 

And   underfoot   the  heavy  hour  strews 

dust ; 

And  overhead  strange  weathers  burn 

and  bite  ; 
And  where  the  red  was,  lo,  the  blood- 
less white, 
And  where  truth  was,  the  likeness  of  a 
liar, 
And  where   day  was,  the  likeness  of 
the  night  ; 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 


Princes,  and  ye  whom  pleasure  quick- 
eneth, 


Heed    well   this   rhyme    before   your 
pleasure  tire  ; 
For  life  is  sweet,  but  after  life  is  death. 
This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire. 

1866. 

RONDEL 

Kissing  her  hair  I  sat  against  her  feet, 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  wound  and'  found 

it  sweet 
Made    fast   therewith   her   hands,  drew 

down  her  eyes, 
Deep  as  deep  flowers  and  dreamy  like 

dim  skies  ; 
With  her  own  tresses  bound  and  found 

her  fair, 
Kissing  her  hair. 

Sleep  were  no  sweeter  than  her  face  to 

me. 
Sleep  of  cold  sea-bloom  under  the  cold 

sea ; 
What  pain  could  get  between  my  face 

and  hers? 
What  new  sweet  thing  would  love  not 

relish  worse  ? 
Unless,  perhaps,  white  death  had  kissed 

me  there, 
Kissing  her  hair  ?  1866. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  WALTER  SAVAGE 
LANDOR. 

Back  to  the  flower-town,  side  by  side, 

The  bright  months  bring, 
New-born,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 

Freedom  and  spring. 

The  sweet  land  laughs  from  sea  to  sea, 

Filled  full  of  sun  ; 
All    things    come    back    to   her,  being 
free, — 

All  things  but  one. 

In  many  a  tender  wheaten  plot 

Flowers  that  were  dead 
Live,  and  old  suns  revive  ;  but  not 

That  holier  head. 

By  this  white  wandering  waste  of  sea, 

Far  north,  I  hear 
One  face  shall  never  turn  to  me 

As  once  this  year  ; 

Shall  never  smile  and  turn  and  rest 

On  mine  as  there, 
Nor  one  most  sacred  hand  be  pressed 

Upon  my  hair. 


SWINBURNE 


877 


I  came  as  one  whose  thoughts  half  lin- 
ger, 

Half  run  before  ; 
The  youngest  to  the  oldest  singer 

That  England  bore. 

I  found  him  whom  I  shall  not  find 

Till  all  grief  end. 
In  holiest  age  our  mightiest  mind, 

Father  and  friend. 

But  thou,  if  anything  endure, 

If  hope  there  be. 
O  spirit  that  man's  life  left  pure, 

Man's  death  set  free, 

Not  with  disdain  of  days  that  were 

Look  earthward  now  : 
Let  dreams  revive  the  reverend  hair, 

The  imperial  brow  ; 

Come  back  in  sleep,  for  in  the  life 

Where  thou  art  not 
We   find    none    like   thee.      Time    and 
strife 

And  the  world's  lot 

Move  thee  no  more  ;  but  love  at  least, 

And  reverent  heart. 
May  move  thee,  royal  and  released 

Soul,  as  thou  art. 

And  thou,  his  Florence,  to  thy  trust 

Receive  and  keep, 
Keep  safe  his  dedicated  dust, 

His  sacred  sleep. 

So  shall  thy  lovers,  come  from  far, 

Mix  with  thy  name 
As  morning-star  with  evening-star 

His  faultless  fame.  1866. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet, 
Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams; 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing, 
For  harvest  time  and  mowing, 
A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter, 
And  men  that  laugh  and  weep 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  SOW  to  reap  : 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers 
And  everything  but  sleep. 


Here  life  has  death  for  neighbor, 

And  far  from  eye  01  ear 
Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labor, 

Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer  ; 
They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 
They  wot  not  who  make  thither  ; 
But  no  such  winds  blow  hither, 

And  no  such  things  grow  here 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice, 

No  heather-flower  or  vine. 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies, 

Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes, 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 

For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number, 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn. 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 

All  night  till  light  is  born  ; 
And  like  a  soul  belated, 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated, 
By  cloud  and  mist  abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  morn. 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell, 

Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven, 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell ; 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses, 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes  ; 

And  well  though  love  reposes, 
In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal. 

Crowned     with     calm     leaves,    she 
stands 
Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 
With  cold  immortal  hands  ; 
Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 
From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other, 
She  waits  for  all  men  born  ; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 
The  life  of  fruits  and  coin  ; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  siunmer  song  rings  hollow 
And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither. 
The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings; 

And  all  dead  years  draw  thither, 
And  all  disastrous  tilings; 

Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken 


BRITISH    POETS 


Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken, 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 
Red  strays  of  rained  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow. 

And  joy  was  never  sure; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure  ; 
And  love,  grown  faint  ami  fretful 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 

That  no  life  lives  for  ever  ; 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never  ; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 

Nor  any  change  of  light : 
Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 

Nor  any  sound  or  sight : 
Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal, 
Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal ; 
Only  the  sleep  eternal 

In  an  eternal  night.  1866. 

LOVE  AT  SEA 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day  ; 

Where  shall  we  go  ? 
Love,  shall  we  start  or  stay, 

Or  sail  or  row  ? 
There's  many  a  wind  and  way, 
And  never  a  May  but  Ma}7 ; 
We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day  ; 

Where  shall  we  go  ? 

Our  landwind  is  the  breath 
Of  sorrows  kissed  to  death 

And  joys  that  were  : 
Our  ballast  is  a  rose  : 
Our  way  lies  where  God  knows 

And  love  knows  where. 

We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day- 

Our  seamen  are  fledged  Loves, 
Our  masts  are  bills  of  doves, 

Our  decks  fine  gold  ; 
Our  ropes  are  dead  maids'  hair, 
Our  stores  are  love-shafts  fair 

And  manifold. 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day- 

Where  shall  we  land  you,  sweet? 
On  fields  of  strange  men's  feet, 


Or  fields  near  home? 
Or  where  the  lire-flowers  blow, 
Or  where  the  flowers  of  snow 

Or  flowers  of  foam  ? 

We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day — 

Land  me,  she  says,  where  love 
Shows  but  one  shaft,  one  dove, 

One  heart,  one  hand. 
— A  shore  like  that,  my  dear, 
Lies  where  no  man  will  steer, 
No  maiden  land. 

Imitated  from  Theophile  Gautier. 
I860. 

SAPPHICS 

All  the  night  sleep  came  not  upon  my 

eyelids, 
Shed  not  dew,  nor  shook  nor  unclosed  a 

feather, 
Yet  with  lips  shut  close  and  with  eyes  of 

iron 
Stood  and  beheld  me. 

Then  to  me  so  lying  awake  a  vision 
Came  without  sleep  over  the  seas  and 

touched  me. 
Softly  touched  mine   eyelids  and  lips  ; 

and  I  too, 
Full  of  the  vision, 

Saw  the  white  implacable  Aphrodite, 
Saw  the  hair  unbound,  and  the  feet  un- 

sandalled 
Shine  as  fire  of  sunset  on  western  waters  ; 
Saw  the  reluctant 

Feet,  the  straining  plumes  of  the  doves 
that  drew  her, 

Looking  always,  looking  with  necks  re- 
verted, 

Back  to  Lesbos,  back  to  the  hills  where- 
under 
Shone  Mitylene  ; 

Heard  the  flying  feet  of  the  Loves  be- 
hind her 
Make  a  sudden  thunder  upon  the  waters, 
As  the  thunder  flung  from  the  strong 
unclosing 
Wings  of  a  great  wind. 

So  the  goddess  fled  from  her  place,  with 

awful 
Sound   of   feet   and   thunder   of   wings 

around  her ; 
While  behind  a  clamor  of  singing  women 
Severed  the  twilight. 


SWINBURNE 


879 


Ah  the  singing,  ah  the  delight,  the  pas- 
sion ! 

All  the  Loves  wept,  listening  ;  sick  with 
anguish, 

Stood  the  crowned   nine   Muses  about 
Apollo  ; 
Fear  was  upon  them, 

While  the  tenth  sang  wonderful  things 

they  knew  not. 
Ah,  the  tenth,    the   Lesbian  !   the   nine 

were  silent, 
None  endured  the  sound  of  her  song  for 

weeping  ; 
Laurel  by  laurel, 

Faded  all  their  crowns  ;  but  about  her 

forehead, 
Round   her   woven    tresses    and    ashen 

temples 
White  as  dead  snow,  paler  than  grass  in 

summer, 
Ravaged  with  kisses, 

Shone  a  light  of  fire  as  a  crown  for  ever. 
Yea,  almost  the  implacable  Aphrodite 
Paused,  and  almost  wept  ;  such  a  song 
was  that  song  ; 
Yea,  by  her  name  too 

Called  her,  saying,  "Turn  to  me,  O  my 
Sappho ; " 

Yet  she  turned  her  face  from  the  Loves, 
she  saw  not 

Tears  or  laughter  darken  immortal  eye- 
lids, 
Heard  not  about  her 

Fearful  fitful  wings  of  the  doves  depart- 
ing, 
Saw  not  how  the  bosom  of  Aphrodite 
Shook  with  weeping,  saw  not  her  shaken 
raiment, 
Saw  not  her  hands  wrung  ; 

Saw   the   Lesbians  kissing  across  their 

smitten 
Lutes   with   lips  more  sweet  than  the 

sound  of  lute-strings, 
Mouth  to  mouth  and  hand  upon  hand, 

her  chosen. 
Fairer  than  all  men  ; 

Only  saw  the  beautiful  lips  and  fingers, 
Full  of  songs  and  kisses  and  little  whis- 
pers. 
Full  of  music  ;  only  beheld  among  them 
Soar,  as  a  bird  soars 


Newlv  fledged,  her  visible  song,  a  mar- 
vel, 

Made  of  perfect  sound  and  exceeding 
passion, 

Sweetly  shapen,   terrible,  full  of  thun- 
ders, 
Clothed  with  the  wind's  wings. 

Then  rejoiced  she,  laughing  with  love, 

and  scattered 
Roses,  awful  roses  of  holy  blossom  ; 
Then   the   Loves    thronged  sadly   with 

hidden  faces 
Round  Aphrodite, 

Then  the  Muses,  stricken  at  heart,  were 

silent  ; 
Yea,  the  gods  waxed  pale  ;  such  a  song 

was  that  song. 
All  reluctant,  all  with  a  fresh  repulsion, 
Fled  from  before  her. 

All  withdrew  long  since,  and  the  land 
was  barren. 

Full  of  fruitless  women  and  music  onl}r. 

Now   perchance,   when   winds    are    as- 
suaged at  sunset, 
Lulled  at  the  dewfall, 

By  the  gray  sea-side,  unassuaged,  un- 
heard of, 

Unbeloved,  unseen  in  the  ebb  of  twi- 
light, 

Ghosts  of  outcast  women  return  lament- 
ing, 
Purged  not  in  Lethe, 

Clothed  about  with  flame  and  with  tears, 

and  singing 
Songs  that  move  the  heart  of  the  shaken 

heaven, 
Songs  that  break  the  heart  of  the  earth 

with  pity, 
Hearing,  to  hear  them.  1866. 

DEDICATION 

[Poems  and  Ballads,  First  Series] 

The  sea  gives  her  shells  to  the  shingle, 

The  earth  gives  her  streams  to  the  sea  ; 
There  ;ue  many,  hut  my  gift  is  single, 

My  verses,  the  first-fruits  of  me. 
Let  the  wind  take  the  green  and  the  gray 
leaf 

Cast  forth  without  fruit  upon  air; 
Take  rose-leaf   and   vine-leaf  and  bay- 
leaf 

Blown  loose  from  the  hair. 


SSo 


BRITISH   POETS 


The   night   shakes   them    round   me  in 
legions, 
Dawn   drives    them    before   her   like 
dreams  : 
Time  sheds  them  like  snows  on  strange 
regions. 
Swept  shoreward  on  infinite  streams; 
Leaves  pallid  and  sombre  and  ruddy, 

Dead  fruits  of  the  fugitive  years; 
Some  stained   as  with   wine  and  made 
bloody. 
And  some  as  with  tears. 

Some  scattered  in  seven  years'  traces, 

As  they  fell  from  the  boj"  that  was 
then  ; 
Long  left  among  idle  green  places, 

Or  gathered  but  now  among  men  ; 
On  seas  full  of  wonder  and  peril, 

Blown  white  round  the  capes  of  the 
north  ; 
Or  in  islands  where  myrtles  are  sterile 

And  loves  bring  not  forth. 

O  daughters  of  dreams  and  of  stories 

That  life  is  not  wearied  of  jet, 
Faustine,  Fragoletta.  Dolores, 

Felise  and  Yolande  and  Juliette, 
Shall   I   find   you  not  still,  shall  I  miss 
you, 

When  sleep,  that  is  true  or  that  seems, 
Comes  back  to  me  hopeless  to  kiss  you, 

O  daughters  of  dreams  ? 

They  are  past  as  a  slumber  that  passes, 

As  the  dew  of  a  dawn  of  old  time  ; 
More  frail  than  the  shadows  on  glasses, 

More  fleet  than  a  wave  or  a  rhyme. 
As   the  waves   after   ebb   drawing  sea- 
ward, 
When    their   hollows  are   full   of  the 
night. 
So  the    birds   that  flew  singing   to  me- 
ward 
Recede  out  of  sight. 

The  songs  of  dead  seasons,  that  wander 

On  wings  of  articulate  words  ; 
Lost    leaves   that   the   shore-wind   may 
squander. 

Light  flocks  of  untameable  birds  ; 
Some  sang  to  ma  dreaming  in  class  time 

And  truant  in  hand  as  in  tongue  ; 
For  the  youngest  were  born  of  boy's  pas- 
time, 

The  eldest  are  young. 

Is    there    shelter    while    life    in    thein 
lingers, 
Is  there  hearing  for  songs  that  recede, 


'runes  touched  from  a  harp  with  men's 
fingers, 
Or  blown  with  boy's  mouth  in  a  reed? 
Is  there  place  in  the  land  of  your  labor, 
Is   there   room   in  your  world  of   de- 
light, 
Where  change  has  not  sorrow  for  neigh- 
bor 
And  day  has  not  night? 

In  their    wings    though    the  sea-wind 
yet  quivers, 

Will  you  spare  not  a  space  for  them 
there 
Made  green  with  the  running  of  rivers 

And  gracious  with  temperate  air; 
In  the  fields  and  the  turreted  cities 

That  cover  from  sunshine  and  rain 
Fair  passions  and  bountiful  pities 

And  loves  without  stain  ? 

In  a  land  of  clear  colors  and  stories, 

In  a  region  of  shadowless  hours, 
Where  earth  has  a  garment  of  glories 

And  a  murmur  of  musical  flowers  ; 
In    woods   where    the    spring  half  un- 
covers 

The  flush  of  her  amorous  face, 
By  the  waters  that  listen  for  lovers, 

For  these  is  there  place  ? 

For    the     song-birds    of    sorrow,    that 
muffle 
Their  music  as  clouds  do  their  fire  : 
For    the    storm-birds   of    passion,    that 
ruffle 
Wild  wings  in  a  wind  of  desire  ; 
In  the  stream  of  the  storm  as  it  settles 
Blown   seaward,  borne   far   from  the 
sun, 
Shaken  loose  on  the  darkness  like  petals 
Dropped  one  after  one  ? 

Though  the  world  of  your  hands  be  more 
gracious 
And  lovelier  in  lordship  of  things 
Clothed   round   by   sweet   art  with  the 
spacious 
Warm  heaven  of  her  imminent  wings, 
Let   them    enter,   unfledged    and    nigh 
fainting, 
For  the  love  of    old  loves  and    lost 
times ; 
And  receive  in  your  palace  of  painting 
This  revel  of  rhymes. 

Though  the  seasons  of  man  full  of  losses 
Make  empty  the  years  full  of  youth, 

If  but  one  thing  be  constant  in  crosses, 
Change  lays  not  her  hand  ujjon  truth; 


SWINBURNE 


Hopes  die,  and  their  tombs  are  for  token 
That  the  grief  as  the  joy  of  them  ends 

Ere  time  that  breaks  all  men  has  broken 
The  faith  between  friends. 

Though  the  many  lights  dwindle  to  one 
light, 
There  is  help  if  the  heaven  has  one  ; 
Though  the  skies  be  discrowned  of  the 
sunlight 
And  the  earth  dispossessed  of  the  sun, 
They  have  moonlight  and  sleep  for  re- 
payment. 
When,  refreshed   as  a  bride  and  set 
free, 
With  stars  and  sea-winds  in  her  raiment, 
Night  sinks  on  the  sea.  180(5. 

AN  APPEAL 

Art  thou  indeed  among  these, 
Thou  of  the  tyrannous  crew, 
The  kingdoms  fed  upon  blood, 
O  queen  from  of  old  of  the  seas, 
England,  art  thou  of  them  too 
That  drink  of  the  poisonous  flood, 
That  hide  under  poisonous  trees? 

Nay,  thy  name  from  of  old. 
Mother,  was  pure,  or  we  dreamed  ; 
Purer  we  held  thee  than  this, 
Purer  fain  would  we  hold  ; 
So  goodly  a  glory  it  seemed, 
A  fame  so  bounteous  of  bliss, 
So  more  precious  than  gold. 

A  praise  so  sweet  in  our  ears, 

That  thou  in  the  t  em  pest  of  things 

As  a  rock  for  a  refuge  shouldst  stand, 

In  the  blood-red  river  of  tears 

Poured  forth  for  the  triumph  of  kings  ; 

A  safeguard,  a  sheltering  land, 

In  the  thunder  and  torrent  of  years. 

Strangers  came  gladly  to  thee, 

Exiles,  chosen  of  men. 

Safe  tor  thy  sake  in  thy  shade, 

Sat  down  at  tli\   feet  and  were  free. 

So  men  spa  ke  of  thee  then  ; 

Now  shad  I  heir  speaking  be  stayed? 

All,  so  let  it  not  be  I 

Not  for  revenge  or  a  (frigid, 
Pride,  or  a  tyrannous  lusl , 
Casl  from  thee  the  crown  of  thy  praise. 
Mercy  was  thine  in  thy  oiight ; 
Strong  when  thou  wert.  thou  werj  jusl  : 
Now,  in  the  wrong-doing  days. 
Cleave  thou,  thou  at  least,  to  the  right. 
56 


How     should     one    charge     thee,    how 

sway. 
Save  by  the  memories  that  were? 
Not   thy  gold   nor   the   strength  of  thy 

ships, 
Nor  the  might  of  thine  armies  at  bay, 
Made  thee,  mother,  most  fair  ; 
But  a  word  from  republican  lips 
Said  in  thy  name  in  thy  day. 

Hast  thou  said  it.  and  hast  thou  forgot: 
Is  thy  praise  in  thine  ears  as  a  scoff? 
Blood  of  men  guiltless  was  shed, 
Children,  and  souls  without  spot, 
Shed,  but  in  places  far  off  ; 
Let  slaughter  no  more  be,  said 
Milton  ;  and  slaughter  was  not. 

Was  it  not  said  of  thee  too, 

Now,  but  now.  by  thy  foes, 

By  the  slaves  that  had  slain  their  France 

And  thee  would  slay  as  they  slew — 

'•  Down  with  her  walls  that  enclose 

Freemen  that  eye  us  askance. 

Fugitives,  men  that  are  true  !  " 

This  was  thy  praise  or  thy  blame 
From  bondsman  or  freeman — to  be 
Pure  from  pollution  of  slaves, 
Clean  of  their  sins,  and  thy  name 
Bloodless,  innocent,  free  ; 
Now  if  thou  be  not,  thy  waves 
Wash  not  from  off  thee  thy  shame. 

Freeman  lie  is  not,  but  slave, 
Whoso  in  fear  for  the  State 
Cries  for  surety  of  blood. 
Help  of  gibbet  and  grave  ; 
Neither  is  any  land  great 
Whom,  in  her  fear-stricken  mood, 
These  things  only  can  save. 

Lo  !  how  fair  from  afar. 
Taintless  of  tyranny,  stands 
Thy  mighty  daughter,  for  years 
Who  trod  the  winepress  of  war,— 
Shines  with  immaculate  hands; 
Slavs  not  a  foe,  neither  fears; 
Stains  not  peace  with  a  soar. 

Be  not  as  tyrant  or  slave, 
Engla  tid  ;  be  not  as  these, 
Thou  that  wert  other  than  they. 
Stretch  out  thine  hand,  but  to  save  ; 
Put  forth  thj  strength,  and  release: 
I. est  there  arise,  if  thou  sla\  . 
Thy  shame  as  a  ghost  from  the  grave. 
November,  1867. 


882 


BRITISH    POETS 


HERTHA 

I  AM  that  which  began  ; 

Out  of  me  the  years  roll  ; 
Out. of  me  God  and  man  ; 
I  am  equal  and  Whole  ; 
God  changes,  and  man,  and  the  form  of 
them  bodily  ;  I  am  the  soul. 

Before  ever  land  was, 
Before  ever  the  sea, 
Or  soft  hair  of  the  grass, 
Or  fair  limbs  of  the  tree, 
Or  the  flesh-colored  fruit  of  my  branches, 
I  was,  and  thy  soul  was  in  me. 

First  life  on  my  sources 

First  drifted  and  swam  ; 
Out  of  me  are  the  forces 
That  save  it  or  damn  ; 
Out  of  me  man  and  woman,  and  wild- 
beast  and  bird  ;  before  God  was,  I 
am. 

Beside  or  above  me 

Nought  is  there  to  go  ; 
Love  or  unlove  me, 
Unknow  me  or  know, 
I  am  that  which  unloves  me  and   loves  ; 
I  am  stricken,  and  I  am  the  blow. 

I  the  mark  that  is  missed 

And  the  arrows  that  miss, 
I  the  mouth  that  is  kissed 
And  the  breath  in  the  kiss, 
The   search,   and  the   sought,   and  the 
seeker,  the  soul  and  the  body  that  is. 

I  am  that  thing  which  blesses 

My  spirit  elate  : 
That  which  caresses 
With  hands  uncreate 
My  limbs  unbegotten  that  measure  the 
length  of  the  measure  of  fate. 

But  what  thing  dost  thou  now, 

Looking  God  ward,  to  cry 
"  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou, 
I  am  low,  thou  art  high  ?  " 
I  am  thou,   whom  thou  seekest  to  find 
him ;    find  thou  but  thyself,   thou 
art  I. 

I  the  grain  and  the  furrow, 

The  plough-cloven  clod 
And      the      ploughshare      drawn 
thorough, 
The  eerm  and  the  sod, 
The  deed  and  the  doer,  the  seed  and  the 
sower,  the  dust  which  is  God. 


Hast  thou  known  how  I  fashioned 
thee, 
Child,  underground? 
Fire  that  impassioned  thee, 
Iron  that  bound, 
Dim  changes  of  water,  what  thing  of  all 
these  hast  thou  known  of  or  found  ? 

Canst  thou  say  in  thine  heart 

Thou  hast  seen  with  thine  eyes 
With  what  cunning  of  art 

Thou    wast   wrought    in    what 
wise, 
By  what  force  of  what  stuff  thou  wast 
shapen.  and  shown  on  my  breast  to 
the  skies  ? 

Who  hath  given,  who  hath  sold  it 
thee, 
Knowledge  of  me  ? 
Hath  the  wilderness  told  it  thee  ? 
Hast  thou  learnt  of  the  sea? 
Hast   thou    communed    in    spirit    with 
night  ?  have  the  wTinds  taken  coun- 
sel with  thee  ? 

Have  I  set  such  a  star 

To  show  light  on  thy  brow 
That  thou  sawest  from  afar 
What  I  show  to  thee  now  ? 
Have  ye  spoken  as  brethren   together, 
the  sun  and  the  mountains  and  thou  ? 

What  is  here,  dost  thou  know  it  ? 

What  was,  hast  thou  known  ? 
Prophet  nor  poet 

Nor  tripod  nor  throne 
Nor  spirit  nor   flesh   can   make   answer, 
but  only  thy  mother  alone. 

Mother  not  maker, 

Born,  and  not  made  ; 
Though  her  children  forsake  her, 
Allured  or  afraid, 
Praying    prayers   to   the  God    of   their 
fashion,  she  stirs  not  for  all   that 
have  prayed. 

A  creed  is  a  rod, 

And  a  crown  is  of  night  ; 
But  this  thing  is  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 
To  grow  straight  in  the  strength  of  thy 
spirit,  and  live  out  thy  life  as  the 
light. 

I  am  in  thee  to  save  thee, 
As  my  soul  in  thee  saith, 

Give  thou  as  I  gave  thee, 
Thy  life-blood  and  breath, 


SWINBURNE 


883 


Green  leavps  of  thy  labor,  white  flowers 
of  thy  thought,  and  red  fruit  of  thy 
death. 

Be  the  ways  of  thy  giving 

As  mine  were  to  thee  ; 
The  free  life  of  thy  living, 
Be  the  gift  of  it  free  ; 
Not  as  servant  to  lord,  nor  as  master  to 
slave,  shalt  thou  give  thee  to  me. 

0  children  of  banishment, 
Souls  overcast, 

Were   the    lights    ye    see    vanish 
meant 
Alway  to  last, 
Ye  would  know  not  the  sun  overshining 
the  shadows  and  stars  overpast. 

1  that  saw  where  ye  trod 
The  dim  paths  of  the  night 

Set  the  shadow  called  God 
In  your  skies  to  give  light ; 
But  the  morning  of  manhood  is  risen,  and 
the  shadowless  soul  is  in  sight. 

The  tree  many-rooted 

That  swells  to  the  sky 
With  frondage  red-fruited, 
The  life-tree  am  I  ; 
In  the  buds  of  your  lives  is  the  sap  of  my 
leaves  :  ye  shall  live  and  not  die. 

But  the  Gods  of  your  fashion 

That  take  and  that  give, 
In  their  pity  and  passion 
That  scourge  and  forgive, 
They  are   worms  that  are  bred   in  the 
bark  that  falls  off :   they  shall  die 
and  not  live. 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches 

The  wounds  in  my  bark  : 
Stars  caught  in  my  branches 
Make  day  of  the  dark, 
And  are  worshipped  as  suns  till  the  sun- 
rise shall  tread  out  their  fires  as  a 
spark. 

Where  dead  ages  hide  under 

The  live  roots  of  the  tree, 

In  my  darkness  the  thunder 

Makes  utterance  of  me  ; 

In   the   clash   of  my  boughs  with  each 

other  ye  hear  the  waves  sound  of 

the  sea. 

That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As  his  feathers  an;  spread 
And  his  feel  set  to  climb 


Through  the  boughs  overhead, 
And  my  foliage  rings  round  him  and 
rustles,  and  branches  are  bent  with 
his  tread. 

The  storm-winds  of  ages 

Blow  through  me  and  cease, 
The  war-wind  that  rages, 
The  spring-wind  of  peace, 
Ere   the   breath   of   them   roughen   my 
tresses,  ere  one  of  my  blossoms  in- 
crease. 

All  sounds  of  all  changes, 
All  shadows  and  lights 
On  the  world's  mountain-ranges 
And  stream-riven  heights, 
Whose  tongue  is  the  wind's  tongue  and 
language  of  storm-clouds  on  earth- 
shaking  nights ; 

All  forms  of  all  faces, 

All  works  of  all  hands 
In  unsearchable  places 
Of  time-stricken  lands, 
All  death  and  all  life,  and  all  reigns  and 
all  ruins,  drop  through  me  as  sands. 

Though  sore  be  my  burden 
And  more  than  ye  know, 
And  my  growth  have  no  guerdon 
But  only  to  grow, 
Yet  I  fail  not  of  growing  for  lightnings 
above  me  or  death  worms  below. 

These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As  I  too  in  these  ; 
Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me, 
Such  sap  is  this  tree's, 
Which  hath   in   it   all   sounds    and  all 
secrets  of  infinite  lands  and  of  seas. 

In  the  spring-colored  hours 

When  my  mind  was  as  May's, 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 
By  centuries  of  days, 
Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  man- 
hood, shot  out  from  my  spirit  as  rays. 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 

And  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  and  sweet  singing 
And  strength  to  my  roots  ; 
And  the  lives  of  my  children  made  per- 
fect with  freedom  of  soul  were  my 
fruits. 

I  bid  you  but  be  ; 

I  have  need  not  of  prayer  ; 
I  ha\  e  need  of  you  free 


384 


BRITISH    POETS 


A.8  J  our  linMit  lis  of  mine  air  : 
That   my  heart  may  be  greater  within 
me.  beholding  the  fruits  of  me  fair. 

More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 

Of  faith  ye  espouse  ; 
Tn  hie  only  the  root  is 

That  blooms  in  your  boughs  ; 
Behold  now  your  God  thatye  made  you, 
to  feed  him  with  faith  of  your  vows. 

In  the  darkening  and  whitening 

Abysses  ador'd, 
With  daysprlng  and  lightning 
For  lamp  and  for  sword, 
God  thunders  in  heaven,  and  his  angels 
are  red  with  the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 

O  my  sons.  O  too  dutiful 

Toward  (jlods  not  of  me. 

Was  not  I  enough  beautiful ? 

Was  it  hard  to  be  free? 

For  behold.  I  am  with   you.  am   in   you 

and  of  you  ;  look  forth  now  and  see. 

Lo,  wing'd  with  world's  wonders. 

With  miracles  shod. 
With  the  fires  of  Ins  thunders 
For  raiment  and  rod, 
God  trembles  in  heaven,  and  Ins   angels 
are  white  with  the  terror  of  God. 

For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him, 

His  anguish  is  here  ; 
And  his  spirits  gaze  dumb  on  him, 
Grown  gray  from  his  fear  ; 
And   his    hour    taketh    hold     on    him 
stricken,  the  last  of  his  infinite  year. 

Thought    made   him   and   breaks 
him, 
Truth  slays  and  forgives; 
But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him. 
This  new  thing  it  gives, 
Even  love,  the  beloved  Republic,   that 
feeds  upon  freedom  and  lives. 

For  truth  only  is  living, 

Truth  only  is  whole, 
And  the  love  of  his  giving 
Man's  polestar  and  pole  ; 
Man,  pulse  of  my  centre,   and  fruit  of 
my  body,  and  seed  of  my  soul. 

One  birth  of  my  bosom  ; 

One  beam  of  mine  eye  ; 
One  topmost  blossom 
That  scales  the  sky  ; 
Man.  equal  and  one  with   me.  man  that 
is  made  of  me,  man  that  is  I.      1871. 


THE  PILGRIMS 

•■  Who  is  your  lady  of  love,  0  ye  that 

pass 
Singing?  and   is   it   for   sorrow  of  that 
which  was 
That  ye  sing  sadly,  or  dream  of   what 
'shall  be? 
For  gladly  at  once  and  sadly  it  seems 
ye  sing.'' 
— "Our   lady   of  love   by   you   is   unbe- 

holden 
For  hands  she  hath  none,  nor  eyes,   nor 
lips,  nor  golden 
Treasure  of  hair,  nor  face  nor  form  ; 
But  we 
That  love,  we  know  her  more  fair 
than  any  thing." 

— "  Is  she  a  queen,  having  great  gifts  to 

give  ?  " 
■ — "Yea.   these:  that  whoso  hath  seen 
her  shall  not  live 
Except  he  serve  her  sorrowing,  with 
strange  pain, 
Travail  and  bloodshedding   and  bit- 
terer tears  ; 
And  when  she  bids  die  he  shall  surely 

die. 
And  he  shall  leave  all  things  under  the 
sky. 
And   go   forth  naked  under  sun  and 
rain, 
And  work  and  wait  and  watch  out 
all  his  years." 

— "  Hath  she  on  earth  no  place  of   habi- 
tation ?  " 
— "Age  to  age  calling,  nation  answer- 
ing nation, 
Cries  out.  Where  is  she  ?  and  there  is 
none  lii.si)  ; 
For  if  she  be  not  in  the  spirit  of  men. 
For  if  in  the  inward   soul   she   hath   no 

place, 
In  vain  they  cry  unto  her,   seeking  her 
face, 
In  vain  their  mouths  make  much  of 
her  ;  for  they 
Cry  with  vain  tongues,  till  the  heart 
lives  again.'' 

— "O  ye  that  follow,  and  have  ye  no 

repentance  ? 
For  on  your  brows  is  written  a  mortal 
sentence. 
An  hieroglyph  of  sorrow,  a  fiery  sign. 
That  in  your  lives  ye  shall  not  pause 
or  rest. 


SWINBURNE 


S85 


Nor  have  the  sure  sweet  common  love, 

nor  keep 
Friends  and  safe  days,  nor  joy  of  life 
nor  sleep."' 
— "These  have  we  not,  who  have   one 
thing,  the  divine 
Face   and   clear   eyes   of  faith   and 
fruitful  breast." 

— "  And  ye  shall  die  before  your  thrones 

be  won." 
— "Yea,  and  the  changed  world  and  the 
liberal  sun 
Shall  move  and  shine  without  us,  and 
we  lie 
Dead  ;  but  if  she  too  move  on  earth, 
and  live, 
But  if  the   old    world   with   all  the   old 

irons  rent 
Laugh  and  give  thanks,  shall  we  be  not 
content  ? 
Nay,  we  shall  rather  live,  we  shall  not 
die. 
Life   being  so  little,  and  death  so 
good  to  give." 

— "  And  these  men  shall  forget  you." — 

••  Yea.  I>ut  we 
Shall  be  a  part  of  the  earth  and  the  an- 
cient sea, 
And  heaven-high  air  august,  and  aw- 
ful fire, 
And  all  things  good  ;  and  no  man's 
heart  shall  beat 
But  somewhat   in   it  of  our  blood  once 

shed 
Shall  quiver  and  quicken,  as  now  in  us 
the  dead 
Blood  of  men  slain  and  the  old  same 
life's  desire 
Plants  in  their  fiery   footprints  our 
fresh  feet." 

— "  But  ye  that  might  be  clothed   with 

all  tilings  pleasant, 
Ye  are  foolish  that  put  off  the  fair  soft 
present, 
That  clothe  yourselves  with  the  cold 
future  air ; 
When   mother  and  father  and  ten- 
der sister  and  brother 
And  the  old  live  love  that  was  shall  be 

as  ye. 
Dust,  and  no   fruit  of   loving    life  shall 
be." 
— "  She  shall  be  yet  who  is  more  than 
;iJl  t  lies"  were. 
Than  sister  or  wife  or  father  unto  us 
or  mother." 


— "  Is  this  worth  life,  is  this,  to  win  for 

wages? 
Lo,  the  dead  mouths  of  the  awful  gray- 
grown  ages, 
The  venerable,  in  the  past  that  is  their 
prison, 
In    the  outer  darkness,  in  the  un- 
opening  grave, 
Laugh,  knowing  how  many  as  ye  now 

say  have  said. 
How  many,  and  all  are  fallen,  are  fallen 
and  dead  : 
Shall  ye  dead  rise,  and  these  dead  have 
not  risen  ?  " 
— "  Not  we  but  she,   who  is  tender, 
and  swift  to  save." 

— "Are  ye  not  weary  and   faint  not  by 

the  way. 
Seeing  night  by  night  devoured  of  day 
by  day. 
Seeing  hour  by  hour  consumed  in  sleep- 
less fire  ? 
Sleepless  ;  and  ye  too,  when  shall  ye 
too  sleep?  " 
— "  We  are  weary  in  heart  and  head,  in 

hands  and  feet. 
And  surely  more   than   all  things  sleep 
were  sweet. — 
Than  all   things   save   the   inexorable 
desire 
Which  whoso  knoweth  shall  neither 
faint  nor  weep." 

— "  Is  this  so  sweet   that  one  wei'e  fain 

to  follow  ? 
Is  this  so  sure  where  all  men's  hopes  are 
hollow  -, 
Even  this  your   dream,  that  by   much 
tribulation 
Ye  shall  make  whole  flawed  hearts, 
and  bowed  necks  straight  ?  " 
— "  Nay,  though  our  life  were  blind,  our 

death  were  fruitless, 
Not  therefore   were   the  whole  world's 
high  hope  rootless; 
But  man  to  man,  nation  would  turn  to 
nation, 
And    the  old   life  live,   and  the   old 
great  word  be  great." 

— "Pass  on.  then,  and    pass  by  us,  and 

]<•!   us  be, 
For   what    light   think   ye   after   life  to 
see  ? 
And  if  the  world   fare  better  will  ye 
know  ? 
And  if  man  triumph  who  shall  seek 
you  ami  say  ?  " 


886 


BRITISH   POETS 


— "  Enough  of  light  is  this  for  one  life's 

span. 
That  all  men  born   are   mortal,  hut  not 
man  ; 
And    we   men    bring  death   lives   by 
night  to  sow. 
That   men   may    reap   and  eat   and 
live  by  day."  1871. 

TO  WALT  WHITMAN  IN  AMERICA 

Send  but  a  song  oversea  for  us. 

Beart  of  their  hearts  who  are  free, 
Heart  of  their  singer,    to  be  for  us 

More  than  our  singing  can  be  ; 
Ours,  in  the  tempest  at  error. 
With  no  light  but  the  twilight  of  terror  ; 

Send  us  a  song  oversea  ! 

Sweet-smelling      of      pine  leaves     and 
grasses, 
And    blown    as   a   tree    through   and 
through 
With  the   winds  of  the  keen  mounlain- 
passes. 
And  tender  as  sun-smitten  dew  ; 
Sharp-tongued  as  the  winter  that  shakes 
The  wastes  of  your  limitless  lakes, 
Wide-eyed  as  the  sea-line's  blue. 

0  strong- winged  soul  with  prophetic 
Lips  hot  with  t'.ie  blood  beats  of  song, 

With  tremor  of  heartstrings  magnetic, 
With  thoughts  as  thunders  in  throng, 

With  consonant  ardors  of  chords 

That  pierce  men's  souls  as  with  swords 
And  hale  them  hearing  along. 

Make  us.  too,  music,  to  he  with  us 

As  a  word  from  a  world's  heart  warm, 

To  sail  the  dark  as  a  sea  with  us. 
Full-sailed,  outsinging  the  storm, 

A  song  to  put  fire  in  our  ears 

Whose  burning  shall  burn  up  tears, 
Whose  sign  bid  battle  reform  ; 

A  note  in  the  ranks  of  a  clarion, 
A  word  in  the  wind  of  cheer, 

To  consume  as  with  lightning  the  carrion 
That  makes  time  foul  for  us  here  ; 

In  the  air  that  our  dead  things  infest 

A  blast  of  the  breath  of  the  west. 
Till  east  way  as  west  way  is  clear. 

Out  of  the  sun  beyond  sunset, 

From   the   evening   whence   morning 
shall  be, 
With  the  rollers  in  measureless  onset. 

With  the  van  of  the  storming  sea, 


With  the  world-wide   wind,    with    the 

breath 
That  breaks  ships  driven  upon  death, 
With  the  passion  of  all  tilings  free, 

With  the  sea-steeds  footless  and  frantic. 
White  myriads  fur  death  to  bestride 

In  the  charge  of  the  ruining  Atlantic 
Where  deaths  by  regiments  ride, 

With  clouds  and  clamors  of  waters, 

With  along  note  shriller  than  slaughter's 
On  the  furrowless  fklds  world-wide, 

With  terror,  with  ardor  and  wonder, 
With  the  soul  of  the  season  that  wakes 

When   the    weight    of  a   whole    year's 
thunder 
In  the  tidestream  of  autumn  breaks, 

Let  the  flight  of  the  wide-winged  word 

Come  over,  come  in  and  be  heard. 
Take  form  and  fire  for  our  sakes. 

For  a  continent  bloodless  with  travail 
Here  toils  find  brawls  as  it  can, 

And  the  web  of  it  who  shall  unravel 
Of  all  that  peer  on  the  plan  ; 

Would   fain  grow  men,  but  they  grow 
not. 

And  fain  he  free,  but  they  know  not 
One  name  for  freedom  and  man  ? 

One  name,  not  twain  for  division  ; 

One  thing,  not  twain,  from  the  birth  ; 
Spirit  ami  substance  and  vision, 

Worth  more  than  worship  is  worth  ; 
Unbeheld,  unadored,  undivided, 
The  cause,  the  centre,  the  mind, 

The  secret  and  sense  of  the  earth. 

Here  as  a  weakling  in  irons, 
Here  as  a  weanling  in  bands 

As  a  prey  that  the  stake-net  environs, 
Our  life  that  we  looked  for  stands  ; 

And  tin'  man-child  naked  and  dear, 

Democracy,  turns  on  us  here 

Eyes  trembling,  with  tremulous  hands. 

It  sees  not  what  season  shall  bring  to  it 
Sweet  fruit  of  its  bitter  desire  ; 

Few  voices  it  hears  yet  sing  to  it, 
Few  pulses  of  hearts  reaspire  : 

Foresees  not  time,  nor  forebears 

The  noises  of  imminent  years, 

Earthquake,  and  thunder,  and  fire  : 

When  crowned  and  weaponed  and  curb- 
less 
Tt  shall  walk  without  helm  or  shield 
The  bare  burnt  furrows  and  herbless 


SWINBURNE 


887 


Of  war's  last  flame-stricken  field, 
Till  godlike,  equal  with  time, 
It  stand  in  the  sun  sublime. 

In  the  godhead  of  man  revealed. 

Round  your  people  and  over  them 
Light  like  raiment  is  drawn, 

Close  as  a  garment  to  cover  them 
Wrought  not  of  mail  nor  of  lawn  : 

Here,  with  hope  hardly  to  wear, 

Naked  nations  and  bare 
Swim,  sink,  strike  out  for  the  dawn. 

Chains  are  here,  and  a  prison, 
Kings,  and  subjects,  and  shame  : 

If  the  God  upon  you  be  arisen, 
How  should  our  songs  be  the  same  ? 

How  in  confusion  of  change, 

How  shall  we  sing,  in  a  strange 
Land  songs  praising  his  name  ? 

God  is  buried  and  dead  to  us, 

Even  the  spirit  of  earth, 
Freedom  :  so  have  they  said  to  us, 

Some  with  mocking  and  mirth, 
Some  with  heartbreak  and  tears  : 
And  a  God  without  eyes,  without  ears, 

Who   shall  sing  of  him,  dead   in  the 
birth? 

The  earth-god  Freedom,  the  lonely 
Face  lightening,  the  footprint  unshod. 

Not  as  one  man  crucified  only 

Nor  scourged  with  but  one  life's  rod  : 

The  soul  that  is  substance  of  nations, 

Reincarnate  with  fresh  generations  ; 
The  great  god  Man,  which  is  God. 

But  in  weariest  of  years  and  obscurest 
Doth  it  live  not  at  heart  of  all  things 

The  one  God  and  one  spirit,  a  purest 
Life,  fed  from  unstanchable  springs? 

Within  love,  within  hatred  it  is, 

And  its  seed  in  the  stripe  as  the  kiss. 
And   in   slaves   is   the   germ,   and   in 
kings. 

Freedom  we  call  it,  for  holier 
Name  of  the  soul's  there  is  none  ; 

Surelier  it  labors,  if  slowlier, 

Than  the  metres  of  star  or  of  sun  ; 

Slowlier  than  life  unto  breath, 

Surelier  than  time  unto  death, 
It  moves  till  its  labor  be  done. 

Till  the  motion  be  done  and  the  measure 
Circling  through  season  and  clime, 

Slumber  and  sorrow  and  pleasure, 
Vision  of  virtue  and  crime  ; 

Till  consummate  with  conquering  eyes, 


A  soul  disembodied,  it  rise 
From  the  body  transfigured  of  time. 

Till  it  rise  and  remain  and  take  station 
With  the  stars  of  the  world  that  re- 
joice ; 

Till  the  voice  of  its  heart's  exultation 
Be  as  theirs  an  invariable  voice, 

By  no  discord  of  evil  estranged, 

By  no  pause,  by  no  breach  in  it  changed, 
By  no  clash  in  the  chord  of  its  choice. 

It  is  one  with  the  world's  generations, 

With  the  spirit,  the  star,  and  the  sod  : 

With   the    kingless    and    king-stricken 

nations, 

With   the  cross,  and   the  chain,  and 

the  rod  ; 

The   most   high,  the  most  secret,  most 

lonely, 
The  earth-soul  Freedom,  that  only 
Lives,  and  that  only  is  God.        1871. 

FROM  MATER  TRIUMPHALIS 

[to  liberty] 

I  am  thine  harp   between   thine   hands, 
O  mother  ! 
All    my     strong   chords  are   strained 
witli  love  of  thee. 
We  grapple  in  love  and  wrestle,  as  each 
with  other 
Wrestle  the  wind  and  the  unreluctant 
sea. 

I  am  no  courtier  of  thee  sober-suited, 

Who  loves  a  little  for  a  little  pay. 
Me    not    thy    winds    and    storms,    nor 
thrones  disrooted, 
Nor    molten    crowns,  nor    thine  own 
sins,  dismay. 

Sinned   hast   thou   sometime,  therefore 
art  thou  sinless  ; 
Stained  hast  thou  been,  who  art  there- 
fore without  stain  ; 
Even  as   man's  soul  is  kin    to  thee,  but 
kinless 
Thou,  in  whose  womb   Time  sows  the 
all-various  grain. 

I  do  not  bid   thee   spare  me,  O   dreadful 
mother  ! 
I  pray  thee  that  thou  spare  not,  of  thy 
grace. 
How  were    it    with    me    then,  if    ever 
another 

Should  ( le  to  stand  before   thee  in 

this  my  place  ? 


838 


BRITISH    POETS 


I  am  the  1  rurnpet  at  thy  lips,  thy  clarion. 
Full    of   thy   cry,  sonorous   with   thy 
bieat h  ; 
The   graves   of   souls   l><»rn    worms,  and 
creeds  grown  carrion 
Thy  blast  of  judgment   fills  with  fires 
Of  death. 

Thou  art  the   player  whose  organ-keys 
are  thunders, 
And    I.  beneath   thy   foot,    the   pedal 
presse  I  ; 
Thou  art  the  ray  whereat  the  rent  night 
sunders, 
And  I   the  cloudlet  borne  upon  thy 
breast. 

I   shall   burn   up   before   thee,  pass  and 
perish, 
As  haze  in  sunrise  on  the  red  sea-line  ; 
But  thou  from  dawn  to  sunsetting  shalt 
cherish 
The  thoughts  that  led  and  souls  that 
lighted  mine. 

Reared    between    night  and  noon   and 
truth  and  error, 
Each    twilight-travelling    bird     that 
trills  and  screams 
Sickens  at  midday,  nor    can    face    for 
terror 
The     imperious     heaven's    inevitable 
extremes. 

I  have   no    spirit    of    skill    with   equal 
fingers 
At    sign    to    sharpen   or    to    slacken 
strings ; 
I  keep  no  time  of  song  with  gold-perched 
singers 
And  chirp  of  linnets   on  the  wrists  of 
kings. 

I  am  thy  storm-thrush  of  the  days  that 
darken, 
Thy  petrel  in  the  foam  that  bears  thy 
bark 
To  port  through  night  and  tempest  :  if 
thou  hearken, 
My  voice  is  in  thy  heaven  before  the 
_ark. 

My  song  is  in  the    mist  that  hides  thy 
mprning, 
My  cry  is  up  before   the  day  for  thee  : 
I  have  heard  thee  and    beheld   thee  and 
give  warning, 
Before  thy  wheels   divide  the  sky  and 
sea. 


Birds  shall    wake  with    thee    voiced  and 
feathered  fairer, 
To  see  in  summer  what  1  see  in  spring  ; 
I  have    eyes  and    heart  to    endure  thee, 
O  thunder- bearer, 
And   they   shall    be   who    shall   have 
tongues  to  sing. 

I  have  love  at  least,  and  have  not  fear, 
and  part  not 
-From  thine  unnavigable  and  wingless 
way  ; 
Thou  tarriest,  and  I  have  not  said  thou 
art  not, 
Nor  all  thy  night  long  have  denied  thy 
day. 

Darkness  to  daylight  shall  lift   up  thy 
paean , 
Hill  to  hill  thunder,  vale  cry  back  to 
vale, 
With  wind-notes   as   of  eagles  iEschy- 
lean, 
And  Sappho  singing   in  the   nightin- 
gale. 

Sung  to  by  mighty  sons   of  dawn  and 
(laughters, 
Of  tli is  night's  songs  thine  ear  shall 
keep  but  one. — 
That   supreme   song    which    shook   the 
channelled  waters, 
And  called  thee  skyward  as  God  calls 
the  sun. 

Come,  though  all  heaven  again  be  fire 
above  thee  : 
Though    death    before   thee   come   to 
clear  thy  sky  ; 
Let  us  but  see  in  his  th}^  face  who  love 
thee  ; 
Yea,  though  thou  slay  us,  ai'ise,  and 
let  us  die.  1871. 

COR  CORDIUM 

[Shelley] 

O  heart  of  hearts,  the  chalice  of  love's 

tire. 
Hid   round    with    flowers    and   all   the 

bounty  of  bloom  ; 
O  wonderful  and  perfect  heart,  for  whom 
The  lyrist  liberty  made  life  a  lyre  ; 
O  heavenly   heart,  at    whose    most  dear 

desire 
Dead  love,  living  and   singing,  cleft  his 

tomb, 


SWINBURNE 


889 


And  with  him  risen  and  regent  in  death's 
room 

All  day  thy  choral  pulses  rang  full  clioir  ; 

O  heart  whose  beating  blood  was  run- 
ning song, 

O  sole  thing  sweeter  than  thine  own 
songs  were, 

Help  us  for  thy  free  love's  sake  to  be 
free, 

True  for  thy  truth's  sake,  for  thy 
strength's  sake  strong. 

Till  very  liberty  make  clean  and  fair 

The  nursing  earth  as  the  sepulchral  sea. 

1871. 

"NON  DOLET." 

It  does  not  hurt.  She  looked  along  the 
knife 

Smiling,  and  watched  the  thick  drops 
mix  and  run 

Down  the  sheer  blade;  not  that  which 
had  been  done 

Could  hurt  the  sweet  sense  of  the  Roman 
wife, 

But  that  which  was  to  do  yet  ere  the 
Sl  rife 

Could  end  lor  each  forever,  and  the  sun  : 

Nor  was  the  palm  yet  nor  was  peace  yet 
won 

While  pain  had  power  upon  her  hus- 
band's life. 

It  does  not  hurt.  Italia.     Thou  art  more 

Than  bride  to  bridegroom;  how  slialt 
thou  not  take 

The  gift  lore's  blood  has  reddened  for 
thy  sake? 

Was  not  thy  lifeblood  given  for  us  be- 
fore ? 

And  if  love's  heartblood  can  avail  th)r 
need, 

And  thou  not  die,  how  should  it  hurt 
indeed?  1871. 

THE  OBLATION 

Ask  nothing  more  of  me.  sweet, 
All  I  can  give  you  I  give. 

I  it-art  of  my  heart,  were  it  more, 
More  would  be  laid  at  your  feet : 
Love  that  should  help  you  to  live, 
Song  that  should  spur  you  to  soar. 

All  tilings  were  nothing  to  give 
Once  to  have  sense  of  you  more, 
Touch  yon  and  taste  of  you.  s\\  eet, 
Think  you  and  breathe  you  and  live, 
Swept  of  your  wings  as  they  soar, 
Trodden  by  chance  of  your  feet. 


I  that  have  love  and  no  more 
Give  you  but  love  of  you,  sweet : 
He  that  hath  more,  let  him  give  ; 
He  that  hath  wings,  let  him  soar ; 
Mine  is  the  heart  at  your  feet 
Here,  that  must  love  you  to  live. 

1871. 

A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowdand 
and  highland. 
At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  wind- 
ward and  lee, 
Walled   round  with  rocks  as  an  inland 
island. 
The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 
A  girdle  of   brushwood   and   thorn   en- 
closes 
The  steep  square    slope    of  the   blos- 
somless  bed 
Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from 
the  graves  of  its  roses 
Now  lie  dead. 

The  fields   fall    southward,  abrupt   and 
broken, 
To  the  low7  last  edge  of  the  long  lone 
land. 
If  a  step  should  sound    or  a  word  be 
spoken, 
Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange 
guest's  hand  ? 
So  long  have  the  gray  bare  walks  lain 
guestless, 
Through  branches  and  briars  if  a  man 
make  way, 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's, 
restless 
Night  and  day. 

The  dense    hard  passage   is   blind   and 
stifled 
That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to 
climb 
To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years 
have  rifled 
Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched 
not  of  time. 
The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose   is 
taken  : 
The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the 
plain  : 
The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind- 
shaken. 
These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  he  pressed  of  the  foot  that 

falls  not  ;  [plots  are  <\r\    ; 

As  vhj  V;:.r',  •.>'"  'A  dead  man  the  seed- 


S90 


BRITISH    POETS 


From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the 
nightingale  calls  not. 
Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose 
to  reply. 
Over    the    meadows  that   hlossom    and 
wither, 
Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song. 
Only   the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sear,  and  the  rain  dishev- 
els 
One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless 
breath. 
Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 
In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as 
death. 
Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there 
was  weeping. 
Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 
Whose   eyes   went   seaward  a   hundred 
sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart  handfast  in  heart  as  they  stood, 
"  Look  thither," 
Did  he  whisper?     "Look  forth  from 
•    the  flowers  to  the  sea  ; 
For  the  foam-flowers  endure  when  the 
rose-blossoms  wither, 
And  men  that  love  lightly  may   die — 
But  we  ?  " 
And  the  same  wind  sang,  and  the   same 
wraves  whitened, 
And  or  ever  the  garden's   last  petals 
were  shed, 
In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes 
that  had  lightened, 
Love  was  dead. 

Or  they  loved   their  life    through,  and 
then  went  whither  ? 
And  were  one  to  the   end — but   what 
end  who  knows? 
Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must 
wither, 
As    the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks 
the  rose. 
Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead 
to  love  them  ? 
What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave  ? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above 
them 
Or  the  wave. 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers. 
Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the   fields 
and  the  sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been 
hovers 


In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to 
be. 
Not  a   breath   shall   there   sweeten   the 
seasons  hereafter 
Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh 
now  or  weep, 
When,  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weep- 
ing and  laughter, 
We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  forever ; 
Here    change    may   come   not  till  all 
change  end. 
From   the   graves  they  have  made   they 
shall  rise  up  never, 
Who   have  left  naught  living  to   rav- 
age and  rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and   thorns   of   the   wild 
ground  growing, 
When  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these 
shall  be  ; 
Till  a  last  wind's  breath  upon  all  these 
blowing 
Roll  the  sea. 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff 
crumble, 
Till  terrace  and    meadow    the   deep 
gulfs  drink, 
Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high 
tides  humble 
The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that 
shrink. 
Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things 
falter, 
Stretched   out   on   the   spoils  that  his 
own  hand  spread, 
As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange 
altar, 
Death  lies  dead. 

July,  1876. 

A  BALLAD  OF  DREAMLAND 

I  hid  my  heart  in  a  nest  of  roses, 

Out  of  the  sun's  way,  hidden  apart  ; 
In  a  softer  bed  than  the  soft  white  snow's 
is. 
Under  the  roses  I  hid  my  heart. 
Why  would  it  sleep  not  ?  why  should 
it  start, 
When  never  a  leaf  of  the  rose-tree  stirred? 
What  made  sleep  flutter  his  wings  and 
part  ? 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

Lie  still,  I  said,  for  the  wind's  wing  closes, 
And  mild  leaves  muffle  the  keen  sun's 
dart ; 


SWINBURNE 


891 


Lie  still,  for  the  wind  on  the  warm  seas 
dozes, 
And   the  wind  is  unquieter  yet  than 

thou  art. 
Does   a    thought   in    thee    still    as    a 
thorn's  wound  smart  ? 
Does  the  fang  still  fret  thee  of  hope  de- 
ferred ? 
What  bids  the  lips  of  thy  sleep  dispart  ? 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

The  green  land's  name  that  a  charm  en- 
closes, 
It  never   was   writ  in   the   traveller's 
chart, 
And  sweet  on  its  trees  as  the  fruit  that 
grows  is, 
It  never   was  sold  in  the  merchant's 

mart. 
The   swallows  of   dreams  through   its 
dim  fields  dart, 
And  sleep's  are  the  tunes  in  its  tree-tops 
heard  ; 
No   hound's   note   wakens    the    wild- 
wood  hart, 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

ENVOI 

In  the  world  of  dreams  I  have  chosen 
my  part, 
To  sleep  for  a  season  and  hear  no  word 
Of  true  love's  truth  or  of  light  love's  art. 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

September,  1876. 


A   BALLAD  OF  FRANQOIS  VILLON, 

PRINCE    OF  ALL  BALLAD-MAKERS 

Bird  of  the   bitter  bright  gray  golden 

morn, 

Scarce  risen  upon  the  dusk  of  dolorous 

years. 

First  of  us  all  and  sweetest  singer  born. 

Whose   far   shrill   note    the   world   of 

new  men  hears 
Cleave  the  cold  shuddering  shade  as 
twilight  clears  ; 
When    song   new-born   put   off   the   old 

world's  attire 
And  felt  its  tune  on  her  changed  lips  ex- 
pire. 
Writ  foremost  on  the  roll  of  them  that 
came 
Fresh  girt  for  service  of  the  latter  lyre. 
Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's 
name  ! 


Alas,  the  joy,  the  sorrow,  and  the  scorn, 

That  clothed  thy  life  with  hopes  and 

sins  and  fears. 

And  gave  thee  stones  for  bread  and  tares 

for  corn 

And  plume-plucked  gaol-birds  for  thy 

starveling  peers, 
Till  death  dipt  close  their  flight  with 
shameful  shears  ; 
Till  shifts  came   short    and  loves   were 

hard  to  hire. 
When  lilt  of  song  nor  twitch  of  twang- 
ling  wire 
Could  buy  thee  bread  or  kisses  ;  when 
light  fame 
Spurned  like  a  ball  and   haled  through 
brake  and  briar, 
Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's 
name ! 

Poor  splendid  wings  so  frayed  and  soiled 
and  torn  ! 
Poor  kind    wild  eyes  so  dashed   with 
light  quick  tears ! 
Poor  perfect   voice,  most  blithe   when 
most  forlorn, 
That  rings  athwart  the  sea  whence  no 

man  steers, 
Like  joy -bells  crossed  with  death-bells 
in  our  ears ! 
What  far  delight  has  cooled  the   fierce 
desire 
That,    like  some  ravenous  bird,   was 

strong  to  tire 
On  that  frail  flesh  and  soul  consumed 
with  flame, 
But  left  more  sweet  than  roses  to  respire, 
Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's 
name  ? 

ENVOI 

Prince  of  sweet  songs  made  out  of  tears 
and  fire, 

A  harlot  was  thy  nurse,  a  God  thy  sire  ; 
Shame   soiled  thy   song,  and   song  as- 
soiled  thy  shame. 

But  from  thy  feet  now  death  has  washed 
the  mire. 

Love   reads  out   first  at   head  of  all  our 
quire, 
Villon,  our  sad  bad  glad  mad  brother's 
name.  September,  1877. 

TO  LOUIS  KOSSUTH 

Light  of  our  fathers'  eyes,  and  in  oui 

own 
Star   of   the  unsetting   sunset  J   for  thy 
name, 


S9: 


BRITISH   POETS 


That  cm  the  front  of  noon  was  as  a  flame 
In  t  be  great  year  nigh  twenty  yearsagone 
When  all  the  heavens  of  Europe  shook 

and  shone 
With  stormy  wind  and  lightning,  keeps 

its  fame 
And  bears  its  witness  all  day  through 

the  same ; 
Not  for  past  days  ami  great  deeds  past 

alone, 
Kossuth,  we  praise  thee  as  our  Landor 

praised. 
But  that  now  too  we  know  thy  voice  up- 
raised, 
Thy  voice,  the  trumpet  of  the  truth  of 

God, 
Tlii ne  hand,  the  thunder-bearer's,  raised 

to  smite 
As  with- heaven's  lightning  for  a  sword 

and  rod 
Men's  heads  abased  before  the  Muscovite. 
February, 1878. 

CHILD'S  SONG 

What  is  gold  worth,  say, 
Worth  for  work  or  play, 
Worth  to  keep  or  pay, 
Hide  or  throw  away, 

Hope  about  or  fear  ? 
What  is  love  worth,  pray? 
Worth  a  tear  ? 

Golden  on  the  mould 
Lie  the  dead  leaves  rolled 
Of  the  wet  woods  old, 
Yellow  leaves  and  cold, 

Woods  without  a  dove  ; 
Gold  is  worth  but  gold  ; 

Love's  worth  love.  1878. 

TRIADS 


The  word  of  the  sun  to  the  sky, 
The  word  of  the  wind  to  the  sea, 
The  word  of  the  moon  to  the  night, 
What  may  it  he  '! 

The  sense  of  the  flower  to  the  fly, 
The  sense  of  the  bird  to  the  tree, 
The  sense  of  the  cloud  to  the  light, 
Who  can  tell  me? 

The  song  of  the  fields  to  the  kye, 
The  song  of  the  lime  to  the  bee, 
The  song  of  the  depth  to  the  height. 
Who  knows  all  three  ? 


The  message  of  April  to  May, 
That  May  semis  on  into  June 
And  June  gives  out  to  July 
For  birthday  boon  ; 

The  delight  of  the  dawn  in  the  day, 
The  delight  of  the  day  in  the  noon, 
The  delight  of  a  song  in  a  sigh 
That  breaks  the  tune ; 

The  secret  of  passing  away, 
The  cast  of  the  change  of  the  moon, 
None  knows  it  with  ear  or  with  eye, 
But  all  will  soon. 

Ill 

The  live  wave's  love  for  the  shore, 
The  shore's  for  the  wave  as  it  dies, 
The  love  of  the  thunder-fire 
That  sears  the  skies — 

We  shall  know  not  though  life  wax 
hoar. 
Till  all  life,  spent  into  sighs, 
Burn  out  as  consumed  with  desire 
Of  death's  strange  eyes  ; 

Till  the  secret  be  secret  no  more 
In  the  light  of  one  hour  as  it  flies, 
Be  the  hour  as  of  suns  that  expire 
Or  suns  that  rise.  1878. 

ON  THE  CLIFFS 

tjuepo^wi'os  ari&u>v  (SAPPHO) 

Between  the  moondawn  and  the  sun- 
down here 
The   twilight  hangs  half   starless  ;  half 

the  sea 
Still  quivers  as  for  love  or  pain  or  fear 
Or  pleasure  mightier  than  these  all  may 

be. 
A  man's  live  heart  might  beat 
Wherein    a   God's    with    mortal   blood 

should  meet 
And   fill  its  pulse   too  full  to  bear  the 

strain 
With  fear  or  love  or  pleasure's  twin-born, 

pain. 
Fiercely  the  gaunt  woods  to  the  grim 

soil  cling 
That  bears  for  all  fair  fruits 
Wan  wild  sparse  flowers  of  windy  and 

wintry  spring 
Between  the  tortive  serpent-shapen  roots 
Wherethrough  their  dim  growth  hardly 

strikes  and  shoots 
And  shows  one  gracious  thing  ; 


SWINBURNE 


893 


Hardly,  to  speak  for  summer  one  sweet 

word 
Of  summer's  self  scarce  heard. 
But  higher  the  steep  green  sterile  fields, 

thickset 
With  flovverless   hawthorn   even  to  the 

upward  verge 
Whence  the  woods  gathering  wateh  new 

cliffs  emerge, 
Higher   than    their   highest    of  crowns 

that  sea-winds  fret. 
Holds  fast,  for  all  that  night  or  wind  can 

say, 
Some  pale  pure  color  yet. 
Too  dim  for  given  and  luminous  for  gray. 
Between  the  clinpfbing inland  cliffs  above 
And  these  beneath  that  breast  and  break 

the  bay. 
A  barren  peace  too  soft  for  hate  or  love 
Broods  on  an  hour  too  dim  for  night  or 

day. 
O  wind,  O  wingless  wind  that   walk'st 

the  sea. 
"Weak  wind,  wing-broken,  wearier  wind 

than  we. 
Who  are  yet  not  spirit-broken,  maimed 

like  thee, 
Who   wail  not  in  our  inward  night   as 

thou 
In  the  outer  darkness  now. 
What,  word  lias  the  old  sea  given  thee 

for  mine  ear 
From  thy  faint  lips  to  hear? 
For  some  word  would  -she  send  me,  know- 
ing not  how. 

Nay,  what  far  other  word 

Than  ever  of  her  was  spoken,  or  of  me 

Or  all  my  winged  white  kinsfolk  of  the 

sea 
Between  fresh  wave  and  wave  was  ever 

heard, 
Cleaves  the  clear  dark  enwinding  tree 

with  tree 
Tom  close  for  stars  to  separate  and  to  see 
Enmeshed  in  multitudinous  unity  ? 
Wiiat   voice    of    what  strong  God   hath 

stormed  and  si  irred 
The  fortn-ssi'd  rock  of  silence,  rent  apart 
Even  to  the  core  Night's  all  maternal 

heart? 
What  voice  of  God  grown  heavenlier  in 

a  bird, 
Make  keener  of  edge  to  smite 
Thau  lightning, — yea,  thou  knowest,  O 

mot  her  Night, 
Keen  as  thai   cry  from  thy  strange  chil- 
dren sent  1 

1  In  Aeschylus'  Eumenides. 


Wherewith  the  Athenian  judgment- 
shrine  was  rent. 

For  wrath  that  all  their  wrath  was  vainly 
spent, 

Their  wrath  for  wrong  made  right 

By  justice  in  her  own  divine  despite 

That  bade  pass  forth  unblamed 

The  sinless  matricide  and  unashamed? 

Yea,  what  new  cry  is  this,  what  note 
more  bright 

Than  their  song's  wing  of  words  was 
dark  of  flight, 

What  word  is  this  thou  hast  heard. 

Thine  and  not  thine  or  theirs,  O  Night, 
what  word 

More  keen  than  lightning  and  more 
sweet  than  light? 

As  all  men's  hearts  grew  godlike  in  one 
bird 

And  all  those  hearts  cried  on  thee,  cry- 
ing with  might, 

Hear  us,  O  mother  Night ! 

Dumb   is  the  mouth  of  darkness  as  of 

death  : 
Light,  sound  and  life  are  one 
In  the  eyes  and  lips  of  dawn  that  draw 

the  sun 
To  hear    what   first   child's   word    with 

glimmering  breath 
Their    weak    wan   weanling    child   the 

twilight  saith  ; 
But  night  makes  answer  none. 

God,  if  thou  be  god, — bird,  if  bird  thou 

be. — 
Do  thou  then  answer  me. 
For   but   one   word,  what   wind   soever 

blow, 
Is  blown  up  usward  ever  from  the  sea. 
In   fruitless  years  of  youth  dead   long 

ago  [and  snow 

And  deep  beneath  their  own  dead  leaves 
Buried;  I  heard  with  bitter  heart  and  sere 
The  same  sea's  word  unchangeable,  nor 

knew 
But    that    mine     own    life-days    were 

changeless  too. 
And  sharp  and  salt  with  unshed  tear  on 

tear, 
And  cold    and    fierce    and    barren  ;  and 

my  soul, 
Sickening,    swam   weakly    with    bated 

breat  h 
In  a  deep  sea  like  death. 
And  felt  the  wind  buffet  her  face  with 

brine 
Hard,  and  harsh   thought  on  thought  in 

lom£  bleak  roll 


894 


BRITISH    POETS 


Blown  by  keen  gusts  of  memory  sad  as 

thine 
Heap  the  weight  up  of  pain,  and  break, 

and  leave 
Strength  scarce  enough  to  grieve 
In  the  sick  heavy  spirit,  unmanned  with 

strife 
Of  waves  that  beat  at  the   tired  lips  of 

life. 

Nay,  sad  may  be  man's  memory,  sad 

may  be 
The  dream  lie  weaves  him  as  for  shadow 

of  thee, 
But    scarce    one    breathing-space,    one 

heartbeat  long, 
Wilt  thou  take  shadow  of  sadness  on  thy 

song. 
Not  thou,  being  more  than  man  or  man's 

desire, 
Being  bird  and  God  in  one, 
With  throat   of  gold  and  spirit   of  the 

sun  : 
The  sun  whom  all  our  souls  and  songs 

call  sire, 
Whose  godhead  gave  thee,  chosen  of  all 

our  quire, 
Thee  only  of  all  that  serve,  of  all  that 

sing 
Before  our  sire  and  king, 
Borne  up  some  space  on  time's  world- 
wandering  wing, 
This  gift,  this  doom,  to  bear  till  time's 

wing  tire — 
Life  everlasting  of  eternal  fire. 

Thee  only  of  all ;  yet  can  no  memory  say 

How  many  a  night  and  day 

My  heart  has  been  as  thy  heart,  and  my 

life 
As  thy  life  is,  a  sleepless  hidden  thing, 
Full  of  the  thirst  and  hunger  of  winter 

and  spring, 
That  seeks  its  food  not  in  such  love  or 

strife 
As   fill     men's   hearts    with   passionate 

hours  and  rest. 
From   no  loved  lips  and   on   no  loving 

breast 
Have  I  sought  ever  for  such  gifts  as  bring 
Comfort,  to  stay  the   secret   soul  with 

sleep. 
The  joys,  the  loves,  the  labors,  whence 

men  reap 
Rathe  fruit  of  hopes  and  fears, 
I  have  made  not  mine  ;  the  best  of  all 

my  days 
Have  been  as  those  fair  fruitless  summer 

strays, 


Those  water- waif s  that  but  the  sea-wind 
steers, 

Flakes  of  glad  foam  or  flowers  on  foot- 
less ways 

That  take  the  wind  in  season  and  the 
sun, 

And  when  the  wind  wills  is  their  season 
done. 

For  all  my  days  as  all  thy  days   from 

birth 
My   heart   as   thy   heart   was   in  me  as 

thee. 
Fire  ;  and  not  all  the  fountains  of  the 

sea 
Have  waves  enough  to  quench  it,  nor  on 

earth 
Is  fuel  enough  to  feed, 
While  day  sows  night,  and  night  sows 

day  for  seed. 

We  were  not  marked  for  sorrow,  thou 
nor  I, 

For  joy  nor  sorrow,  sister,  were  we  made, 

To  take  delight  and  grief  to  live  and 
die, 

Assuaged  by  pleasures  or  by  pains  af- 
fray ed 

That  melt  men's  hearts  and  alter  ;  we 
retain 

A  memory  mastering  pleasure  and  all 
pain, 

A  spirit  within  the  sense  of  ear  and  eye, 

A  soul  behind  the  soul,  that  seeks  and 
sings 

And  makes  our  life  move  only  with  its 
wings 

And  feed  but  from  its  lips,  that  in  re- 
turn 

Feed  of  our  hearts  wherein  the  old  fires 
that  burn 

Have  strength  not  to  consume 

Nor  glory  enough  to  exalt  us  past  our 
doom. 

Ah,  ah,  the  doom  (thou  knowest  whence 

rang  that  wail) 
Of  the  shrill  nightingale  ! 
(From  whose  wild  lips,   thou  knowest, 

that  wail  was  thrown) 
For  round  about  her  have  the  great  gods 

cast 
A  wing-borne  body,  and  clothed  her  close 

and  fast 
With  a  sweet  life  that  hath  no  part  in 

moan. 
But  me,  for  me  (how  hadst  thou  heart  to 

hear?)  [spear. 

Remains  a  sundering  with  the  two-edged 


SWINBURNE 


895 


Ah,  for  her  doom  !  so  cried  in  presage 

then 
The   bodeful   bondslave  of  the   king   of 

men, 
And  might  not  win  her  will. 
Too  close  the  entangling  dragnet  woven 

of  crime, 
The  snare  of  ill  new-born  of  elder  ill. 
The  curse    of    new   time   for   an   elder 

time, 
Had  caught  and  held  her  yet, 
Enmeshed  intolerably  in  the  intolerant 

net, 
Who   thought   with   craft  to  mock  the 

God  most  high, 
And  win  by  wiles  his  crown  of  prophecy 
From  the  sun's  hand  sublime, 
As  God  were  man,  to  spare  or  to  forget. 

But  thou, — the  gods  have  given  thee  and 

forgiven  thee 
More  than  our  master  gave 
That       strange-eyed,       spirit- wounded, 

strange-tongued  slave 
There    questing    houndlike   where    the 

roofs  red-wet 
Reeked  as  a  wet  red  grave. 
Life  everlasting  has  their  strange  grace 

given  thee, 
Even  hers  whom  thou  wast  wont  to  sing 

and  serve 
With  eyes,  but  not  with  song,  too  swift 

to  swerve  ; 
Yet  might  not  even  thine  eyes  estranged 

estrange  her, 
Who  seeing  thee  too,  but  inly,  burn  and 

bleed 
Like  that  pale  princess-priest  of  Priam's 

seed, 
For  stranger  service  gave  thee  guerdon, 

stranger 
If  this  indeed  be  guerdon,  this  indeed 
Her  mercy,  this  thy  meed — 
That  thou,  being  more  than  all  we  born, 

being  higher 
Than  all  heads  crowned  of  him  that  only 

gives 
The  light  whereby  man  lives, 
The  bay  that  bids  man  moved  of  God's 

desire 
Lay  hand  011  lute  or  lyre, 
Set  lip  to  trumpet  or  deflowered  green 

reed — 
If  this  were  given  thee  for  a  grace  in- 
deed, 
That  thou,  being  first  of  all  these,  thou 

alone 
Shouldst  have  the  grace  to  die  not,  but 

to  live, 


And  loose  nor  change  one  pulse  of  song, 
one  tone 

Of  all  that  were  thy  lady's  and  thine, 
own, 

The  lady's  whom  thou  criedst  on  to  for- 
give, 

Thou,  priest  and  sacrifice  on  the  altar- 
stone 

Where  none  may  worship  not  of  all  that 
live, 

Love's  priestess,  errant  on  dark  ways 
diverse  ; 

If  this  were  grace  indeed  for  Love  to 
give, 

If  this  indeed  were  blessing  and  no 
cui-se. 

Love's  priestess,  mad  with  pain  and  joy 

of  song, 
Song's  priestess,  mad  with  joy  and  pain 

of  love, 
Name  above  all  names  that  are  lights 

above. 
We  have  lov'd,  prais'd,   pitied,  crown'd, 

and  done  thee  wrong, 
O  thou  past  praise  and  pity  ;  thou  the 

sole 
Utterly    deathless,    perfect     only    and 

whole 
Immortal,  body  and  soul. 
For  over  all  whom  time  hath  overpast 
The  shadow  of  sleep  inexorable  is  cast, 
The  implacable  sweet  shadow  of  perfect 

sleep 
That  gives  not  back  what  life  gives  death 

to  keep  ; 
Yea,  all  that  liv'd   and  lov'd  and  sang 

and  sinn'd 
Are  all  borne  down  death's  cold,  sweet, 

soundless  wind 
That   blows   all    night  and  knows   not 

whom  its  breath, 
Darkling,  may  touch  to  deatli : 
But   one   that    wind   hath   touch'd  and 

changed  not, — one 
Whose  body  and  soul  are  parcel  of  the 

sun  ; 
One  that  earth's  fire  could  burn  not,  nor 

the  sea 
Quench  ;  nor  might  human  doom  take 

hold  on  t  hee  : 
All  praise,  all  pity,  all  dreams  have  done 

thee  wrong, 
All  love,    with    eyes  love-blinded    from 

above  ; 
Song's  priestess,  mad  with  joy  and  pain 

of  love, 
Love's  priestess,  mad  with  pain  and  jcy 

of  SOng. 


BRITISH   POETS 


Hast    thou  none  other  answer  then  for 

Than  the  air  may  have  of  thee, 

( >r  t  lit1  carl  h's  warm  woodlands;  girdling 

wilh  green  girth 
Thy  secret,    sleepless,   burning   life  on 

earth. 
Or  even  the  sea  that  once,  being  woman 

crown'd 
And  girt  with  fire  and  glory  of  anguish 

round. 
Thou  wert  so  fain   to   seek   to,  fain  to 

crave 
If  she  would  hear  thee  and  save 
And    give   thee  comfort  of    thy  great 

green  grave  ? 
Because  I  have  known  thee  always  who 

thou  art, 
Thou  knowest.  have  known  thee  to  thy 

heart's  own  heart, 
Nor  ever  have  given  light  ear  to  storied 

song 
That  did  thy  sweet  name  sweet  unwit-    I 

ting  wrong. 
Nor  ever  have  called  thee  nor  would  call 

for  shame. 
Thou  knowest,  but   inly,  by  thine  only 

name, 
Sappho — because    I    have    known   thee 

and  loved,  hast  thou 
None  other  answer  now? 
As   brother   and  sister   were   we,  child 

and  bird. 
Since  thy  first  Lesbian  word 
Flamed  on  me,  and  I  knew  not  whence 

I  knew 
This  was  the  song  that  struck  my  whole 

soul  through, 
Pierced   my    keen    spirit  of   sense  with 

edge  more  keen, 
Even  when  I  knew  not — even  ere  sooth 

was  seen — 
When   thou  wast  but  the  tawny  sweet 

winged  thing 
Whoso  cry  was  but  of  spring. 

An d  yet  even  so  thine  ear  should  hear 

me — yea. 
Hear  me  this  nightfall  by  this  northland 

bay, 
Even    for  their  sake  whose   loud  good 

WOTd  I  had. 

Singing  of  thee  in  the  all-beloved  clime 
Once,  where  the  windy  wine  of  spring 

makes  mad 
Our  sisters  o*f  Majano.  who  kept  time 
Clear  to  my  choral  rhyme. 
Yet  was   the   song   acclaimed  of   these 

aloud 


Whose  praise  had  made  mute  humble- 
ness misproud, 

The  song  with  answering  song  ap- 
plauded thus, 

But  of  that  Daulian  dream  of  Itylus. 

So  but  for  love's  love  haply  was  it — nay, 

How  else? — that  even  their  song  took 
my  song's  part, 

For  love  of  love  and  sweetness  of  sweet 
heart, 

Or  god-given  glorious  madness  of  mid 
May 

And  heat  of  heart  and  hunger  and 
thirst  to  sing. 

Full  of  the  new  wine  of  the  wind  of 
spring. 

Or  if  this  were  not,  and  it  be  not  sin 
To  hold   myself   in  spirit  of   thy   sweet 

kin, 
In  heart  and  spirit  of  song  ; 
If  this  my  great  love   do  thy  grace  no 

wrong. 
Thy  grace  that  gave  me  grace  to  dwell 

therein  ; 
If  thy  gods  thus  be  my  gods,  and  their 

will 
Made  my  song  part  of  thy  song — even 

such  part 
As  man's  hath  of  God's  heart — 
And  my  life  like  as  thy  life  to  fulfil ; 
What    have   our  gods   then    given   us? 

Ah,  to  thee 
Sister,  much  more,  much  happier  than 

to  me, 
Much  happier  things  they  have  given, 

and  more  of  grace 
Than  falls  to  man's  light  race  ; 
For  lighter  are  we,  all  our  love  and  pain 
Lighter    than    thine,    who    knowest   of 

time  or  place 
Thus  much,  that  place  nor  time 
Can   heal   or    hurt    or    lull    or    change 

again 
The   singing   soul   that   makes  his  soul 

sublime 
Who  hears  the  far  fall  of  its  fire-fledged 

rhyme 
Fill  darkness  as  with  bright  and  burning 

rain. 
Till  all  the  live  gloom   inly  glows,  and 

light 
Seems  with  the  sound  to  cleave  the  core 

of  night. 

The   singing  soul  that  moves  thee,  and 

that  moved 
When    thou    wast    woman,    and    their 

songs  divine 


SWINBURNE 


897 


Who  mixed  for  Grecian   mouths  heav- 
en's lyric  wine 
Fell  dumb,  fell  down  reproved 
Before   one   sovereign   Lesbian  song  of 

thine. 
That  soul,  though  love  and  life  had  fain 

held  fast. 
Wind-winged    with    fiery    music,    rose 

and  past 
Through  the  indrawn  hollow  of  earth 

and  heaven  and  hell, 
As  through  some  strait  sea-shell 
The  wide  sea's  immemorial  song, — the 

sea 
That  sings  and  breathes  in  strange  men's 

ears  of  thee 
How  in  her  barren  bride  bed,  void  and 

vast. 
Even  thy  soul  sang  itself  to  sleep  at  last. 

To  sleep?     Ah,  then,  what  song  is  this, 

that  here 
Makes  all  the  night  one  ear, 
One  ear  fulfilled  and  mad  with  music, 

one 
Heart  kindling  as  the  heart  of  heaven, 

to  hear 
A  song  more  fiery  than  the  awakening 

sun 
Sings,  when  his  song  sets  fire 
To    the   air   and   clouds   that   build  the 

dead  night's  pyre  ? 
0  thou  of  divers-colored  mind.  O  thou 
Deathless,  God's  daughter,  subtle-souled 

— lo,  now, 
Now  to  the  song  above  all  songs,  in  flight 
Higher  than  the  day-star's  height, 
And  sweet  as  sound  the  moving  wings 

of  night ! 
TJiou  of  the  divers-colored  seat — behold, 
Her  very  song  of  obi! — 
O  deathless,  O  God's   daughter,  subtle- 
souled  .' 
That   same   cry   through    this    boskage 

overhead 
Rings  round  reiterated, 
Palpitates  as  the  last  palpitated, 
The  last  that  panted  through  her  lips 

and  died 
Not    down    this    gray   north  sea's    half 

sapped  cliff-side 
That    crumbles    toward    the   coastline, 

year  by  year 
M  ire  near  the  sa  mis  and  near  ; 
T!ie  lasl  loud  lyric  fiery  cry  she  cried. 
Beard    once    on    heights    Leucadian, — 

heard  not  here. 
Not  here;   for  this  that  fires  our  north- 
land  night, 

57 


This  is  the  song  that  made 

Love  fearful,  even  the  heart  of  love 
afraid, 

With  the  great  anguish  of  its  great  de 
light. 

No  swan-song,  no  far-fluttering  half- 
drawn  breath, 

No  word  that  love  of  love's  sweet  nature 
saith. 

No  dirge  that  lulls  the  narrowing  lids  of 
death. 

No  healing  hymn  of  peace-prevented 
strife. — 

This  is  her  song  of  life. 

I  loved   thee, — hark,   one  tenderer  note 

than  all — 
Atlhis,  of  old  time,  once — one  low   long 

fall, 
Sighing — one   long   low   lovely  loveless 

call. 
Dying — one  pause  in  song  so  flamelike 

fast— 
Atthis,  long  since  in  old  time  overpast — 
One  soft  first  pause  and  last; 
One, — then   the   old    rage    of    rapture's 

fieriest  rain 
Storms   all   the   music-maddened  night 

again. 

Child  of  God,  close  cfaftsuJoman,  I  be- 
seech thee 

Bid  not  ache  nor  agony  break  nor  mas- 
ter, 

Lady,  my  spirit — 

O  thou  her  mistress,  might  her  cry  not 
reach  thee  ? 

Our  Lady  of  all  men's  loves,  could  Love 
go  past  her, 

Pass,  and  not  hear  it  ? 

She  hears  not  as  she  heard  not :  hears 

not  me, 
O  trebled-natured  mystery — how  should 

she 
Hear,    or'  give    ear? — -who    heard    and 

heard  not  thee  ; 
Heard  and  went  past,  and   heard  not; 

but  all  time 
Hears  all  that  all  the  ravin  of  bis  years 
Hath  cast  not  wholly  out  of  all  men's 

ears 
And   dulled    to    death    with    deep    dense 

funeral  chime 
Of  their  reiterate  rhyme. 
And  now  of  all  songs  uttering   all  her 

praise, 
All  hers  who  had  thy  praise  and  did  thee 

wrong. 


s9s 


BRITISH    POETS 


Abides  one  song  yel  of  her  lyric  days, 
Thine  only,  this  thy  song. 

O    soul   triune,    woman    and    god    and 

bird, 
Man,  man  at  least  lias  heard. 
All  ages  call   thee   conqueror,  and  thy 

cry 
The  mightiest  as  the  least  beneath  the 

sky 
Whose   heart  was   ever  set   to  song,  or 

stirred 
With   wind  of   mounting  music   blown 

more  high 
Than  wildest  wing  may  fly, 
Hath   heard   or  hears, — even  ^Eschylus 

as  I. 
But  when  thy  name  was  woman,  and 

thy  word 
Human, — then   haply,  surely   then   me- 

seems 
This  thy  bird's  note  was  heard  on   earth 

of  none, 
Of  none  save  only  in  dreams. 
In   all   the   world   then   surely  was  but 

one 
Song;     as    in    heaven    at    highest    one 

sceptred  sun 
Regent,  on  earth  here  surely  without  fail 
One  only,  one  imperious  nightingale. 
Dumb  was  the  field,  the  woodland  mute, 

the  lawn 
Silent  ;  the  hill   was  tongueless   as   the 

vale 
Even  when  the   last  fair   waif  of   cloud 

that  felt 
Its  heart  beneath  the  coloring  moonrays 

melt, 
At  high  midnoon  of  midnight  half  with- 
drawn, 
Bared  all  the  sudden  deep  divine  moon- 
dawn. 
Then,  unsaluted  by  her  twin-born  tune, 
That    latter  timeless    morning    of    the 

moon 
Rose  past  its  hour  of  moonrice  ;  clouds 

gave  way 
To  the  old  reconquering  ray, 
But   no  song  answering  made  it   more 

than  day  ; 
No  cry  of  song  by  night 
Shot    fire   into    the    cloud-constraining 

light. 
One  only,  one  iEolian  island  heard 
Thrill,  but  through  no  bird's  throat, 
In  one  strange  manlike  maiden's  godlike 

note, 
The  song  of  all  these  as  a  single  bird  ; 
Till  the  sea's  portal  was  as  funeral  gate 


For  that  sole  singer  in  all  time's  ageless 

date 
Singled    and    signed   for   so   triumphal 

fate, 
All  nightingales  but  one  in  all  the  world 
All  her    sweet    life    were    silent  ;  only 

then. 
When  her  life's  wing  of  womanhood  was 

furled, 
Their  cry,  this  cry  of  thine  was  heard 

agai  n , 
As  of  me  now,  of  any  born  of  men. 

Through    sleepless   clear  spring   nights 

filled  full  of  thee, 
Rekindled   here,  thy    ruling    song    has 

thrilled 
The  deep  dark  air  and  subtle  tender   sea 
And  breathless   hearts  with  one  bright 

sound  fulfilled. 
Or  at  midnoon  to  me 
Swimming,  and  birds  about  my  happier 

head 
Skimming,    one    smooth   soft    way    by 

water  and  air, 
To  these  my  bright  born  brethren  and  to 

me 
Hath  not  the  clear  wind  borne  or  seemed 

to  bear 
A  song  wherein  all  earth   and   heaven 

and  sea 
Were  molten  in  one  music  made  of  thee 
To  enforce  us,  O  our  sister  of  the  shore, 
Look  once  in  heart  back  landward  and 

adore  ? 
For  songless  were  we  sea-mews,  yet  had 

we 
More  joy  than  all  things  joyful  of  thee — 

more, 
Haply,  than  all  things  happiest ;  nay, 

save  thee, 
In  thy  strong  rapture  of  imperious  joy 
Too  high  for  heart  of  sea-borne  bird  or 

boy, 
What  living  things  were  happiest  if  not 

we? 
But  knowing   not   love  nor  change  nor 

wrath  nor  wrong, 
No  more  we  knew  of  song. 

Song,  and  the   secrets  of  it,   and  their 

might, 
What  blessings  curse  it  and  what  curses 

bless, 
I  know  them  since  my  spirit  had  first  in 

sight, 
Clear  as   thy  song's  words   or  the  live 

sun's  light, 
The  small  dark  body's  Lesbian  loveliness 


SWINBURNE 


899 


That  held  the  five  eternal  ;  eye  and  ear 
Were  as  a  god's  to  see,  a  god*s  to  hear, 
Through  all  his  hours  of  daily  and  night- 
ly chime, 
The  sundering  of  the  two-edged  spear  of 

time  : 
The  spear  that  pierces  even  the  seven- 
fold shields 
Of  mightiest  Memory,  mother  of  all  songs 

made. 
And  wastes  all  songs  as  roseleaves  kissed 

and  frayed 
As  here  the  harvest  of  the  foam-flowered 

fields  ; 
But  thine  the  spear  may  waste  not   that 

he  wields 
Since  first  the  God  whose  soul   is   man's 

live  breath, 
The  sun  whose  face  hath  our  sun's  face 

for  shade, 
Put  all  the   light   of  life   and  love  and 

death 
Too  strong  for  life,  but  not  for  love   too 

strong, 
Where  pain  makes  peace  with   pleasure 

in  thy  song, 
And  in  thine  heart,  where  love  and  song 

make  strife. 
Fire  everlasting  of  eternal  life.     1S80. 

OX  THE  DEATHS  OF  THOMAS  CAR- 
LYLE  AND  GEORGE  ELIOT 

Two  souls  diverse  out  of  our  human  sight 

Pass,  followed  one  with  love  and  each 
with  wonder  : 

The  stormy  sophist  with  his  mouth  of 
thunder, 

Clothed  with  loud  words  and  mantled  in 
the  might 

Of  darkness  and  magnificence  of  night  ; 

And  one  whose  eye  could  smite  the  night 
in  sunder, 

Searching  if  light  or  no  light  were  there- 
under, 

And  found  in  love  of  loving-kindness 
light. 

Duty  divine  and  Thought  with  eyes  of 
fire 

Still  following  Righteousness  with  deep 
desire 

Shone  sole  and  stern  before  her  and 
above — 

Sure  stars  and  sole  to  steer  by  ;  but 
more  sweet 

Shone  lower  the  loveliest  lamp  for  earth- 
ly feet.— 

The  light  of  little  children,  and  their 
love.  April,  1881. 


SONG  FROM   MARY  STUART 

And  ye  maun  braid  your  yellow   hair, 

And  busk  ye  like  a  bride  ; 
Wi'  sevenscore  men  to  bring  ye  hanie, 

And  ae  true  love  beside  : 
Between  the  birk  and  the  green  rowan 

Fu'  blithely  shall  ye  ride. 

O  ye  maun  braid  my  yellow  hair, 
But  braid  it  like  nae  bride  : 

And  I  maun  gang  my  ways,  mither, 
Wi'  nae  true  love  beside  ; 

Between  the  kirk  and  the  kirkyard 
Fu'  sadly  shall  I  ride.  1881. 

HOPE  AND  FEAR 

Beneath   the  shadow  of  dawn's  aerial 

cope, 
With  eyes  enkindled  as  the  sun's  own 

sphere, 
Hope  from  the  front  of  youth  in   god- 
like cheer 
Looks  God  ward,  past  the  shades  where 

blind  men  grope 
Round  the  dark  door  that  prayers  nor 

dreams  can  ope, 
And  makes  for  joy  the  very  darkness 

dear 
That   gives   her  wide  wings   play  ;   nor 

dreams  that  fear 
At  noon  may  rise  and  pierce  the  heart  of 

hope- 
Then,  when  the  sold  leaves  off  to  dream 

and  yearn, 
May   truth  first  purge   her  eyesight  to 

discern 
What  once  being  known  leaves  time  no 

|iower  to  appal ; 
Till  youth  at  last,  ere  yet  youth  be  not, 

learn 
The    kind    wise    word   that    falls   from 

years  that  fall — 
"  Hope  thou   not  much,   and  fear  thou 

not  at  all."  L882. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Not  if  men's  tongues  and  angels'  all  in 

one 
Spake,    might   the    word   be  said   that 

might  speak  Thee. 
Streams,    winds,    woods,  flowers,  fields, 

mountains,  yea.  the  sea. 
What  power  is  in  them  all  to  praise  the 

sun'.-' 
His  praise  is  this, — he  can  be  praised  of 
none. 


900 


BRITISH    POETS 


Man,  woman,  child,  praise  God  for  him  ; 

but  lif 
Exults  not  bo  be  worshipped,  but  to  be. 
He  is  :  and.  being,  beholds  his  work  well 

done. 
All  joy.  all  glory,  all  sorrow,  all  strength, 

all  mirth. 
Are  his  :  without    him,  day   were  night 
^  on  earth. 

Time   knows  not   his  from   time's   own 

period. 
All  lutes,  all    harps,  all    viols,  all  flutes, 

all  lyres, 
Fall   dumb   before   him   ere  one  string 

suspires. 
All  stars  are  angels  ;  but  the  sun  is  God. 

1882. 

CHILDREN 

Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

No  glory  that  ever  was  shed 
From  the  crowning  star  of  the  seven 

That  crown  the  north  world's  head, 

No  word  that  ever  was  spoken 
Of  human  or  godlike  tongue, 

Gave  ever  such  godlike  token 
Since  human  harps  were  strung. 

No  sign  that  ever  was  given 

To  faithful  or  faithless  eyes 
Showed  ever  beyond  clouds  riven 

So  clear  a  Paradise. 

Earth's  creeds  may   be  seventy    times 
seven 

And  blood  have  defiled  each  creed  : 
If  of  such  be  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 

It  must  be  heaven  indeed.  1882. 

A  CHILD'S  LAUGHTER 

All  the  bells  of  heaven  may  ring, 
All  the  birds  of  heaven  may  sing, 
All  the  wells  on  earth  may  spring, 
All  the  winds  on  earth  may  bring 

All  sweet  sounds  together  ; 
Sweeter  far  than  all  things  heard, 
Hand  of  harper,  tone  of  bird, 
Sound  of  woods  at  sundawn  stirr'd, 
Welling  water's  winsome  word, 

Wind  in  warm  wan  weather, 

One  thing  yet  there  is,  that  none 
Hearing  ere  its  chime  be  done 
Knows  not  well  the  sweetest  one 
Heard  of  man  beneath  the  sun, 
Hoped  in  heaven  hereafter; 


Soft  and  strong  and  loud  and  light, 
Very  sound  of  very  light 
Heard  from  morning's  rosiest  height, 
When  the  soul  of  all  delight 
Fills  a  child's  clear  laughter. 

Golden  bells  of  welcome  roll'd 
Never  forth  such  notes,  nor  told 
Hours  so  blithe  in  tones  so  bold, 
As  the  radiant  mouth  of  gold 

Here  that  rings  forth  heaven. 
If  the  golden-crested  wren 
Were  a  nightingale — why.  then 
Something  seen  and  heard  of  men 
Might  be  half  as  sweet  as  when 

Laughs  a  child  of  seven.  1882. 

THE  SALT   OF  THE  EARTH 

If  childhood  were  not  in  the  world, 
But  only  men  and  women  grown  ; 

No  baby-locks  in  tendrils  curled, 
No  baby-blossoms  blown  ; 

Though    men    were    stronger,     women 
fairer, 

And  nearer  all  delights  in  reach, 
And  verse  and  music  uttered  rarer 

Tones  of  more  godlike  speech  ; 

Though   the   utmost   life   of   life's    best 
hours 
Found,  as  it  cannot  now  find,  words  ; 
Though    desert    sands    were    sweet    as 
flowers 
And  flowers  could  sing  like  birds, 

But  children  never  heard  them,  never 
They  felt  a  child's  foot  leap  and  run  : 

This  were  a  drearier  star  than  ever 
Yet  looked  upon  the  sun.  1882. 

CHILD  AND  POET 

You  send  me  your  love  in  a  letter, 
I  send  you  my  love  in  a  song  : 

Ah  child,  your  gift  is  the  better, 
Mine  does  you  but  wrong. 

No  fame,  were  the  best  less  brittle, 
No  praise,  were  it  wide  as  earth, 

Is  worth  so  much  as  a  little 
Child's  love  may  be  worth. 

We  see  the  children  above  us 
As  they  might  angels  above  : 

Come  back  to  us,  child,  if  you  love  us, 
And  bring  us  your  love.  1882. 


SWINBURNE 


901 


A   CHILD'S  FUTURE 

What  will   it   please   you,   my    darling, 

hereafter  to  be? 
Fame   upon   land   will  you  look  for,   or 

glory  by  sea  ? 
Gallant  your  life  will  be  always,  and  all 

of  it  free. 

Free  as  the  wind  when  the  heart  of  the 
twilight  is  stirred 

Eastward,  ami  sounds  from  the  springs 
of  the  sunrise  are  beard  : 

Free — and  we  know  not  another  as  in- 
finite word. 

Darkness   or  twilight  or  sunlight   may 

compass  us  round. 
Hate  may  arise  up  against  us,  ov  hope 

may  confound  ; 
Love   may  forsake  us  ;  yet  may  not  the 

spirit  be  bound. 

Free  in  oppression  of  grief  as  in  ardor  of 

joy 

Still  may  the  soul  be,  and  each   to  her 

strength  as  a  toy  : 
Free  in   the  glance  of  the  man  as  the 

smile  of  the  boy. 

Freedom  alone  is  the  salt  and  the  spirit 

that  gives 
Life,  and    without  her  is  nothing   that 

verily  lives  : 
Death  cannot  slay  her  :  she  laughs  upon 

death  and  forgi  \  es. 

Brightest   and   hardiest    of   roses   anear 

and  afar 
Glitters   the    blithe   little   face   of   you, 

round  as  a  star  : 
Liberty  Mess  you  and  keep  you  to  be  as 

you  are. 

England  and  liberty  bless  you  and  keep 

you  to  be 
Wort  hy  1  he  name  of  their  child  and  the 

sight  of  1  Heir  sea  ; 
Fear  not  at  all  ;  for  a  slave,  if  he  fears 

not,  is  free.  1882. 

ETUDE  REALLSTE 
I 
A  Baby's  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink, 

Might  tempt,  should  Heaven  see  meet, 

An  angel's  lips  to  kiss,  we  think, 
A  baby's  feet. 


Like   rose-hued   sea-flowers  toward'  the 
heat 
They  stretch  and  spread  and  wink 
Their  ten  soft  buds  that   part  and  meet. 

No  flower-bells  that  expand  ami  shrink 

Gleam  half  so  heavenly  sweet 
As  shine  on  life's  untrodden  brink 
A  baby's  feet. 


A  baby's  hands,  like  rosebuds  furl'd, 

Whence  yet  no  leaf  expands, 
Ope  if  you  touch,  though   close  upcurl'd 
A  baby's  hands. 

Then,  even  as  warriors  grip  their  brands 

When  battle's  bolt  is  hurl'd, 
They  close,  clench'd  hard  like  tighten- 
ing bands. 

No  rosebuds  yet  by  dawn  impearl'd 

Match,  even  in  loveliest  lands, 
The  sweetest  flowers  in   all  the  world— 
A  baby's  hands. 

Ill 

A  baby's  eyes,  ere  speech  begin, 
Ere  lips  learn  words  or  sighs, 
Bless  all  things  bright  enough  to  win 
A  baby's  eyes. 

Love,  while  the  sweet  thing  laughs  and 
lies. 
Ami  sleep  flows  out  and  in, 
Lies  perfect  in  them  Paradise. 

Their  glance  might  cast  out  pain  ami  sin, 

Their  speech  make  dumb  the  wise, 
By  mute  glad  godhead  felt  within 

A  baby's  eyes.  1883. 

IN  GUERNSEY 

(TO  THEODORE  WATTS) 


The  heavenly    bay,  ringed    round  witk 

cliffs  and  moors, 
Storm  stained    ravines,    and   crags   that 

lawns  inlay. 
Soothes   as  with    love    the  rocks    whose 

guard  secures 

The  hea  venly   bay. 

0  friend,  shall  t  ime  take  even  this  away. 
This  blessing  given  of  beauty   that  en- 

il  lires. 

This  glory  shown  us,  not  to  pas-;  hut  stay? 


902 


BRITISH   POETS 


Though  sight  be   changed  for   memory, 

love  ensures 
What  memory,  changed  by  love  to  sight, 

would  say — 
The  word  that  seals   for  ever  mine   and 
yours, 
The  heavenly  bay. 

II 

My  mother   sea,  m}r  fostress,  what   new 

strand. 
What  new  delight  of  waters,  may  this  be, 
The     fairest     found    since     time's   first 

breezes  fanned 
My  mother  sea  ? 

Once  more  I  give  me  body  and  soul  to 

thee, 
Who   hast  my  soul  for  ever :  cliff  and 

sand 
Recede,  and   heart  to   heart  once   more 

are  we. 

My  heart  springs  first  and   plunges,  ere 

my  hand 
Strike  out    from  shore :  more   close    it 

brings  to  me, 
More   near  and  dear    than    seems  my 

fatherland, 
My  mother  sea. 


Across  and  along,  as  the  bay's  breadth 

opens,  and  o'er  us 
Wild  autumn   exults  in  the   wind,  swift 

rapture  and  strong 
Impels  us,  and  broader   the  wide  waves 

brighten  before  us 
Across  and  along. 

The  whole  world's  heart  is  uplifted,  and 

knows  not  wrong  ; 
The  whole  world's  life  is  a  chant   to  the 

sea-tides  chorus ; 
Are   we  not  as   waves  of  the   water,  as 

notes  of  the  song  ? 

Like  children  unworn  of  the  passions  and 

toils  that  wore  us, 
We  breast  for  a  season  the  breadth  of  the 

seas  that  throng, 
Rejoicing  as  they,  to  be  borne  as  of  old 

they  bore  us 
Across  and  along.  1883. 

A  SINGING  LESSON 

F.VR-fetched  and  dear   bought,  as   the 
proverb  rehearses, 


Is  good,  or   was  held  so,  for   ladies  ;  but 

nought 
In  a  song  can  be  good   if  the  turn  of  the 
verse  is 
Far-fetched  and  dear  bought. 

As  the   turn  of  a  wave   should  it  sound, 

and  the  thought 
Ring   smooth,  and  as  light  as  the  spray 

that  disperses 
Be  the  gleam  of  the  words  for  the  garb 

thereof  wrought. 

Let   the   soul   in  it    shine   through   the 

sound  as  it  pierces 
Men's  hearts   with   possession  of   music 

unsought ; 
For  the   bounties  of  song  are   no  jealous 

god's  mercies, 
Far-fetched  and  dear  bought.  1883. 

THE  ROUNDEL 

A  Roundel  is  wrought  as  a   ring  or  a 

starbright  sphere. 
With  craft  of  delight  and  with  cunning 

of  sound  unsought, 
That  the  heart  of  the  hearer  may  smile 

if  to  pleasure  his  ear 
A  roundel  is  wrought. 

Its  jewel  of  music  is  carven  of  all  or  of 
aught — 

Love,  laughter,  or  mourning — remem- 
brance of  rapture  or  fear — 

That  fancy  may  fashion  to  hang  in  the 
ear  of  thought. 

As  a  bird's  quick  song  runs  round,  and 

the  hearts  in  us  hear — 
Pause  answers  to  pause,  and  again  the 

same  strain  caught, 
So  moves  the  device  whence,  round  as  a 
pearl  or  tear, 
A  roundel  is  wrought. 

1883, 

A  SOLITUDE 

Sea  beyond  sea,  sand  after  sweep  of 

sand, 
Here    ivory   smooth,   here   cloven   and 

ridged  with  flow 
Of   channelled   waters   soft   as   rain   or 

snow. 
Stretch  their  lone  length  at  ease  beneath 

the  bland 
Gray   gleam   of   skies    whose    smile   on 

wave  and  strand 
Shines  weary  like  a  man's  who  smiles  to 

know 


SWINBURNE 


9°3 


That  now  no  dream  can  mock  his  faith 

with  show, 
Nor  cloud  for   him   seem  living  sea  or 

land. 
Is  there  an  end  at  all  of  all  this  waste, 
These    crumbling  cliffs  defeatured  and 

defaced, 
These    ruinous    heights    of    sea-sapped 

walls  that  slide 
Seaward  with  all  their  banks  of  bleak 

blown  flowers 
Grlad  yet  of  life,  ere  yet  their  hope  sub- 
side 
Beneath    the   coil  of   dull  dense  waves 

and  hours?  June,  1884. 

ON  A   COUNTRY   ROAD 

Along  these  low  pleached  lanes,  on  such 

a  day, 
So  soft  a  day  as  this,  through  shade  and 

sun, 
With  glad  grave  eyes  that  scanned  the 

glad  wild  way 
And   heart   still   hovering    o'er  a   song 

begun. 
And  smile  that  warmed  the  world  with 

benison, 
Our   father,    lord   long  since   of    lordly 

rhyme, 
Long  since  hath  haply  ridden,  when  the 

lime 
Bloomed    broad    above   him,    flowering 

where  he  came. 
Because   thy  passage  once   made  warm 

this  clime, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy 

name. 

Each  year  that  England  clothes  herself 

with  May, 
She   takes   thy  likeness   on   her.     Time 

hath  spun 
Fresh  raiment  all  in  vain  and   strange 

array 
For  earth  and  man's  new  spirit,  fain  to 

shun 
Things  past  for  dreams  of  better  to  be 

won, 
Through  many  a  century  since  thy  fun- 
eral chime 
Rang,  and    men  deemed  it  death's  most 

direful  crime 
To  have  spared  not  thee  for  very  love  or 

shame  ; 
And  yet,  while  mists  round  last  vein's 

memories  climb, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy 

name. 


Each  turn  of  the  old  wild  road  whereon 

we  stray, 
Meseems.  might   bring  us  face   to   face 

with  one 
Whom   seeing   we   could   not   but   give 

thanks,  and  pray 
For  England's  love  our  father  and  her 

son 
To  speak  with  us  as  once  in  days  long 

done 
With  all  men,  sage  and  churl  and  monk 

and  mime, 
AVho  knew  not  as  we  know  the  soul  sub- 
lime 
That   sang   for  song's   love   more   than 

lust  of  fame. 
Yet,  though  this  be  not,  yet,  in  happy 

time, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy 

name. 

Friend,  even  as  bees  about  the  flower- 
ing thyme, 

Years  crowd  on  years,  till  hoar  decay 
begrime 

Names  once  beloved  ;  but  seeing  the 
sun  the  same. 

As  birds  of  autumn  fain  to  praise  the 
prime, 

Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy 
name.  June,  1884. 

THE  SEABOARD 

The  sea  is  at  ebb,  and  the  sound  of  her 

utmost  word 
Is  soft  as  the  least  wave's  lapse  in  a  still 

small  reach. 
From  bay  unto  bay,  on  quest  of  a  goal 

deferred, 
From  headland   ever   to   headland    and 

breach  to  breach 
Where  earth  gives  ear  to  the  message 

that  all  days  preach 
With   changes  of  gladness  and  sadness 

that  cheer  and  chide, 
The  lone  way  lures  me  along  by  a  chance 

untried 
That  haply,   if  hope  dissolve    not  and 

faith  be  whole, 
Not  all  for  nought  shall  I  seek,  with  a 

dream  for  guide, 
The  goal  that  is  not,  and  ever  again  the 

goal. 

The  trackless  ways  are   untravelled  of 

sail  or  bird  ; 
The  hoar  wave  hardly  recedes  from  the 

soundless  beach. 


9°4 


BRITISH    POETS 


The  silence  of  instant  noon  goes  nigh  to 

be  heard, 
The  viewless  void  to  be  visible  :  all  and 

each, 
A  closure  of  calm  no  clamor  of  storm 

can  breach 
( "onelu  des  and  confines  and  absorbs  them 

on  either  side, 
All   forces  of  light  and  of  life  and  the 

live  world's  pride. 
Sands    hardly    ruffled    of    ripples   that 

hardly  roll 
Seem  ever  to  show  as  in  reach  of  a  swift 

brief  stride  [goal. 

The  goal  that  is  not.  and  ever  again  the 

The  waves  are  a  joy  to  the  seamew,  the 

meads  to  the  herd, 
And  a  joy  to  the  heart  is  a  goal  that  it 

may  not  reach. 
No  sense  that  for  ever  the  limits  of  sense 

engird, 
No   hearing   or   sight   that  is  vassal   to 

form  or  speech, 
Learns  ever  the  secret  that  shadow  and 

silence  teach, 
Hears  ever  the  notes  that  or  ever  they 

swell  subside, 
Sees  ever  the  light  that  lights  not  the 

loud  world's  tide. 
Clasps    ever  the  cause   of  the  lifelong 

scheme's  control 
Wherethrough  we  pursue,  till  the  waters 

of  life  be  dried,  [goal. 

The  goal  that  is  not,  and  ever  again  the 

Friend,  what  have  we  sought  or  seek  we, 

whate'er  betide. 
Though  the  seaboard  shift  its  mark  from 

afar  descried, 
But  aims  whence  ever  anew  shall  arise 

the  soul  ? 
Love,  thought,  song,  life,  but  show  for 

a  glimpse  and  hide 
The  goal  that  is  not,  and  ever  again  the 

goal.  18yd. 

THE    CLIFFSIDE   PATH 

Seaward  goes  the  sun,  and  homeward 

by  the  down 
We,  before  the  night  upon  his  grave  be 

sealed. 
Low   behind   us   lies   the    bright    steep 

murmuring  town, 
High  before  us  heaves  the  steep  rough 

silent  field. 
Breach  by  ghastlier  breach,  the    cliffs 

collapsing  yield  : 


Half  the  path  is  broken,  half  the  banks 

divide  ; 
Flawed  and   crumbled,  riven  and  rent, 

they  cleave  and  slide 
Toward  the  ridged  and  wrinkled  waste 

of  girdling  sand 
Deep  beneath,   whose  furrows  tell  how 

far  and  wide 
Wind  is  lord  and  change  is  sovereign  of 

the  strand. 

Star  by  star  on  the  unsunned  waters 
twiring  clown, 

Golden  spear-points  glance  against  a 
silver  shield. 

Over  banlcs  and  bents,  across  the  head- 
land's crown, 

As  by  pulse  of  gradual  plumes  through 
twilight  wheeled, 

Soft  as  sleep,  the  waking  wind  awakes 
the  weald. 

Moor  and  copse  and  fallow,  near  or  far 
descried, 

Feel  the  mild  wings  move,  and  gladden 
where  they  glide  : 

Silence  uttering  love  that  all  things  un- 
derstand. 

Bids  the  quiet  fields  forget  that  hard 
beside 

Wind  is  lord  and  change  is  sovereign  of 
the  strand* 

Yet   may   sight,    ere   all   the   hoar   soft 

shade  grow  brown. 
Hardly  reckon  half  the  rifts  and  rents 

unhealed 
Where    the    scarred     cliffs     downward 

sundering  drive  and  drown, 
Hewn   as   if   with   stroke   of  swords  in 

tempest  steeled, 
Wielded   as   the   night's   will    and    the 

wind's  may  wield. 
Crowned  and  zoned  in  vain  with  flowers 

of  antunin-tide, 
Life  and  love  seek  harborage  on  the  land- 
ward side  ; 
Wind  is  lord  and  change  is  sovereign  of 

the  strand. 

Friend,  though   man  be  less  than  these, 

for  all  his  pride, 
Yet,  for  all  his  weakness,  shall  not  hope 

abide  ? 
Wind  and  change  can  wreck  but  life  and 

waste  but  land  : 
Truth  and  trust  are  sure,  though  here 

till  all  subside 
Wind  is  lord  and  change  is  sovereign  of 

the  strand.  1884. 


SWINBURNE 


9°5 


IN  THE  WATER 

The  sea  is  awake,  and  the  sound  of  the 

song  of  the  joy  of  Iter  waking  is  rolled 
From  afar  to  the  star  that  recedes,  from 

anear  to  the  wastes  of  the  wild  wide 

shore. 
Her   call   is    a   trumpet   compelling   us 

homeward  :  if   dawn   in   her   east   be 

acold, 
From  the   sea    shall   we   crave   not   her 

grace  to  rekindle  the  life  that  it  kin- 
dled before, 
Her  breath  to  requieken,  her  bosom  to 

rock  us,  her  kisses  to  bless  as  of  yore  ? 
For  the  wind,  with  his  wings  half  open, 

at  pause  in  the  sky,  neither  fettered 

nor  free, 
Leans  wave  ward  and  flutters  the  ripple 

to  laughter  :  and  fain  would  the  twain 

of  us  be 
Where  lightly  the  wave  yearns  forward 

from   under   the    curve   of    the   deep 

dawn's  dome, 
And,  full  of  the  morning  and  fired  with 

the  pride  of  the  glory  thereof  and  the 

glee, 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart 

in  us  bids  and  beseeches,  athirst  for 

the  foam. 

Life  holds  not  an  hour  that  is  better  to 

live  in  :  the  past  is  a  tale  that  is  told. 
The  future  a  sun-flecked  shadow,  alive 

and  asleep,  with  a  blessing  in  store. 
As  we  give  us  again  to  the  waters,  the 

rapture  of  limbs  that  the  waters  en- 
fold 
Is  less  t  ban  the  rapture  of  spirit  whereby, 

though  the  burden  it  quits  were  sore, 
Our  souls  and  the  bodies  they  wield  at 

their  will  are  absorbed  in  the  life  they 

adore — 
In  the  life  that  endures  no  burden,  and 

bows  not  the  forehead,  and  bends  not 

the  knee — 
In   the  life  everlasting  of  earth  and  of 

heaven,  in   the  laws    that  atone   and 

agree, 
In  the  measureless  music  of  things,  in  the 

fervor  of  forces  that  rest  or  that.  roam. 
That  cross  and  return  ami   reissue,  as  I 

after  j-ou  and  as  you  after  me 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in 

us  bids  and  beseeches,  athirst  for  the 

foam. 

For.  albeit  he  were  less  than  the  least  of 
them,  haply  the  heart  of  a  man  may 
be  bold 


To  rejoice  in  the  word  of  the  sea,  as  a 

mother's  that  saith  to  the  son  she  bore, 
"Child,  was  not  the  life  in   thee  mine, 

and  my   spirit  the  breath   in  thy  lips 

from  of  old  ? 
Have  I  let  not  thy  weakness  exult  in  my 

strength,  and  thy  foolishness  learn  of 

my  lore  ? 
Have  I  helped  not  or   healed  not  thine 

anguish,  or  made  not  the  might  of  thy 

gladness  more  ?  " 
And  surely  his  heart  should  answer,  "The 

light  of  the  love  of  my  life  is  in  thee." 
She  is  fairer  than  earth,  and  the  sun  is  not 

fairer,  the  wind  is  not  blither  than  she  : 
From  my  youth  hath  she  shown  me  the 

joy  of  her  bays  that  I  crossed,  of  her 

cliffs  that  I  clomb, 
Till  now  that  the  twain  of  us  here,  in 

desire  of  the  dawn  and  in  trust  of  the 

sea, 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in 

us  bids  and  beseeches,  athirst  for  the 

foam. 

Friend,  earth  is  a  harbor  of  refuge  for 
winter,  a  covert  whereunder  to  flee 

When  day  is  the  vassal  of  night,  and  the 
strength  of  the  hosts  of  her  mightier 
than  lie  ; 

But  here  is  the  presence  adoi*ed  of  me, 
here  my  desire  is  at  rest  and  at  home. 

There  are  cliffs  to  be  climbed  upon  land, 
there  are  ways  to  be  trodden  and  rid- 
den :  but  we 

Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart 
in  us  bids  and  beseeches,  athirst  for 
the  foam.  1884. 

THE  SUNBOWS 

Spray  of  song  that  springs  in  April,  light 

of  love  that  laughs  through   May, 
Live  and  die  and  live   for  ever  :   nought 

of  all  things  far  less  fair 
Keeps  a  surer  life  than  these   that   seem 

to  pass  like  fire  away. 
In  the  souls  they  live  which   are  bid    all 

the  brighter  that  tiny  were  ; 
In  the  hearts  that  kindle,  thinking  what 

delight  of  old  was  t  here. 
Wind    that   shapes   and    lifts  and  shifts 

them  bids  perpetual  memory  play 
Over  dreams  and   in    and  out    of  deeds 

and  thoughts  which  seem  to  wear 
Light    that     leaps    ami    runs    and    revels 

through  the  springing  flafcaesof  spray. 

Dawn  is  wild  upon  the  waters  where  we 
drink  of  dawn  to-day  : 


906 


BRITISH   POETS 


Wide,  from  wave  to  wave  rekindling  in 
rebound  through  radiant  air, 

Flash  the  fires  unwoven  and  woven  again 
of  wind  that  works  in  play, 

Working  wonders  more  than  heart  may 
note  or  sight  may  wellnigh  dare, 

Wefts  of  rarer  light  than  colors  rain 
from  heaven,  though  this  be  rare. 

Arch  on  arch  unbuilt  in  building,  reared 
and  ruined  ray  by  ray, 

Breaks  and  brightens,  laughs  and  les- 
sens, even  till  eyes  may  hardly  bear 

Light  that  leaps  and  runs  and  revels 
through  the  springing  flames  of  spray. 

Year  on  year  sheds  light  and  music 
rolled  and  flashed  from  bay  to  bay 

Round  the  summer  capes  of  time  and 
winter  headlands  keen  and  bare 

Whence  the  soul  keeps  watch,  and  bids 
her  vassal   memory  watch  and  pray, 

If  perchance  the  dawn  may  quicken,  or 
perchance  the  midnight  spare. 

Silence  quells  not  music,  darkness  takes 
not  sunlight  in  her  snare  ; 

Shall  not  joys  endure  that  perish  ?  Yea, 
saith  dawn,  though  night  say  nay: 

Life  on  life  goes  out,  but  very  life  en- 
kindles everywhere 

Light  that  leaps  and  runs  and  revels 
through  the  springing  flames  of  spray. 

Friend,  were  life  no   more  than  this  is, 

well  would  yet  the  living  fare. 
All  aflower   and  all  afire   and  all  flung 

heavenward,  who  shall  say 
Such  a  flash  of  life  were  worthless  ?  This 

is  worth  a  world  of  care — 
Light   that   leaps  and  runs  and    revels 

through  the  springing  flames  of  spray. 

1884. 

ON  THE  VERGE 

Here  begins  the  sea  that  ends  not  till 
the  world's  end.    Where  we  stand, 

Could  we  know  the  next  high  sea-mark 
set  beyond  these  waves  that  gleam, 

We  should  know  what  never  man  hath 
known,  nor  eye  of  man  hath  scanned. 

Nought  beyond  these  coiling  clouds  that 
melt    like  fume  of  shrines  that  steam 

Breaks  or  stays  the  strength  of  waters 
till  they  pass  our  bounds  of  dream. 

Where  the  waste  Land's  End  leans  west- 
ward, all  the  seas  it  watches  roll 

Find  their  border  fixed  beyond  them, 
and   a  worldwide  shore's  control  : 

These  whereby  we  stand,  no  shore  be- 
yond us  limits  :    these  are  free. 


Gazing  hence,  we  see  the  water  that 
grows  iron  round  the  Pole, 

From  the  shore  that  hath  no  shore  be- 
yond it  set  in  all  the  sea. 

Sail  on  sail  along  the  sea-line  fades  and 

flashes  :  here  on  land 
Flash  and  fade  the   wheeling   wings  on 

wings  of  mews  that  plunge  and  scream. 
Hour  on  hour  along  the  line  of  life  and 

time's  evasive  strand 
Shines  and  darkens,  wanes  and   waxes, 

slays   and  dies  :  and  scarce  they  seem 
More    than    motes    that   thronged   and 

trembled  in   the  brief  noon's    breath 

and  beam. 
Some  with  crying    and    wailing,   some 

with  notes  like  sound  of  bells  that  toll, 
Some  with  sighing  and   laughing,  some 

with  words  that  blessed  and   made  us 

whole, 
Passed,  and  left  us,   and  we  know  not 

what  they  were,  nor  what  were  we. 
Would  we  know,  being  mortal?    Never 

breath  of  answering  whisper  stole 
From  the  shore   that   hath  no  shore  be- 
yond it  set  in  all  the  sea. 

Shadows,  would  we  question  darkness  ? 
Ere  our  eyes  and  brows  be  fanned 

Round  with  airs  of  twilight,  washed 
with  dews  from  sleep's  eternal  stream, 

Would  we  know  sleep's  guarded  secret  ? 
Ere  the  fire  consume  the  brand, 

Would  it  know  if  yet  its  ashes  may  re- 
quicken  ?  yet  we  deem 

Surely  man  may  know,  or  ever  night 
unyoke  her  starry  team, 

What  the  dawn  shall  be,  or  if  the  dawn 
shall  be  not  :  yea,  the  scroll 

Would  we  read  of  sleep's  dark  scripture, 
pledge  of  peace  or  doom  of  dole. 

Ah,  but  here  man's  heart  leaps,  yearning 
toward  the  gloom  with  venturous  glee, 

Though  his  pilot  eye  behold  nor  bay  nor 
harbor,  rock  nor  shoal, 

From  the  shore  that  hath  no  shore  be- 
yond it  set  in  all  the  sea. 

Friend,  who  knows  if  death  indeed  have 

life  or  life  have  death  for  goal? 
Day  nor  night  can  tell  us,  nor  may  seas 

declare  nor  skies  unroll 
What  has   been   from  everlasting,  or  if 

aught  shall  alway  be. 
Silence  answering  only  strikes  response 

reverberate  on  the  soul 
From   the    shore    that   hath    no   shore 

beyond  it  set  in  all  the  sea.        1884. 


SWINBURNE 


907 


ON  THE  MONUMENT  ERECTED 
TO  MAZZINI   AT  GENOA 

Italia,  mother  of  the  souls  of  men, 

Mother  divine 
Of  all  that  serv'd  thee  best  with  sword 
or  pen, 

All  sons  of  thine, 

Thou  knowest  that    here  the  likeness  of 
the  best 
Before  thee  stands  : 
The  head  most  high,  the  heart  found 
faithfulest, 
The  purest  hands. 

Above  the  fume  and    foam  of  time  that 
flits, 

The  soul,  we  know. 
Now  sits   on    high   where  Alighieri  sits 

With  Angelo. 

Nor  his  own  heavenly  tongue  hath  heav- 
enly speech 
Enough  to  say 
What   this    man    was,  whose  praise   no 
thought  may  reach, 
No  words  can  weigh. 

Since    man's  first    mother   brought  to 
mortal  birth 

Her  first-born  son, 
Such  grace  befell  not  ever  man  on  earth 

As  crowns  this  One. 

Of  God   nor   man    was   ever  this   thing 

said  : 

That  he  could  give 

Life  back  to  her  who  gave  him,  that  his 

dead 

Mother  might  live. 

But  this  man  found  his  mother  dead  and 
slain. 

With  fast-seal'd  eyes. 
And  bade  the  dead  rise  up  and  live  again, 

And  she  did  rise  : 

And  all  the  world    was   bright  with  her 
through  him  : 
But  dark  with  strife, 
Like  heaven's   own    sun   that   storming 
clouds  bedim, 
Was  all  his  life. 

Life  and  the  clouds  are  vanish'd  ;  hate 
and  fear 

Have  had  their  span 
Of  time  tc  hurt  and  are  not  :  lie  Is  here, 

The  sunlike  man. 


City  superb,  that  hadst  Columbus  first 

For  sovereign  son, 
Be  prouder  that  thy  breast  hath  later 
nursed 

This  mightier  One. 

Glory  be  his  for  ever,  while  his  land 

Lives  and  is  free, 
As  with   controlling    breath    and    sove- 
reign hand 

He  bade  her  be. 

Earth   shows   to   heaven   the   names  by 
thousands  told 
That  crown  her  fame, 
But  highest  of  all  that  heaven  and  earth 
behold, 
Mazzini's  name.  1884. 

THE    INTERPRETERS 


Days  dawn  on  us  that  make  amends  for 
many 

Sometimes, 
When  heaven  and  earth  seem  sweeter 
even  than  any 
Man's  rhymes. 

Light   had   not  all  been    quenched    in 
France,  or  quelled 
In  Greece, 
Had  Homer  sung  not,  or  had  Hugo  held 
His  peace. 

Had  Sappho's  self  not  left  her  word  thus 
long 
For  token. 
The  sea  round  Lesbos  yet  in  waves  of 
song 

Had  spoken. 

II 

And   yet  these  days  of  subtler  air  and 
finer 
Delight, 
When  lovelier  looks  the  darkness,  and 
diviner 
The  light— 

The  gift  they   give  of  all  these  golden 
hours. 

Whose  urn 
Pours  forth  reverberate  rays  or  shadow- 
ing showers 
tn  (urn — 

Clouds,  beam-,  and  winds  that  make  the 
live  Way's  track 
Sim  in  living — 


908 


BRITISH    POETS 


What  were  they  did  no  spirit  give  them 
hack 
Thanksgiving? 


Dead   air.    dead    fire,   dead   shapes   and 
shadows,  telling 
Time  nought  ; 
Man  gives  them  sense  and  soul  by  song, 
ami  dwelling 
In  thought. 

In  human  thought  their  being  endures, 
their  power 
Abides  : 
Else  were   their  life  a  thing  that  each 
light  hour 
Derides. 

The  years  live,  work,   sigh,  smile,  and 
die,  with  all 
They  cherish  ; 
The  soul  endures,  though  dreams  that 
fed  it  fall 
And  perish. 


In  human  thought  have  all  things  habi- 
tation ; 
Our  days 
Laugh,  lower,  and  lighten  past,  and  find 
no  station 
That  stays. 

But    thought    and   faith   are    mightier 
things  than  time 
Can  wrong, 
Made  splendid  once  with  speech,  or  made 
sublime 
By  song. 

Remembrance,  though  the  tide  of  change 
that  rolls 
Wax  hoary. 
Gives  earth  and  heaven,  for  song's  sake 
ami  the  soul's, 

Their  glory.  1885. 

A  WORD  WITH  THE  WIND 

LORD  of  days  and  nights  that  hear  thy 
word  of  wintry  warning, 
Wind  whose  feet  are  set  on  ways  that 
none  may  tread, 
Change  the  nest  wherein'tny  wings  are 
fledged  for  flight  by  morning, 
Change  the   harbor  whence  at  dawn 
thy  sails  are  spread. 


Not  the  dawn,  ere  yet  the   imprisoning 
night  has  half  released  her. 
More    desires   the   sun's   full    face   of 
cheer,  than  we, 
Well  as  yet  we  love  the  strength" of  the 
iron-tongued  north-easter, 
Yearn  for  wind  to  meet  us  as  we  front 
the  sea. 
All  thy  ways  are. good,  O  wind,  and  all 
the  world  should  fester, 
Were  thy  fourfold  godhead  quenched, 
or  stilled  thy  strife  : 
Yet  the  waves  and   we  desire  too  long 
the  deep  south-wester, 
Whence    the    waters   quicken   shore- 
ward, clothed  with  life. 
Yet  the  field   not    made   for   ploughing 
save  of  keels  nor  harrowing 
Save  of  storm-winds  lies unbrightened 
by  thy  breath  : 
Banded    broad     with    ruddy    samphire 
glow  the  sea-banks  narrowing 
Westward,  while  the  sea  gleams  chill 
and  still  as  death. 
Sharp  and  strange   from   inland  sounds 
thy  bitter  note  of  battle. 
Blown  between  grim  skies  and  waters 
sullen-souled, 
Till   the   baffled   seas   bear   back,  rocks 
roar  and  shingles  rattle, 
Vexed  and  angered  and   anhungered 
and  acold. 
Change  thy  note,   and  give  the  waves 
their  will,  and  all  the  measure. 
Full  and  perfect,  of  the  music  of  then- 
might, 
Let   it   fill   the   bays   with     thunderous 
notes  of  pleasure, 
Shake  the  shores  with    passion,  sound 
at  once  and  smite. 
Sweet  are  even  the  mild  low  notes  of 
wind  and  sea,  but  sweeter 
Sounds  the  song   whose  choral  wrath 
of  raging  rhyme 
Bids  the  shelving  shoals  keep  tune  with 
storm's  imperious  metre, 
Bids  the  rocks   and   reefs   respond   in 
rapturous  chime. 
Sweet  the  lisp  and  lulling   whisper   and 
luxurious  laughter,  [the  sun 

Soft  as  love  or  sleep,  of  waves  whereon 
Dreams,  and  dreams  not  of  the  darkling 
hours  before  nor  after, 
Winged  with  cloud  whose  wrath  shall 
bid  love's  day  be  done. 
Yet  shall  darkness  bring  the  awakening 
sea  a  lordlier  lover, 
Clothed  with  strength   more   amorous 
and  more  strenuous  will, 


SWINBURNE 


9°° 


Whence  her  heart  of  hearts  shall  kindle 
and  her  soul  recover 
Sense  of  love  too  keen  to  lie  for   love's 
sake  still. 
Let    thy    strong    south-western    music 
sound,  and  bid  the  billows 
Brighten,  proud  and  glad  to  feel  thy 
scourge  and  kiss 
Sting  and  soothe  and  sway  them,  bowed 
as  aspens  bend  or  willows. 
Yet  resurgent  still  in   breathless   rage 
of  bliss. 
All  to-day  the  slow  sleek  ripples   hardly 
bear  up  shore-ward, 
Charged  with  sighs   more   light  than 
laughter,  faint  and  fair, 
Like  a  woodland   lake's   weak   wavelets 
lightly  lingering  forward,         [air. 
Soft  and  list  less  as  the  sluml  >er-stricken 
Be  the  sunshine  bared  or  veiled,  the  sky 
superb  or  shrouded, 
Still    the    waters,    lax  and    languid, 
chafed  and  foiled. 
Keen  and  thwarted,   pale  and   patient, 
clothed  with  fire  or  clouded, 
Vex  their  heart  in  vain,  or   sleep   like 
serpents  coiled. 
Thee  they   look   for,  blind  and  baffled, 
wan  with  wrath  and  weary, 
Blown  for   ever   back   by   winds   that 
rock  the  bird  : 
Winds  that  seamews  breast  subdue   the 
sea,  and  bid  the  dreary 
Waves  be  weak  as  hearts  made  sick 
with  hope  deferred. 
Let  thy  clarion    sound    from    westward, 
let  the  south  bear  token 
How  the  glories  of  thy  godhead  sound 
and  shine  : 
Bid  the  land    rejoice   to   see   the   land- 
wind's  broad  wings  broken. 
Bid    the    sea   take    comfort,    bid   the 
world  be  thine. 
Half  the  world  abhors  thee  beating  back 
the  sea,  and   bladkening 
Heaven  with  fierce  and  wol'ul   change 
of  fluctuant  fi  irm  : 
All  the  world  acclaims  thee  shifting  sail 
again,  and  slackening 
Cloud  by  cloud  the  close-reefed  cordage 
of  the  storm. 
Sweeter  fields  and  brighter  woods  and 
lordlier  hills  than  waken 
Here  at  sunrise  never  hailed  the  sun 
and  thee : 
Turn  thee  then,  and  give  tlw»m  comfort. 
shed  Like  ra in  and  shaken 
Far    as    foam    that    laughs   and    leaps 
alone  the  sea.  1889. 


IN  TIME  OF  MOURNING 

"  Return,"  we  dare  not  as  we  fain 

Would  cry  from  hearts  that  yearn  : 
Love  dares  not  bid  our  dead  again 
Return. 

O  hearts  that  strain  and  burn 
As  fires  fast  fettered  burn  and  strain  f 
Bow  down,  lie  still,  and  learn. 

The  heart  that  healed  all  hearts  of  pair 

No  funeral  rites  inurn  : 
Its  echoes,  while  the  stars  remain. 

Return.  May,  18S5.     188'J. 

A  SEQUENCE  OF  SONNETS  ON  THE 
DEATH  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  clearest  eyes  in  all   the  world  they 

read 
With  sense  more  keen  and  spirit  of  sight 

more  true 
Than  burns  and  thrills  in  sunrise,  when 

the  dew 
Flames,  and  absorbs  the  glory  round  it 

shed, 
As  they  the  light  of  ages  quick  and  dead, 
Closed  now.   forsake  us:   yet  the  shaft 

that  slew- 
Can  slay  not  one   of   all   the  works  we 

knew. 
Nor  death  discrown  that  many-laurelled 

head. 
The  works   of  words   whose   life   seems 

lightning  wrought. 
And  moulded  of  unconquerable  thought. 
And  quickened  with  imperishable  flame, 
Stand  fast  and  shine  and  smile,  assured 

that  nought 
May  fade  of   all  their  myriad-moulded 

fame. 
Nor  England's  memory  clasp  not  Brown- 
ing's name. 

Death,  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  one 
for  whom 

Time  is  not  lord,  but  servant?  What 
least    part 

Of  all  the  fire  that  fed  his  living  heart, 

Of  all  the  light  more  keen  than  sun- 
dawn's  bloom 

That  lit  and  led  his  spirit,  strong  as  doom 

And  bright  as  hope,  can  aught  thy 
breath  may  dart 

Quench?  Nay,  thou  knowest  he  knew 
thee  what  thou  art, 

A  shadow  born  of  terror's  barren  womb, 


BRITISH    POETS 


That   brings   not   forth   save    shadows. 

What  art  thou, 
To  dream,  albeit  thou  breathe  upon  his 

brow. 
That  power  on  him  is  given  thee, — that 

thy  breath 
Can  make  him   less  than  love  acclaims 

him  now. 
And  hears  all  time  sound  back  the  word 

it  saith  ? 
What  part  hast  thou  then  in  his  glory, 

Death  ? 


But  lie — to  him,  who  knows  what  gift  is 

thine, 
Death  ?    Hardly   may  we  think  or  hope 

when  we 
Pass  likewise  thither  where  to-night  is 

he, 
Beyond  the   irremeable   outer   seas  that 

shine 
And  darken  round  such  dreams  as  half 

divine 
Some  sunlit   harbor  in  that  starless  sea 
Where  gleams  no  ship  to  windward   or 

to  lee, 
To  read  with  him  the  secret  of  thy  shrine. 
There  too,   as  here,  may  song,   delight, 

and  love. 
The  nightingale,  the  sea-bird,  and  the 

dove, 
Fulfil  witli  joy  the  splendor  of  the  sky 
Till  all  beneath  wax  bright  as  all  above  : 
But  none  of  all  that  search  the  heavens, 

and  try 
The    sun,    may    match    the    sovereign 

eagle's  eye. 

Among  the  wondrous  ways  of  men  and 

time 
He  went  as  one  that  ever  found  and 

sought 
And   bore   in  hand  the   lamplike   spirit 

of  thought 
To  illume    with  instance  of   its  fire  sub- 
lime 
The  dusk  of  many  a  cloudlike  age  and 

clime. 
No  spirit  in  shape  of  light  and  darkness 

wrought. 
No  faith,  no  fear,  no  dream,  no  rapture, 

nought 
That   blooms   in    wisdom,   nought   that 

burns  in  crime, 
No  virtue  girt   and   armed  "and  helmed 

with  light, 
No  love  more  lovely  than  the  snows  are 

white, 


No  serpent  sleeping  in  some  dead  soul's 

tomb, 
No  song-bird   singing   from   some    live 

soul's  height, 
But  he  might  hear,  interpret,  or  illume 
With   sense  invasive   as    the  dawn   of 

doom. 

What  secret  thing   of    splendor  or  of 

shade 
Surmised   in  all   those  wandering  ways 

wherein 
Man,  led  of  love  and  life  and  death  and 

sin, 
Strays,   climbs,  or  cowers,   allured,  ab- 
sorbed, afraid, 
Might  not  the   strong  and  sunlike  sense 

invade 
Of  that  full  soul  that  had  for  aim  to  win 
Light,  silent  over  time's   dark  toil  and 

din, 
Life,  at  whose  touch  death  fades  as  dead 

things  fade? 
O  spirit  of  man,  what  mystery  moves  in 

thee 
That  he  might  knowrnot  of  in  spirit,  and 

see 
The   heart  within  the  heart  that  seems 

to  strive, 
The  life  within  the  life  that  seems  to  be, 
And    hear   through  all  thy   storms  that 

whirl  and  drive. 
The  living  sound  of  all  men's  souls  alive  ? 

He  held  no  dream  worth  waking  :  so  he 

said, 
He    who    stands    now    on    death's    tri- 
umphal steep, 
Awakened  out  of  life  wherein  we  sleep 
And  dream  of   what  he  knows  and  sees, 

being  dead.* 
But  never  death  for  him  was  dark  or 

dread  : 
"  Look  forth  "    he   bade   the   soul,  and 

fear  not.     Weep, 
All  ye  that  trust  not  in  his  truth,  and 

keep 
Vain  memory's  vision  of  a  vanished  head 
As  all  that  lives  of  all  that  once  was  he 
Save  that  which  lightens  from  his  word  : 

but  we, 
Who,  seeing  the  sunset-colored  waters 

roll, 
Yet  know   the  sun  subdued   not   of  the 

sea, 
Nor  weep  nor  doubt  that  still  the  spirit 

is  whole, 
And  life  and  death  but  shadows  of  the 

soul.  January,  1890. 


INDEXES 


LIST  OF  ABBREVIATIONS 


AND 


INDEX  OF  POETS 


PAGH 

Ar  :  Arnold  (1822-1888) 706 

B:  Byron  (1788-1824) 167 

C:  Coleridge   (1772-1834) 64 

CI:  Clough  (1819-1861) 687 

EBB  :  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  (1806-1861) 554 

K:  Keats  (1795-1821) , 370 

L  :  Landor  (1775-1864) 424 

M  :  Morris  (1834-1896) 823 

R:  Rossetti  (1828-1882) 773 

RB:  Robert     Browning     (1812-1889) 565 

Sc:  Scott  (1771-1832) 104 

Sh:  Shelley   (1792-1822) 273 

Sw  :  Swinburne  (1837-1909) 865 

T:  Tennyson  (1809-1892) 459 

W:  Wordsworth  (1770-1850) 1 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Ablett,  To  Joseph,  L  438 

Abt  Vogler,  RB  657 

Aeon  and  Rhodope.  L  450 

Adam,  Lilith  and  Eve,  RB  680 

Adonais,  Sh  358 

Aeschylos  and  Sophocles,  L  454 

Affliction  of  Margaret,  The,  W  43 

After    dark    vapors    have    oppressed    our 

plains,  K  380 
After-thought,  W  57 
Agamemnon  and  Iphigeneia,  L  445 
Agamemnon  and  Iphigeneia,  The  shades  of, 

L433 
Age,  To,  L  455 
Aged  man  who  loved  to  doze  away,  An,  L 

458 
Aglae,  Little,  L  437 
Agnes  and  the  hill-man,  M  862 
Ah  !  yet  consider  it  again,  CI  700 
Ailsa  Rock,  To,  K  389 

A  king  lived  long  ago  (Pippa  passes),  RB586 
Alas,  how  soon  the  hours  are  over,  L  443 
Alastor,  Sta  276 
Allen-a-dale,  Sc  161 
All  is  well,  CI  705 
All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God  (Pippa 

passes),  RB  572 
Alteram  partem,  CI  694 
America,  To  Walt  Whitman  in,  Sw  886 
Ann  mg  the  rocks  (James  Lee's  wife),  RB  657 
Amours  de  voyage,  From,  CI  691 
Amphibian  (Fifine  at  the  fair)  RB  671 
Ancient  mariner,  Rime  of  the,  C  73 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  RB  650 
And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair,  B  171 
Another  way  of  love,  RB  629 
Any  wife  to  any  husband,  RB  626 
Apology,  An  (Earthly  paradise),  M  842 
Appeal,  An,  Sw  881 
Appearances,  RB  674 
April,  1814.     Stanzas,  Sh  275 
Arethusa,  Sh  346 
Artemidora,  The  death  of,  L  436 
Arthur,  Passing  of,  T  481 
.\sk  me  no  more,  T  498 
jLsk  not  one  least  word  of  praise  (Ferish- 

tah's  fancies),  RB  682 
A.solando,  Epilogue  to,  RB  686 

58 


Aspecta  medusa,  R  786 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went,  T  498 

Atalanta  in  Calydon,  choruses  from,  Sw  866 

Atalanta's  race,  M  843 

At  the  sunrise  in  1848,  R  778 

At  the  grave  of  Burns,  W  36 

A  toccata  of  Galuppi's,  RB  621 

August  (Earthly  paradise),  M  855 

Augusta,  Epistle  to,  B  210 

Augusta,  Stanzas  to,  B  209 

Austerity  of  poetry,  Ar  761- 

Autumnal  evening,  Lines  on  an,  C  66 

Autumn  song,  R  776 

Autumn,  To,  K  409 

Ave  atque  vale,  Frater,  T  550 

Ave  Maria  (Don  Juan),  B  251 

Aylmer,  Rose,  L  428 

Bacchanalia  ;  or,  the  new  age,  Ar  764 

Balder  dead  (III),  Ar  745 

Ballad  of  burdens,  A,  Sw  875 

Ballad  of  dreamland,  Sw  890 

Ballad  of  Francois  Villon,  Sw  891 

Ballad  of  the  dark  ladie,  The,  C92 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth,  K  406 

Barren  spring,  R  805 

Battle  of  Waterloo,  B  192 

Beauty's  pageant,  R  805 

Before  the  beginning  of  years  (Atalanta  in 

Calydon),  Sw  867 
Belle  dame  sans  merci,  La,  K  422 
Bethesda  (A  sequel),  CI  691 
Better  part,  The,  Ar  762 
Between    the  sunset  and  the  sea  (Chas 

telard),  Sw  872 
Birds  in  the  high  hall  garden  (Maud),  T 

519 
Birth-bond,  The,  R  796 
Bishop  orders  his    tomb    in  St.   Praxed'e 

church,  The,  RB  609 
Blake,  William,  R811 
Blank  misgivings,  CI  688 
Blessed  damozel,  The,  R  774 
Blot   in  the  scutcheon,  Song  from,  RB  602 
Blow,  trumpet,  for  the  world  is  white  witii 

May  (Coming  of  Arthur),  T  540 
Blue  closet,  The,  M  835 
BoccacciC;  The  garden  of,  C  102 


9*3 


9i4 


BRITISH    POETS 


Body's  beauty,  R  805 

Bonny  Dundee,  Sc  165 

Boot  and  saddle,  RB  593 

Border  ballad,  Sc  165 

Break,  break,  break,  T  497 

Bridal  birth,  R  793 

Bride  of  Abydos,  The,  B  172 

Bright   star  !  would  I  were  steadfast  as 

thou  art,  K  123 
Brignall  Hanks,  Sc  161 
Brook,  The,  T  518 
Browning,  Sonnets  on  the  death  of  Robert, 

Sw909 
Browning,  to  Robert,  L  443 
Buonaparte,  I  grieved  for,  W  30 
Buonaparte,  Ode  to  Napoleon,  B  184 
Burden  of  Nineveh,  The,  R  683 
Burdens,  Ballad  of,  Sw  875 
Burghers'  battle,  The,  M  S62 
Buried  life,  The,  Ar  723 
Burns,  At  the  grave  of,  W  36 
Burns,  On,  R  811 
By  the  sea-side,  Composed,  W  31 

Cadyow  Castle,  Sc  108 

Calais,  Composed  by  the  sea-side  near,  W 

31 
Callicles'  song,  Ar  719 
Card-dealer,  The,  R  777 
Carlyle  and  George  Eliot,  On  the  deaths 

of,  Sw  899 
Castled  crag  of  Drachenfels,  The,  B  196 
Cauteretz,  In  the  valley  of,  T  539 
Cavalier  song,  Sc  163 
Cavalier  tunes,  RB  592 
Celandine,  To  the  small  (two  poems),  W  27 
Chamouni,  In  the  vale  of,  C  96 
Chapel  in  Lyoness,  M  826 
Chapman's  Homer,  On  first  looking  into, 

'    K373 
Character  of  the  happy  warrior,  W  47 
Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade,  Epilogue  to 

the  T  550 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  The,  T  518 
Chastelard,  Songs  from,  Sw  871 
Chatterton,  Thomas,  R  811 
Chaucer,  Invocation  to  (Life  and  death  of 

Jason ),  M  842 
Chaucer  (On  a  country  road),  Sw  903 
Child  and  Poet,  Sw  900 
Child  of  a  dav,  thou  knowest  not,  L  430 
Childe  Harold,  Canto  III,  B  189 
Childe  Harold,  Canto  IV,  B  234  T641 

Childe  Roland  to  the  dark  tower  came,  RB 
Child's  future.  A,  Sw  901. 
Children,  Sw  900 
Child's  laughter,  A,  Sw  900 
Child's  song,  Sw  892 
Chillon,  The  prisoner  of,  B  206 
Chillon,  Sonnet  on,  B  206 
Chimes,  R  809 
Chpice,  The,  R  803 
Choric  song  (Lotos-eaters),  T  472 
Choruses  from  Atalanta,  Sw  866 
Choruses  from  Hellas,  Sh  366,  367 
Christabel,  C  81 


Chrysolites    and    rubies  Bacchus    brings, 

The.  L.455 
Circassian  love-chant  (Lewti),  C  68 
Claribel,  T  461 
Clarion,  Sc  163 
Cleone  to  Aspasia,  L  437 
Cliffside  path,  The,  Sw  904 
Cliffs,  On  the,  Sw  892 
Cloud,  The,  Sh  343 
Cloud  confines,  The,  R  808 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  R  812 
Coleridge,  To,  Sh  275 
Coliseum,  The  (Manfred),  B  231 
Coliseum,  The  (Childe  Harold),  B  237 
Comeback,  comeback  (Songs  in  absence), 

CI  700 
Come  home,  come  home  (Songs  in  absence), 

CI  700 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud  ( Maud),  T  521 
Come  not  when  I  am  dead,  T  514 
Come  poet,  come,  CI  704 
Coming  of  Arthur,  Songs  from  the,  T  540 
Coming  of  Dian,  The  (Endymion),  K  383 
Composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintern  Abbey, 

Lines,  W  9 
Composed  by  the  sea-side,  near  Calais,  W  31 
Composed    upon   an  evening   of   extraor- 
dinary splendor,  W  55 
Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  Sepfc- 

3,  1802,  W  31 
Confessions,  RB  666 
Consider  it  again,  CI  700 
Cor  cordium,  Sw  888 
Corinna  to  Tanagra,  from  Athens,  1j43G 
Coronach,  Sc  160 
County  Guy,  Sc  165 
Cristina,  RB  594 
Crossing  the  bar,  T  553 
Cuckoo,  To.  the,  W  42 
Cupid  and  Psyche,  Song  from  the  story 

of,  M854 
Currente  calamo  (Mari  magno)  CI  703 
Cyclamen,  To  a,  L  442 

Daffodils,  W  43 

Daisy,  To  the  (Three  poems),  W  34,  35 

Dark  glass,  The,  R  798 

Dark  ladie,  Ballad  of  the,  C  92 

Darkness,  B  212 

Dark  wood,  The,  M  857 

Day  is  coming,  The,  M  860 

Day  of  days,  The,  M  861 

Day  of  love,  The  (Love  is  enough)  :  M  858 

Day  returns,  my  natal  day,  The,  L  443 

Days  that  were,  The,  (House  of  the  Wolf- 

ings)  M  861 
Death-in-love,  R  799 
Death  of  Artemidora,  The,  L  43*4 
Death  of  James  Hogg,  Extempore  effusion 

upon  the,  W  61 
Death  of  Meleager  (Atalanta  in  Calydon), 

Sw  869 
Death  of  Southey,  On  the,  L  456 
Death,  On  Southey's,  L  457 
Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  Ode  on 

the.  T  514 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


9XS 


Deaths    of   Thomas    Carlyle    and  George 

Eliot,  On  the,  Sw  899 
Death,  Sonnets  on  the  thought  of,  CI  705 
Death  stands  above  me,  L  456 
Dedication  (Don  Juam,  B  240 
Dedication  (Poems  and  ballads,  first  series), 

Sw879 
Dedication  (Ring  and  the  Book)  RB  668 
Dedication,  A,  T  539 
Dedication   of    the   Revolt    of  Islam,   (To 

Mary  )  Sh  291 

Defence  of  Guenevere,  The,  M  828 

Defence  of  Luck  now,  The,  T  546 

De  gustibus,  RB  626 

Dejection,  an  ode,  C  94 

Dejection,  Stanzas  written  in,  near  Naples, 

Sh  296 
Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The,  B  187 
Development,  RB  684 
Dian,  The  coming  of  (Endymion),  K  383 
Dian,  The  feast  of  (Endymion),  K  387 
Dipsychus,  From,  C'l  694 
Dirce,  L  437 
Dirge,  A,  Sh  369 
Donald  Dhu,  Pibroch  of,  Sc  163 
Don  Juan,  B  240 
Dora,  T  484 
Dover  beach,  Ar  763 
Do  you  remember  me  ?  or  are  you  proud  ? 

L441 
Drachenfels,  The  castled  crag  of,  B  196 
Dramatis  persona?,  Epilogue  to,  RB  668 
Dreamland,  Ballad  of,  Sw  890 
Dream  of  fair  women,  A,  T  474 
Duchess,  My  last,  RB  595 
Duke  of  Wellington,  Ode  on  the  death  of, 

T514 
Duty,  Ode  to,  W  44 

Eagle,  The,  T  514 

Earthly  Paradise,  From  the,  M  842 

Earth's  immortalities,  RB  605. 

East  and  west,  Ar  762 

Easter  day,  Naples,  1849,  CI  696 

Easter  day,  II,  CI  697 

East  London,  Ar  761 

Echetlos,  RB  679 

Echo  song  (Prometheus  unbound),   Sh  314 

Effusion  upon   the  death  of  James  Hogg, 

Extempore,  W  <',i 
Elaine's  song  (Lancelot  and  Elaine),  T  525 
Elegiac  stanzas,  W  45 
Elgin  marbles,  On  seeing  the,  K  380 
Empedocles,  Lyric  stanzas  of,  Ar  715 
Endymion,  From,  K  381 
England,  An  appeal  to,  Sw  881 
England  and  America  in  1782,  T  542 
England  in  ism.  Sonnet,  Sh  :.".•; 
Enid's  song  (  Marriage  of  GerainJ),  T  524 
En  route  (Amours  de  voyage),  CI  691 
Envoi  (Amours  de  voyage),  <  1  693 
Envoi  (Earthly  paradise),  M  856 
Epilogue  to  Asolando,  RB  686 
Epilogue  to  the  charge  of  the  Heavy  Brig- 

ade,  T  550 
Epilogue  to  Dramatic  Idyls,  RB  680 

*8 


Epilogue  to  Dramatis  Personse,  RB  668 
Epilogue  (Fiflne  at  the  fair),  RB  671 
Epilogue  to  the  Pacchiarotto  volume,  RB 

674 
Epilogue  (Two  poets  of  Croisic),  RB  678 
Epipsychidion,  Sh  348 
Epistle  to  Augusta,  B  210 
Epitaph  at  Fiesole,  For  an,  L  432 
Equal  troth,  R  798 
Error  and  loss,  M  857 
Etude  realiste.  Sw  901 
Euganean  Hills,  Lines  written  among  the, 

Sh  293 
Evelyn  Hope,  RB  618 
Evening  ode,  W  55 
Eve  of  Crecy,  The,  M  834 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The,  K  398 
Eve  of  St.  John,  The,  Sc  108 
Eve  of  St.  Mark,  The,  K  404 
Expostulation  and  reply,  W  8 
Extempore   effusion    upon    the    death    of 

James  Hogg,  W  61 
Extinction  of  the  Venetian  republic,  On 

the,  W  31 

Face,  A.  RB  667 

Faded  violet,  On  a,  Sh  293 

Fame  (Earth's  immortalities),  RB  60; 

Fame,  On,  K  423 

Fancv,  K  390 

Fare-thee-well,  B  188 

Farewell,  A,  T  494 

Farewell  to  Italy,  L  440 

Farewell  to  the  glen,  R  806 

Far,  far  away,  T  553 

Fate  (Atalanta  in  Calydon),  Sw  869 

Fears  and  scruples,  RB  673 

Feast  of  Dian,  K  387 

Ferishtah's  fancies,  Songs  from,  RB  681 

Fiesolan  idyl,  L  431 

Fiesole,  For  an  epitaph  at,  L  432 

Fifine  at  the  fair,  RB  671 

Final  chorus  (Atalanta  in  Calydon),  Sw  871 

Final  chorus  ( Hellas  J,  Sh  367 

Final  choi'us  (Love  is  enough),  M  859 

Fire  is  in  the  flint  (Ferishtah's  fancies),  RB 

681 
First  love  remembered,  R  787 
Firwood,  A  young,  R  779 
Five  English  poets,  R  811 
Flower,  The,  T  539 
Flower  in  the  crannied  wall,  T  541 
For  an  epitaph  at  Fiesole,  L  432 
For  a  Venetian  pastoral,  R779 
Forsaken  garden.  The,  Sw  889 
Forsaken  merman,  The,  Ar  708 
Fountain,  The,  VV  17 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  1M!  044 
France,  an  ode,  C  88 
Francois  Villon.  Ballad  of,  Sw  891 
Frater  aVe  atque  vale,  T  550 
French  revolution,  W  46 
From  Amours  de  voyagi  ,  CI  691 

a  Dipsj  chus,  •  '1  694 
From  Endymtcm,  K  381 
From  Mater  triumpbalis,  Sw  88'i 


916 


BRITISH    POETS 


From  Switzerland,  Ar  756 

From  the  Coming  of  Arthur,  T  540 

From  the  Earthly  Paradise,  M  842 

From  the  Life  and  Death  of  Jason,  M  839 

From  the  Ring  and  the  Book,  RB  668 

Frost  at  midnight,  C  90 

Future,  The,  Ar  724 

Galahad,  Sir,  T  493 

Garden   by  the  sea,   A  (Nymph's  song  to 

Hylas),  M839, 
Garden  of  Boccaccio,  The,  C  102 
Garden  of  Proserpine,  The,  Sw  877 
Gebir,  L  4:25 
j-enius  in  beauty,  R  796 
rentleman,  To  a  (William  Wordsworth), 

C99 
l        George  Eliot  and  Thomas  Carlyle,  On  the 

deaths  of,  Sw  899 
Gilliflower  of  gold,  The,  M  832 
Give  a  rouse,  RB  593 
Give  her  but  the  least  excuse  to  love  me 

(Pippa  passes),  RB  582 
Give  me  the  eyes  that  look  on  mine,  L  442 
Gleam,  Merlin  and  the,  T  551 
Godiva,  T,  492 
Gold-hair  (Rapunzel),  M  827 
Go  not,  happy  day,  (Maud),  T  520 
Grammarian's  Funeral,  A,  RB  635 
Grande  Chartreuse,  Stanzas  from  the,  Ar 

754 
Grasshopper  and  cricket,  On  the,  K  374 
Grave  of  Burns,  At  the,  W  36 
Great  men  have  been  among  us,  W  33 
Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning, 

K373 
Grecian  urn,  Ode  on  a,  K  407 
Green  fields  of  England,  CI  700 
Green  linnet,  The.  W  35 
Growing  old,  Ar  763 
Guardian  angel,  The,  RB  631 
Guenevere,  The  defence  of,  M  8^58 
Guernsey,  In,  Sw  901 
Guinevere.  T  525 

Haidee  (Don  Juan),  B  244 

Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances, 

Sc  159 
Hamadryad,  The,  L  446 
Hands  (Rapunzel),  M  827 
Hands  all  round,  T  517  [543 

Hapless  doom  of  woman  (Queen  Mary),'  T 
Happy  warrior,  Character  of,  W  47 
Harp  of  the  north,  farewell,  Sc  160 
Hartley  Coleridge,  To,  W  33 
Hast  thou  seen  with  flash  incessant,  W  55 
Hay  don,  To  B.  R.,  W  55 
Haystack  in  the  floods,  The,  M  836 
Heap  cassia,  sandal  buds  (Paracelsus),  RB 

568 
Health  to  King  Charles,  Here's  a,  Sc  166 
Heart  of  the  night,  The,  R  802 
Heart's  compass,  R  797 
Heart's  hope,  R  794 
Heine  (from  Heine's  grave),  Ar  768 
Hellas,  Choruses  from,  Sh  366,  367 


Hellas,  Sony:  from,  Sh  367 

Hellenics,  On  the,  L  444 

Here  pause,  the  poet  claims  at  least  this 

praise,  W  51 
Here's  a  health  to  King  Charles,  Sc  166 
Her  gifts,  R  798 

Her  heaven  (True  woman),  R  801 
Her  love  (True  woman),  R  801 
Herself  (True  woman),  R  801 
Hertha,  Sw  882 
Herve  Riel,  RB  669 
Hesperus,  Sappho  to,  L  437 
Hidden  love,  The,  CI  704 
Hie  away,  hie  away,  Sc  162 
Higher  Pantheism,  The,  T  540 
Highland  girl,  To  a,  W  37 
Hill  summit,  The,  R  803 
His  own  Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon,  On,  L 

440 
Hoarded  joy,  R  805 
Hogg,  Extempore  effusion  on  the  death  of 

James,  W  61 
Homer,  On  first  looking  into  Chapman's,  K 

.    373 
Homer,  To,  K  389 

Home  thoughts  from  abroad,  RB  605 
Home  thoughts  from  the  sea,  RB  605 
Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  (The 

Princess),  T  498 
Honeysuckle,  The,  R  788 
Hope  and  fear,  Sw  899 
Hope  evermore  and  believe,  CI  698 
Hounds  of  Spring,  The  (Atalantain  Caly- 

don),  Sw 
House,  RB  672 
Householder,   The,   (Fifine    at    the    Fain, 

RB671 
House  of  Life,  R  793 
House  of  the  Wolfings,  Motto  of,  M  861 
How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time,  K 

373 
How  many  voices  gaily  sing,  L  443 
How  they   brought  the  good   news  from 

Ghent  to  Aix,  RB  603 
Human  seasons,  The,  K  389 
Hunting  song,  Sc  113 
Husbandman,  The,  R  804 
Hymn  before  sunrise  in  the  vale  of  Cha- 

niouni,  C  96 
Hymn  of  Pan,  Sh  346 
Hymn  to  intellectual  beauty,  Sh  287 
Hymn  to  Pan  (Endymion),  K  382 
Hymn  to  Proserpine,  Sw  872 
Hyperion,  K  410 

Ianthe,  Lyrics  to,  L  430,  441 

Ianthe,  you  are  called  to  cross  the  sea,  L 

431 
Iceland  first  seen,  M  863 
I  fear  thy  kisses,  Sh  345 
If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain,  W  61 
If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  heaven, 

W61 
I  grieved  for  Buonaparte,  W  30 
I  have  led  her  home  (Maud),  T  520 
I  have  seen  higher,  holier  things,  CI  688 


INDEX  OF   TITLES 


917 


I  held  her  hand,  the  pledge  of  bliss,  L  431 

I  know  not  whether  I  am  proud,  L  443 

Imitation  of  Spenser,  K  372 

Immortality,  Ar  762 

Impromptus,  B  270 

In  a  drear-nighted  December,  K  389 

In  a  gondola,  RB  596 

In  a  lecture-room,  CI  688 

In  a  London  square,  CI  705 

Incident  of  the  French  camp,  RB  594 

Inconstancy,  L  450 

Indian  serenade,  Sh  299 

Indolence,  Ode  on,  K  405 

Influence  of  natural  objects,  W  13 

In  Guernsey,  Sw  901 

In  memoriam,  T  499 

In  memory  of    the  author  of  Obermann, 

Stanzas,  Ar  725 
In  memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor,  Sw  876 
In  prison,  M  839 
Inside  of  King's  College  chapel,  Cambridge, 

W57 
Insomnia,  R  809 

Intellectual  beauty,  Hymn  to,  Sh  287 
Interpreters,  The,  Sw  907 
In  the  depths,  CI  694 
In  the  vale  of  Chamouni,  C  96 
In  the  valley  of  Cauteretz,  T  539 
In  the  water,  Sw  905 

In  the  white-flowered  hawthorn  brake,  M  855 
In  three  days,  RB  631 
Intimations  of  immortality,  W  39 
In  time  of  mourning,  Sw  909 
In  time  of  order,  A  song,  Sw  866 
Introduction  to  the  Earthly  Paradise,  M  842 
Invasion,  The  (Gebir),  L  425 
Invocation  to  Chaucer  (Life  and  Death  of 

Jason),  M  842 
Invocation    to    the  power  of  love  (Endy- 

mion),  K  385 
Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon,  On  his  own, 

L440 
Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon,  L  445 
Iphigeneia,  The  shades  of  Agamemnon  and, 

L  433 
Isabella,  K391 

Is  it  not  better  at  an  early  hour,  L  443 
Isles  of  Greece,  The  (Don  Juan),  B  249 
Isolation,  To  Marguerite,  Ar  756 
Italian  in  England,  The,  RB  606 
Italy,  Farewell  to,  L  440 
Ite  domum  saturae,  venit  Hesperus,  CI  702 
It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  W  31 
It  is  not  to  be  thought  of,  W  33 
I  travelled  among  unknown  men,  W  15 
I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,  W  43 
I  wonder  not  that  youth  remains,  L  455 

James  Hogg,  Extempore  effusion  upon  the 

death  of,  W  61 
James  Lee's  wife,  RB  657 
Jason,  The  life  and  death  of,  M  839 
Jock  o'  Bazeldean,  Scl62 
John  Bull,  B  271 
Joseph  Ablett,  To,  L  438 
June  (Earthly  Paradise),  M  854 


Kate  the  queen  (Pippa  passes),  RB  582 

Keats,  R  812 

Keen  fitful  gusts  are  whispering  here  and 

there,  K  373 
Kensington  Gardens,  Lines  written  in,  Ar 

724 
King  Charles,  Here's  a  health  to,  Sc  166 
King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge,  W  57 
King's  Tragedy,  The,  R  812 
Known  in  vain,  R  802 
Kossuth,  To  Louis,  Sw  891 
Kubla  Khan,  C  72 

La  belle  dame  sans  merci,  K  422 

Labuntur  anni  (Don  Juan),  B242 

Lachin  y  Gair,  B  170 

Lady  of  Shalott.  The,  T  462 

La  Fayette,  C  69 

Lake  Leman,  Sonnet  to,  B  214 

Lamb,  Tc  Mary,  L  440 

Lament,  A,  Sh  358 

Lancelot  and  Elaine,  Song  from,  T  525 

Landmark,  The,  R802 

Landor,  In  memory  of  Walter  Savage,  Sw 

876 
Laodamia,  W  51 
La  Saisiaz,  Prologue,  RB  677 
Last  duchess,  My,  RB  595 
Last  ride  together,  The,  RB  634 
Last  sonnet,  Keats',  K  423 
Late,  late,  so  late  (Guinevere),  T  525 
Lately   our    songsters    loitered    in    green 

1 111  ps    L  45T 
Latest  decalogue,  The,  CI  694 
Lecture-room,  In  a,  CI  688 
Leech-gatherer,  The,  W  28 
Left  upon  a  seat  in  a  yew-tree,  Lines,  W  4 
Leigh  Hunt,  Esq.,  To,  K  380 
Leman,  Sonnet  to  Lake,  B  214 
Lenore,  Sc  105 

L'Envoi  (Earthly  paradise),  M  856 
Lewti,  C  68 
Life,  C  66 
Life,  Sc  165 

Life  and  death  of  Jason,  From  the,  M  839 
Life  in  a  love,  RB  630 
Life  is  struggle,  CI  705 
Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not,  Sh366 
Life  of  life  (Prometheus  unbound),  Sh  320 
Life  of  man  (Atalanta  in  Calydon),  Sw  867 
Life  the  beloved,  R  807 
Light  Brigade,  The  charge  of  the,  T  518 
Light  woman,  A,  RB  833 
Lilith,  R  805 

Lime-tree  bower  my  prison,  This,  C  70 
Lines  composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintern 

Abbey,  W  '•> 
Lines  left  upon  a  seat  in  a  yew-tree,  W  4 
Lines  on  an  autumnal  evening,  C  66 
Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern,  K  390 
Lines,  When  the  lamp  is  shattered,  Sh  369 
Lines  written  among  the  Euganean  Hills, 

Sh  293 
Lines  written  in  early  spring,  W  7 
Lines  written  in  Kensington  Gardens,  Ai 

724 


t;i8 


BRITISH   POETS 


Lines  written  in  the  allium  at  Elbingerode, 

C  93 
Lippo  Lippi,  Pra,  RB  644 
Little  Aglae,  L  137 
Little  white,  A,  R  788 
Lochinvar,  Young,  Sc  141 
Loch  na  Garr,  B  170 
Lofiksley  Hall,  T  4S8 
London,  W  33 
London  literature  and  society  (Don  Juan), 

B  253 
London  square,  In  a,  CI  705 
Losl  days,  It  806 
Lost  Leader.  The,  RB  603 
Lost  on  both  sides,  R  806 
Lotos-eaters,  The,  T  -172 
Louis  Kossuth,  To,  Sw  891 
Love,  C91 

Love  (Earth's  immortalities)  RB  605 
Love  among  the  ruins,  RB  618 
Love  and  Love's  Mates  (Atalanta  in  Caly- 

don)  Sw  868 
Love  at  ebb  (Chastelard),  Sw  872 
Love  at  sea,  Sw  878 
Love  enthroned,  R  793 
Love  in  a  life,  RB  630 
Love,  Invocation  to  the  power  of,  (Endy- 

mion ),  K  385 
Love  is  enough,  From,  M  858 
Love-letter,  The,  R  795 
Love-lilv,  R  792 
Lover's  walk,  The,  R  795 
Lovesiu-ht,  R  794 
Love's  last  gift,  R  801 
Love's  lovers,  R  794 
Love's  nocturn,  R  786 
Loves  of  Tamar  and  the  sea-nymph,  The, 

I,  426 
Love's  philosophy,  Sh  299 
Love-sweetness,  R  797 
Love's  testament,  R  793 
Love  thou  thy  land,  T  480 
Low,  lute,  low  (Queen  Mary),  T  543 
Lucknow,  The  defence  of,  T  546 
Lucretia  Borgia's  hair,  On,  L  438 
Lucv,  W  14,  15 
Lucy  Gray,  W  18 
Lyrics  from  Maud,  T  519 
Lyrics  from  Queen  Mary,  T  543 
Lyrics  from  the  coming  of  Arthur,  T  540 
Lyrics  from  the  Princess,  T  497 
Lyric  stanzas  of  Empedocles,  Ar  715 
Lyrics,  to  Ianthe,  L  430,  441 

Magical  nature,  RB  674 

Maid  of  Athens,  B  170 

Maid  of  Neidpath,  Sc  108 

Maid's  Lament,  The,  L  433 

Maisie,  Proud,  Sc  164 

Manfred.  B  214 

Marching  along,  RB  592 

Margaret,  The  affliction  of,  W  43 

Marguerite  (Isolation),  Ar  756 

Marguerite,  To  (continued),  Ar  757 

Marmion.  Sc  114 

Marriage  of  Geraint,  Song  from,  T  524 


Mary      — ,  To  ( Revolt  of  Islam),  Sh  291 
Mary  Beaton's  song  (Chastelard),  Sw  871 
Mary  Lamb.  To,  L  440 
Mary  Magdalene  at  the  door  of  Simon  the 

Pharisee,  R  7bo 
Man  's  girlhood,  R  778 
Mary  Stuart,  Song  from,  Sw  899 
Match,  A,   Sw  *74~ 
Mater  triumohalis,  From,  Sw  887 
Matthew,  W  16 
Maud,  Lyrics  from,  T  519 
Mazzini,  On  the  monument  to,  Sw  907 
Medusa,  Aspecta,  R  786 
Meeting  at  night,  RB  605 
Meeting  of  Gebir  and  Charoba,  The,  L  426 
Melancholy,  Ode  on,  K  409 
Meleager,  Death  of  (Atalanta  in  Calydon), 

Sw  869 
Memorabilia,  RB  632 
Memorial  thresholds,  R  805 
Memorial  verses,  Ar  713 
Memory,  W  58 
Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor,  In,  Sw 

876* 
Menelaus  and  Helen  at  Troy,  L  452 
Merlin  and  the  gleam,  T  551 
Merlin  and  Vivien,  Song  from,  T  524 
Merlin's  riddle  (Coming  of  Arthur),  T  540 
Mermaid  Tavern,  Lines  on  the,  K  390 
Michael,  W  19 
Michelangelo's  kiss,  R  807 
Mid-rapture,  R  797 
Mild  is  the  parting  year,  L  431 
Milkmaid's  song  (Queen  Mary),  T  543 
Miller's  daughter,  The,  T  463 
Milton,  T  536 
.Mirror,  The,  R  779 
Misconceptions,  RB  629 
Misgivings,  Blank,  CI  688 
Mont  Blanc,  C  96 
Mont  Blanc,  B  215 
Mont  Blanc,  Sh  288 
Montenegro,  T  543 
Montorio's  Height,  On,  CI  692 
Moore,  To  Thomas,  B  234,  271 
Morality,  Ar  721 
Morte  d' Arthur,  T  481 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes,  W61 
Mother,  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel,  L  440 
Mountain  echo,  Yes  it  was  the,  W  48 
Muckle-mouth  Meg,  RB  683 
Muse  of  the  north,  The,  M  864 
Music,  On,  L  455 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die,  Sh  358 
Mutability,  W  55 
Mutability,  Sh  358 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold,  W  26 
My  hopes  retire,  L  443 
My  last  duchess,  RB  595 
My  Murray,  B  270,  271 
My  sister's  sleep,  R  774 
My  star,  RB  626 

Napoleon  Buonaparte,  Ode  to,  B  184 

Xai  ural  magic,  RB  674 

Nature  (Atalanta  in  Calydon),  Sw  868 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


919 


Nay,  but  you  who  do  not  love  her,  RB  605 

Near  Avalon,  M  838 

Near  Dover,  W  32 

Neidpath,  The  maid  of,  Sc  113 

Never  the  time  and  the  place,  RB  681 

New  age,  The  (Bacchanalia),  Ar  764 

Newborn  death,  R  807 

New  Sinai,  The,  CI  689 

Night,  To,  Sh  357 

Night  and  morning,  RB  605 

Nightingale,  Ode  to  a,  K  408 

Night-piece,  A,  W  5 

No  master,  M  860 

No  more,  no  more  (Don  Juan),  B  242 

No,  my  own  love  of  other  years,  L  441 

"Non  dolet"  Sw  889 

Northern  farmer  ( old  style),  T  538 

Northern  farmer  (new  style),  T  541 

Not  as  these.  R  804 

November,  1806,  W  50 

November,  1,  W  55 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow 

room,  W  48 
Nutting,  W  13 
Nymph's    song   to   Hvlas.    The   (Life    and 

Death  of  Jason),  M  839 

Oak,  The,  T  553 

Obermann,  Stanzas  in  memory  of  the 
author  of,*Ar  725 

Obermann  once  more,  Ar  768 

O  bitter  sea  (Life  and  Death  of  Jason)  M839 

Oblation,  The,  Sw  889 

Ocean,  The  (Childe  Harold),  B  239 

Octogenarian,  To  an,  W  63 

Ode  (Bards  of  passion),  K406 

Ode  composed  upon  an  evening  of  extra- 
ordinary splendor,  W  55 

Ode,  Dejection,  An,  C  94 

Ode,  France,  An,  C  88 

Ode,  Intimations  of  immortality,  W  39 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  urn,  K  407 

Ode  on  indolence,  K  405 

Ode  on  melancholy,  K  409 

Ode  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, T  514 

Ode  to  a  nightingale,  K  408 

Ode  to  duty,  W  44 

Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte,  B  184 

Ode  to  Psyche,  K  406 

( )'!•'  to  tranquility,  C  94 

( >de  to  the  west  wind,  Sh  297 

Oenone,  T  464 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights,  T  479 

Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  Sw  900 

Ogierthe  Dane,  Song  from,  M  855  [186 

Oh  :  snatched  away  in  beauty's  bloom  :  B 

<  )h  that  'twere  possible  (Maudj,  T  523 

Old  and  new  art,  R  804 

Old  pictures  in  Florence,  RB  622 

O,  let  the  solid  ground  (Maud),  T  519 

On  a  country  road,  Sw  903 

On  a  faded  violet,  Sh  293 

(  m  a  Grecian  urn,  Ode,  K407 

On  an  autumnal  evening,  Lines,  C  66 

On  a  picture  of  Leauder,  K  380 


On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept,  Sh  310 

On  Burns,  R  811 

One  hope,  The,  R  808 

One  way  of  love,  RB  629 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned,  Sh  368 

One  word  more,  RB  654 

One  year  ago  my  path  was  green,  L  441 

On  Fame,  K  423 

On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer,  K 

373 
On  his  own  Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon, 

L440 
On  his  seventy-fifth  birthday,  L  456 
On  Lucretia  Borgia's  hair,  L  438 
On  melancholy,  Ode,  K  409 
On  Montorio's  Height,  CI  692 
On  music,  L  455 

On  refusal  of  aid  between  nations,  R  778 
On  seeing  the  Elgin  marbles,  K  380 
On  Southey's  death,  L  457 
On  the  cliffs,  Sw  892 
On  the  death  of  Robert  Browning.  Sonnets, 

Sw909 
On  the  death  of  Southey,  L  456 
On    the    deaths   of   Thomas    Carlyle  and 

George  Eliot,  Sw  899 
On  the  extinction  of  the  Venetian  republic, 

W31 
On  the  grasshopper  and  cricket,  K  374 
On  the  Hellenics,  L  444 
On  the  Mermaid  Tavern,  Lines,  K  390 
On  the  monument  erected  to  Mazzini  at 

Genoa,  Sw  907 
On  the  sea,  K  380 
On  the  smooth  brow  and  clustering  hair,  L 

443 
On  the  verge,  Sw  '906 
On  this  day  I  complete  my  thirty-sixth  year, 

B272 
Orpheus  and  the  Sirens,  Songs  of  (Life  and 

death  of  Jason),  M  840 
Orpheus'  song  of  triumph  (Life  and  death 

of  Jason)  M  840 
O  ship,  ship,  ship,  CI  702 
Osorio,  Song  from,  C  73 
O  swallow,  swallow,  flying,  flying  south,  T 

498 
O  that  'twere  possible  (Maud),  T  523 
Our  gaieties,  our  luxuries,  CI  695 
Overhead  the  tree-tops  meet  (Pippa  passes), 

RB  591 
Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went  (Paracelsus), 

RB568 
Ozymandias,  Sh  293 

Pacchiarotto  volume,  Epilogue  to  the,  RB 

674 
Pains  of  sleep,  The,  C  98 
Palace  of  Art,  The,  T468 
Palladium,  Ar  765 
Pan,  Hvinn  of,  Sh  346 
I'm ii,  Hymn  to  (Endymion),  K  382 
Pantheon,  The,  CI  692 
Paracelsus,  Songs  from,  RB  568 
rafting  at  morning,  RB  605 
Passion  and  worship,  R  794 


BRITISH    POETS 


J'ast  ruin'd  Illion  Helen  lives,  L431 
Patriot,  The,  KB  633 
Pearl,  A  girl,  A.  RB  683 

Peele  Castle,  YV  45 
Penumbra,  R  780 

Perche    pensa  ?    Pensando  s'invecchia,   CI 

704 
Personal  talk,  W  49 
Peschiera,  CI  693 
Phantom  or  fact,  C  103 
Philomela,  Ar  741 
Pibroch  of  Donald  Dim,  Sc  163 
Pictor  ignotus,  RB  606 
Pied  piper  of  Hamelin,  The,  RB  598 
Pilgrims,  The,  Sw  884 
Pippa  passes,  RB  570 
Pis-aller,  Ar  764 

Pleasure!  why  thus  desert  the  heart,  L431 
Plighted  promise,  R  788 
Poet!  he  hath  put  his  heart  to  school,  A, 

TV  62 
Poet,  The,  T  461 

Poetical  commandments  (Don  Juan),  B  242 
iPoetics,  RB  683 
Poet's  epitaph,  A,  TV  15 
Poet's  song,  The,  T  497 
Political  greatness,  Sonnet,  Sh  358 
Popularity,  RB  632 
Porphyrin's  lover,  RB  569 
Portrait,  The,  R  776 
Portrait,  The  ( House  of  Life),  R  794 
Pot  of  basil,  The,  K  391 
Pray  but  one  prayer  for  me,  M  827 
Prelude  to  the  Earthly  Paradise,  M  842 
Pride  of  youth,  R  797 
Primrose  of  the  rock,  The,  TV  59 
Princess,  Lyrics  from  the,  T  497 
Prisoner  of'Chillon,  B  206 
Proem  (Endymion),  K  381 
Prologue  (Fiflne  at  the  fair),  RB  677 
Prologue  (La  Saisiaz),  RB  677 
Prologue  (Two  poets  of  Croisic),  RB  677 
Prometheus,  B  213 
Prometheus  unbound,  Sh  299 
Proserpine,  Hymn  to,  Sw  872 
Proserpine,  The  garden  of,  Sw  877 
Prospice,  RB  667 
Proud  Maisie,  Sc  164 
Proud  word  you  never  spoke,  L  443 
Psyche,  Ode  to,  K  406 
Psyche,  Song  from  the  story  of  Cupid  and, 

M854 

Qua  cursum  ventus,  CI  688 
Quatrains,  L  443 
Queen  Mary,  Lyrics  from,  T  543 
Queen's  song,  The  (Chastelard),  Sw  873 
Question,  The,  Sh  347 
Questioning  spirit,  The,  CI  690 
Quiet  work,  Ar  708 
Qui  laborat,  orat,  CI  698 

Rabbi  ben  Ezra,  RB  659 

Rain,  rain  and  sun  ( Coming  of  Arthur),  T 

540 
Rapunzel,  Songs  from,  M  827 


Rarely,  rarely,  contest  thou,  Sh  347 

Real  question,  The,  CI  693 

Rebecca's  hymn,  Sc  164 

Reflections  on  having  left  a  place  of  retire 

merit,  C  69 
Refusal  of  aid  between  nations,  On,  R  778 
Regeneration,  L  429 
Remain,  ah  not  in  youth  alone,  L442 
Requiescat,  Ar  727 
Resolution  and  independence,  TV  28 
Respectability  RB  630 
Retro  me,  Sathana,  R  806 
Revenge,  The,  T543 
Reverie  of  poor  Susan,  The,  TV  5 
Revolt  of  Islam,  Dedication  of,  Sh  291 
Riding  together,  M  825 
Rime  of  the  ancient  mariner,  C  73 
Ring  and  the  book,  From  the,  RB  668 
Ring  out  wild  bells  (In  memoriam),  T  510 
Rivulet  crossing  my  ground  (Maud),  T  521 
Rizpah,  T  548 

Robert  Browning,  To,  L  443 
Robert  Browning,  Sonnets  on  the  death  of, 

Sw  909 
Robin  Hood,  K  388 
Rome  (Childe  Harold),  B  236 
Rome,  CI  692 
Rondel,  Sw  876 
Rose  Aylmer,  L  428 
Rose  Aylmer's  hair,  given  By  her  sister, 

L456 
Rosnv,  RB  682 
Roundel,  The,  Sw  902 
Roundelay  (Endymion),  K  386 
Round  us  the  wild  creatures  (Fe/ishtah's 

fancies),  RB  681 
Rudel  to  the  lady  of  Tripoli,  RB  602 
Rugby  Chapel,  Ar  766 

Sailing  of  the  sword,  The,  M  834 

Sailor  boy,  The,  T  536 

Saint  Agnes'  eve,  T  479 

Saint  Agnes',  The  eve  of,  K  398 

Saint  John,  The  eve  of,  Sc  108 

Saint  Luke  the  painter,  R  804 

Saint  Mark,  The  eve  of,  K  404 

Salt  of  the  Earth,  the,  Sw  900 

Same  flower,  To  the  (celandine),  TV  27 

Same  flower,  To  the  (daisy),  TV  35 

Sapphics,  Sw  878 

Sappho  (On  the  cliffs),  Sw  892 

Sapphc  to  Hesperus,  L  437 

Saul,  R3  611 

Saul  before  his  last  battle,  Song  of,  B  197 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth,  CI 

695 
Sceptic  moods,  CI  693 
Scholar  gipsy,  The,  Ar  7'41 
Scorn  not  the  sonnet,  TV  58 
Seaboard,  The,  Sw  903 
Sea,  On  the,  K  386 

Sea,  To  the  ( Life  and  death  of  Jason),  M  839 
Sea-limits,  The,  R  779 
Sea-shell,  The(Gebir),  L42< 
Seasons,  The,  M  857 
Second  best,  The,  Ar  714 


INDEX  OF   TITLES 


921 


See  what  a  lovely  shell  (Maud),  T  522 

Self-deception,  Ar  714 

Self-dependence,  Ar  721 

Sensitive  plant,  The,  Sh  338 

September,  1819,  W  55 

Sequence  of  Sonnets  on  the  death  of  Robert 

Browning,  Sw  909 
Serenade,  Indian,  Sh  299 
Seventy-fifth  birthday,  On  his,  L  456 
Severed  selves,  R  799 
Shades  of  Agamemnon  and  Iphigeneia,  L 

433 
Shakespeare,  Ar  708 
Shakespeare,  William,  Sw  899 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  L  454 
Shameful  death,  M  833 
Shame  upon  you  Robin  (Queen  Mary),  T 

543 
She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways,  W 

14 
Shelley,  R  812 

Shelley  (Cor  cordium),  Sw  888 
She  walks  in  beauty,  B  186 
She  was  a  phantom  of  delight,  W  42 
Shipwreck,  The  (Don  Juanj,  B  243 
Sibylla  palmifera,  R  804 
Silent  noon,  R  796 
Simon  Lee,  W  6 
Simplon  Pass,  The,  W  12 
Singing  lesson,  A,  Sw  902 
Sir  Galahad,  T  493 
Sir  Giles'  war-song,  M  838 
Sister  Helen,  R  780 
Sisters,  The,  T  467 
Sister's  sleep,  My,  R  774 
Sisters,  Song  from  the,  T  549 
Skylark,  To  a,  W  45 
Skylark,  To  a,  W  58 
Skylark,  To  a,  Sh  344 
Sleep,  To,  W  » 1 
Sleep,  To,  K  423 
Sleep  and  poetry,  K  374 
Slumber  did  my  spirit  seal,  A,  W  15 
Small  celandine,  To  the,  W  27 
So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive,  W  62 
Sohrab  and  Rustum,  Ar  728 
Soldier  rest,  thy  warfare  o'er,  Sc  159 
Solitary  reaper,  The,  W  38 
Solitude,  W  18 
Solitude,  A,  Sw  902 
Solitude,  To,  K372 
Some  future  day,  CI  701 
Song,  Sh347 
Song,  Child's,  Sw  892 
Song,  Mary  Beaton's  (Chastelard),  Sw  871 
Song,  Nay,  but  you  who  do  not  love  her, 

RB  605 
Smig,  The  Queen's  (Chastelard),  Sw  872 
Song  from  Charles  the  first,  Sh  309 
Song  from  Hellas,  Sh  367 
Song  from  Mary  Stuart,  Sw  899 
Song  from  Ogier  the  Dane,  M  855 
Song  from  Osorio,  C  73 
Song  from  the  Sisters,  T  54'.i 
Song  from  the  story  of  Acontius  and  Cy- 

dlppe,  M  855 


Song  from  the  story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche, 

M854 
Song  from  Zapolya,  C  101 
Song  in  time  of  order,  Sw  866 
Song  of  Saul  before  his  last  battle,  B  187 
Song  of  spirits  (Prometheus  unbound),  Sh 

317 
Song  of  the  echoes  (Prometheus  unbound), 

Sh314 
Songs  from  Chastelard,  Sw  871 
Songs  from  Ferishtah's  fancies,  RB  681 
Songs  from  Paracelsus,  RB  568 
Songs  in  absence,  CI  700 
Songs  of  Orpheus  and  the  sirens  (Life  and 

death  of  Jason),  M  840 
Song-throe,  The,  R  802 
Song,  The  miller's  daughter,  T  463 
Song,  Where  shall  the  lover  rest,  Sc  126 
Sonnet,  The,  W  48,  58 
Sonnet,  The,  R  793 
Sonnet,  England  in  1819,  Sh  297 
Sonnet  on  Chillon,  B  206 
Sonnet,  Political  greatness,  Sh  358 
Sonnet,  Scorn  not  the,  W  58 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  EBB  555 
Sonnets  on  the  death  of  Robert  Browning, 

Sw909 
Sonnets  on  the  thought  of  death,  CI  705 
Sonnet,  To  an  octogenarian,  W  63 
Sonnet  to  Lake  Leman,  B  214 
Soon,  O  Ian  the!  life  is  o'er,  L  443 
Soothsay,  R  810 

So  then,  I  feel  not  deeply,  L  455 
Soul's  beauty,  R  804 
Southey,  On  the  death  of,  L  456 
Southey's  death,  On,  L  457 
So  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving,  B  271 
Sparrow's  nest,  The,  W  26 
Splendor  falls  on  castle  walls,  The,  T  498 
Stanzas,  April,  1814,  Sh  275 
Stanzas   for   music    (There    be    none    of 

beauty's  daughters),  B  189 
Stanzas  for  music  (There's  not  a  joy),  B  187 
Stanzas  for  music  (They  say  that  hope  is 

happiness),  B  212 
Stanzas  from  the  Grande  Chartreuse,  Ar  754 
Stanzas  in  memory  of  the  author  of  Ober- 

mann,  Ar  725 
Stanzas  to  Augusta,  B  209 
Stanzas  written  in  dejection  near  Naples, 

Sh296 
Stanzas  written  on  the  road  between  Flor- 
ence and  Pisa,  B  271 
Statue  and  the  bust,  The,  RB  637 
Stepping  westward,  W  38 
Stillborn  love,  R  800 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known,  W  14 
Strayed  reveller,  The,  Ar  710 
Stream  of  life,  The,  CI  702 
Stream's  secret,  The,  R  789 
Sudden  light,  R  788 
Summer  dawn,  M  827 
Summer-night,  A,  Ar721 
Summum  bonum,  RB  683 
Sunbows,  The,  Sw  905 
Sunrise  in  1M4N,  At.  the,  R  778 


9-- 


BRITISH   POETS 


Sun  upon  the  Woirdlaw  Hill,  The,  Sc  164 

Superscription,  A,  R  807 

Surprised  by  joy,  impatient  as  the  wind, 

W  55 
Swallow,  swallow,  flying,  flying  south,  T 

4;»s 
Sweet  and  low,  T  498 
Sweet-briar,  Upon  a,  L  432 
Switzerland,  From,  Ar  756 
Switzerland,  Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the 

subjugation  of,  W  50 

Tables  turned,  The,  W  9 

Tamar  and  the  sea-nymph,  Loves  of,  L  426 

Tears,  idle  tears,  T  497 

"  There  is  no  God,"  the  wicked  saith,  CI  694 

There  !  said  a  stripling,  W  61 

There's  a  woman  like  a  dewdrop,  RB  602 

There  was  a  boy,  W  13 

Theseus  and  Hippolyta,  L  457 

This  lime-tree  bower  my  prison,  C  70 

This  world  is  very  odd,  we  see,  CI  695 

Thomas  Carhie  and  George  Eliot,  On  the 

deaths  of*  Sw  899 
Thomas  Moore.  To,  B  234,  271 
Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  subjugation  of 

Switzerland,  W  50 
Thought  of  death,  Sonnets  on  the,  CI  705 
Thrasymedes  and  Eunoe,  L  444 
Three  Roses,  The,  L  457 
Three  shadows,  R  809 
Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 

W  15 
Throstle,  The,  T  553 
Through  a  glass  darkly,  CI  699 
Through  death  to  love,  R  799 
Through  the  Metidja  to  Abd-el-Kadr,  RB 

593 
Thyrsis,  Ar  757 
Thy  voice  is  heard  through  rolling  drums, 

T498 
Time,  Sc  163 
Time,  Sh  357 
Time  long  past,  Sh  348 
Time  real  and  imaginary,  C  70 
Time's  revenges,  RB  606 
Time  to  be  wise,  L  441 
Tintern    Abbey,    Lines   composed   a   few 

miles  above,  W  9 
Tithonus,  T  535 
To— (I  fear  thy  kisses),  Sh  345 
To— (Music  when  soft  voices  die),  Sh  358 
To — (One  word  is  too  often  profaned),  Sh 

368 
To  a  bride,  L  441 
To  a  cyclamen,  L  442 
To  a  friend,  Ar  708 
To  age,  L  455 
To  a  gentleman,  C  99 
To  a  Highland  girl,  W  37 
To  Ailsa  Rock,  K  389 
•  To  a  ladv,  Sc  108 
To  a  nightingale,  Ode,  K  408 
To  a  sky-lark,  W  45 
To  a  sky-lark,  W  58 
To  a  skylark,  Sh  344 


To  Augusta,  Stanzas,  B  209 

To  Augusta,  Epistle,  B  210 

To  autumn,  K  409 

To  a  young  lady,  W  46 

To  B.  R.  Haydon,  W  55 

To  Chaucer,  Invocation  (Life  and  death  of 

Jason),  M  842 
To  Coleridge,  Sh  275 
To  Hartley  Coleridge,  W  33 
To  Hesperus,  Sappho,  L  437 
To  Homer,  K  389 
To  Ianthe,  Lyrics,  L  430,  441 
To  Jane,  With  a  guitar,  Sh  368 
To  Joseph  Ablett,  L  438 
to  Ka?i6v,  CI.  688 
To  Leigh  Hunt  Esq.,  K  380 
To  Louis  Kossuth,  Sw  891 
To  Marguerite,  Ar  756,  7'57 
To  Marv  (Revolt  of  Islam),  Sh  291 
To  Mary  Lamb,  L  440 
To-morrow,  Sh  368 
To  Mr.  Murray,  B  270,  271 
To  my  ninth  decade,  L  458 
To  my  sister,  W  8 
To-night,  Sh  357 
To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent,  K 

373 
To  Psyche,  Ode,  K  406 
To  Robert  Browning,  L  443 
To  sleep,  W  50 
To  sleep,  K  423 
To  solitude,  K  372 
To  the  cuckoo,  W  42 
To  the  daisy  (three  poems),  W  34,  35 
To  the  moon,  Sh  348 
To  the  Queen,  T  513 

To  the  sea  (Life  and  death  of  Jason),  M  83fl 
To  the  same  flower  (celandine),  W  27 
To  the  same  flower  (daisy),  W  35 
To  the  small  celandine,  W  27 
To  the  west  wind,  Ode,  Sh  297 
To  Thomas  Moore,  B  234,  271 
To  Toussaint  l'Ouverture,  W  32 
To  Tranquility,  Ode,  C  94 
Touch  him  ne'er  so  lightly,  RB  680 
Toussaint  l'Ouverture,  W  32 
To  Virgil,  T  550 
To  William  Wordsworth,  C  99 
To  Wordsworth,  L  438 
To  Wordsworth,  Sh  603n. 
To  Youth,  L  454 
Tranquillity,  Ode  to,  C  94 
Transfigured  life,  R  802 
Tray,  RB  679 

Trees  of  the  garden,  The,  R  806 
Triads,  Sw  892 
Trosachs,  The,  W  60 
Troy  Town,  R  789 
True-love,  an  thou  be  true,  Sc  164 
True  woman,  R  801 

Trumpet  song  (Coming  of  Arthur),  T  540 
Twenty  years  hence,  L  442 
Twist  ye,  twine  ye,  even  so,  Sc  162 
Two  April  mornings,  The,  W  17 
Two  in  the  Campagna,  RB  628 
Two  poets  of  Croisic,  The,  RB  67? 


INDEX   Oh    TITLES 


923 


Ulysses,  T  487 

v/ivog  av/ivog.  CI  699 

Unremitting  voice  of  nightly  streams,  The, 

W63 
Up  at  a  villa— down  in  the  city,  RB  619 
Upon  a  sweet-briar,  L  432 

Vale  of  Chamouni,  In  the,  C  96 

Valley  of  Cauteretz,  In  the,  T  539 

Various  the  roads  of  life,  L  443 

Vastness,  T  550 

Venetian  pastoral,  For  a,  R  779 

Venice  (Childe  Harold),,  B  234 

Venus  victrix,  R  798 

Verse-making  was  least  of  my  virtues  (Fer 

ishtah's  fancies),  RB  681 
Villon,  Ballad  of  Francois,  Sw  891 
Violet,  On  a  faded.  Sh  293 
Violet,  The,  Sc  108 
Virgil,  To,  T  550 
Vision  of  judgment.  The,  B  257 
Vision  of  sin,  The.  T  494 
Vivien's  song  (Merlin  and  Vivien),  T  52i 
Voice  and  the  peak,  The,  T  542 
Voice  by  the  cedar-tree.  A  (Maud),  T  519 
Voice  of  Toil,  The,  M  859 
Voyage,  The,  T  537 

Wages,  T  540  [876 

Walter  Savage  Landor,  In  memory  of.  Sw 

Walt  Whitman  in  America,  To,  Sw  866 

Wanting  is — What,  RB,  680 

Wasted,  weary,  wherefore  stay,  Sc  162 

Waterloo,  Battle  of,  B  192 

We  are  seven,  W  6 

Weirdlaw  Hill,  The  sun  upon  the,  Sc  164 

Wellington,  Ode  on  the  death  of  the  Duke 

of,  T  514 
Well  I  remember  how  you  smiled,  L  458 
Were  you  with  me  (Songs  in  absence),  CI 

702 
West  London,  Ar  762 

Westminster  Bridge,  Composed  upon,  W  31 
West  wind,  Ode  to  the,  Sh  297 
When  a  man  hath  no  freedom,  B  271 
When  Helen  first  saw  wrinkles  in  her  face, 

L430 
When  I  have  borne  in  memory,  W  33 
When  I  have  fears  that  1  may  cease  to  be, 

K  381 
When  the  enemy  is  near  thee,  CI  695 
When  the  lamp  is  shattered,  Sh  369 
When  we  two  parted,  II  171 
Where  are  the  great,  ''1  695 
Where  lies  the  land  (Songs  in  absence),  CI 

701 
Where  shall  the  lover  rest  ( Mann  ion ),  Sc 

L26 
Whirl'blasl   from  behind  the  hill,  A,  W  s 
Whitman,  To  Walt,  Sw  886 
Who  kill'd  John  Keats,  B  271 
Why  from  the  world  (Ferishtah's fancies), 

RB  682 
Why  I  am  a  Liberal,  RB  682 
Why,  why   repine.  L  440 


Will,  T  524 

William  and  Helen,  Sc  105 

William  Shakespeare,  Sw  899 

William  Wordsworth,  To,  C  99 

Willowwood,  R  799 

Wind,  A  word  with  the,  Sw  908 

Wind,  Ode  to  the  west.  Sh  2E7 

Winter  Weather,  M  824 

Wish  no  word  unspoken  (Ferishtah's  fan- 
cies), RB  681 

With  a  guitar,  To  Jane,  Sh  368 

With  flowers  from  a  Roman  wall,  Sc  108 

Without  her,  R  800 

With  rosy  hand  a  little  girl  pressed  clown, 
L442 

With  whom  is  no  variableness,  CI  702 

Woman's  last  word,  A,  RB  617 

Woodspurge,  The,  R  788 

Wordsworth,  To,  Sh  276 

Wordsworth,  To,  L  438 

Wordsworth,  To  William,  C  99 

Word  with  the  wind,  A,  Sw  908 

W< >rk  without  hope,  C  101 

World  is  a  bundle  of  hay,  The,  B  271 

World  is  too  much  with  us,  The,  W  50 

Worldly  place,  Ar  7(51 

World's  great  age  begins  anew,  The,  Sh367 

Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever,  Sh  366 

W( aid's  wanderers,  The,  Sh  348 

Wrestling-match,  The  (Gebir),  L  427 

Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills,  Sh  293 

Written  in  dejection  near  Naples,  Sh  296 

Written  in  early  spring,  W  7 

Written  in  Kensington  Gardens,  Ar  724 

Written  in  London,  W  32 

Written  in  March,  W  26 

"Written  in  the  album  at  Elbingerode,  C  93 

Written  on  the  road  between  Florence  and 
Pisa,  B  271 

Yarrow  revisited,  W  59 

Yarrow  unvisited,  W  39 

Yarrow  visited,  W  54 

Year's  at  the  spring,  The  (Pippa  passes),  RB 

576 
Years,  many  parti-colored  years,  L  455 
Yes,  I  write  verses  now  and  then,  L  441 
Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  echo,  W  48 
Yew-trees,  W  36 

You  ask  me  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease,  T  479 
You'll  love  me  yet  (Pippa  passes),  RB588 
Young  lady,  To  a,  W  4(i 
Young  Lochinvar  (Marmion),  Sc  141 
You  smiled,  you  spoke,  L  442 
Youili.  to,  L454 
Youth  and  age,  C  101 
Youth  and  art,  KB  606 
Youth  and  calm,  Ar  761 
Youth  of  nature.  The.  Ar  719 
Youth  of  the  year,  The  (Atalanta  in  Caly- 

doii  .  Sw  866 
Youth's  antiphony,  R  795 
Youth's  spring  tribute,  R  795 

Zapolya,  Song  from,  C  101 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


A  baby's  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink,  Sw  901 
Accuse  me  not,  beseech  thee,  that  I  wear, 

EBB  558 
Across  the  empty  garden-beds,  M  834 
Across  the  gap  made  by  our  English  hinds, 

M  855 
Action    trill  furnish    belief — but  will  that 

belief  be  the  true  one?  CI  693 
A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by,  W 

50 
After  dark  vapors  have  oppressed  our  plains, 

K380 
Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave,  T  506 
Agnes  went  through  the  meadows  a-weeping, 

M  862 
A  golden  gilliflower  to-day,  M  832 
Ah!  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh,  Sc  165 
Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain,  RB  632 
A  heavy  heart,  Beloved,  have  I  borne,  EBB 

560 
Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race,  L  428 
A  king  lived  long  ago,  RB  586 
Alas!  how  soon  the  hours  are  over,  L  443 
A  little  child,  a  limber  elf,  C  88 
A  little  while  a  little  love,  R  788 
All   along  the   valley,   stream    that    flashest 

white,  T  539 
All  day  long  and  every  day,  M  826 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  faggot  for  burning,  Sc 

161 
All  I  can  say  is  —  I  saw  it !  RB  674 
All  June   I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves,  RB 

629 
All  nature  seems  at  work.  Slugs  leave  their 

lair,  C  101 
All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God,  RB  572 
AU  that  I  know,  RB  626 
All  the  bells  of  heaven  may  ring,  Sw  900 
All  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  year  in 

the  bag  of  one  bee,  RB  683 
All  the  night  sleep  came  not  upon  my  eye- 
lids, Sw  878 
All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights,  C  91 
Along  these  low-pleached  lanes,  Sw  903 
A  lovely  form  there  sate  beside  my  bed,  C 

103 
Among    the    wondrous    ways    of    men    and 

time,  Sw  910 


An  aged  man  who  loved  to  doze  away,  L  458 
And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form,  T  513 
And  here  the  singer  for  his  art,  T  550 
And  is  this  Yarrow?  This  the  stream,  W  54 
And  now   Love  sang;  but  his  was  such  a 

song,  R  799 
Andromeda,  by  Perseus  saved  and  wed,  R 

786 
And  so  you  found  that  poor  room  dull,  RB 

674 
And  the  first  gray  of  morning  fill'd  the  east, 

Ar  728 
And  therefore  if  to  love  can  be  desert,  EBB 

557 
And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair,  B  171 
And  thou,  O  life,  the  lady  of  all   bliss,   R 

808 
And  what  though  winter  will  pinch  severe, 

Sc  163 
And  wilt  thou  have  me  fashion  into  speech, 

EBB  557 
And  ye  maun  braid  your  yellow  hair,   Sw 

899 
And  yet,  because  thou  overcomest,  EBB  558 
An  old.  mad,  blind,  despised    .    king,  Sh  297 
Another  year !  another  deadly  blow,  W  50 
A  pen  —  to  register;  a  key,  W  58 
A  Poet!  he  hath  put  his  heart  to  school,  W 

62 
A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea,  Sh  310 
Arches  on  arches!  as  it  were  that  Rome,  B 

237 
Arethusa  arose,  Sh  346 
Ariel  to  Miranda  —  Take,  Sh  368 
A  rock  there  is  whose  homely  front,  W  59 
A  roundel  is  wrought  as  a  ring  or  a  star- 
bright  sphere,  Sw  902 
Artemidora!  Gods  invisible,  L  436 
Art  thou  a  statist  in  the  van,  W  15 
Art  thou  indeed  among  these,  Sw  881 
Art  thou  pale  for  weariness,  Sh  348 
A  sensitive  plant  in  a  garden  grew,  Sh  338 
As  growth  of  form  or  momentary  glance,  R 

802 
A  ship  with  shields  before  the  sun,  M  838 
—  A  simple  child,  W  6 
A  simple  ring  with  a  single  stone,  RB  683 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride,  RB  593 


924 


INDEX   OF    FIRST    LINES 


925 


Ask  me  no  more;  the  moon  may  draw  the 

sea,  T  499 
Ask  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet,  Sw  899 
Ask  not  one  least  word  of  praise,  RB  6S2 
As  late  I  journey'd  o'er  the  extensive  plain, 

C  66 
A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal,  W  15 
A  sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument,  R  793 
As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay,  CI  68S 
As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face,  T  506 
As  thro'  the  fields  at  eve  we  went,  T  498 
As  thy  friend's   face,   with  shadow  of  soul 

o'erspread,  R  807 
4  still,  serene,  soft  dav:  enough  of  sun,  L 

441 
As   two   whose  love,   first   foolish,    widening 

scope,  R  802 
A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold,  C  101 
As  when  desire,  long  darkling,   dawns,  and 

first,  R  793 
As    when    far   off   the    warbled    strains    are 

heard,  C  69 
As  when  two  men  have  loved  a  woman  well, 

R  806 
At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Gren- 

ville  lay,  T  543 
A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever,  K  381 
At  midnight  by  the  stream  I  roved,  C  68 
At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight 

appears,  W  5 
At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep- 
time  RB  686 
Ave  Maria!  blessed  be  the  hour,  B  251 
A  voice  by  the  cedar-tree,  T  519 
A  wanderer  is  man  from  his  birth,  Ar  724 
Away,  haunt  thou  not  me,  CI  688 
Away,  my  verse;  and  never  fear,  L  430 
Awav,  the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon, 

Sh  275 
Away,  ve  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses, 

B  170 
A  whirl-blast  from  behind  the  hill,  W  8 
A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love,  Sh 

369 

Back  to  the  flower-town,  side  by  side,  Sw  876 
Banner    of    England,    not    for   a  season,   O 

banner  of  Britain,  hast  thou,  T  546 
Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth,  K  406 
Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead!  RB  618 
Beautiful  spoils!  borne  off  from  vanquished 

death!  L  456 
Beauty  like  hers  is  genius.     Not  the  call,  R 

796 
Because  thou   hast  the  power,   and  own'st 

the  grace,  EBB  563 
Before  the  beginning  of  years,  Sw  867 
Behold  her,  single  in  the  field,  W  38 
Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade,  W  26 
Beloved,  my  beloved,  when  I  think,  EBB  559 
Beloved,  thou  hast  brought  me  many  flowers, 

EBB  564 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  dawn's  aerial  cope, 

Sw  899 
Beneath   these   fruit-tree  boughs  that    shed, 

\Y  35 


Beneath  yon  birch  with  silver  bark,  C  92 
Between  the  hands,  between  the  brows,  R 

792 
Between  the   moondawn  and   the  sundown 

here,  Sw  892 
Between  the  sunset  and  the  sea,  Sw  872 
Bird  of  the  bitter  bright  gray  golden  morn, 

Sw  891 
Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden,  T  519 
Blow  trumpet,  for  the  world  is  white  with 

May,  T  540 
Bob  Sou  they!  you're  a  poet  —  Poet-laureate. 

B240 
Boot,  saddle,  to  horse  and  awa}%  RB  593 
Borgia,  thou  once  wert  almost  too   august, 

L  438 
Break,  break,  break,  T  497 
Bright  clouds  float  in  heaven,  Sh  329 
Bright  flower!  whose  home  is  everywhere,  W 

35 
Bright  star !  would  I  were  steadfast  as   thou 

art!K  423 
Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast,  Sc  166 
—  Brook  and  road,  W  12 
Brother  mine,  calm  wandered,  Sh  334 
Bury  the  Great  Duke,  T  514 
But  "carpe  diem,"  Juan,  "carpe  diem!"  B 

256 
But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more,  RB  650 
But  Gebir,  when  he  heard  of  her  approach, 

L426 
But  he  —  to  him,  who  knows  what  gift  of 

thine,  Sw  910 
But  if  as  not  by  that  the  soul  desired,  CI  705 
But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue,  L 

427 
But  knowing  now  that  they  would  have  her 

speak.  M  828 
But  onlv  three  in  all  God's  universe,  EBB 

555 
By  thine  own  tears  thy  song  must  tears  beget, 

R  802 
By  what  word's  power,   the  key  of  paths 

untrod,  R  794 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound,  T  501 
Can  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give,  EBB 

557 
Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquer 'd  be,  B 

236 
Child  of  a  day,  thou  knowest  not,  L  430 
Coldly,  sadly  descends,  Ar  766 
Come  "back,  come  back,  behold  with  straining 

mast  CI  700 
Come  back,  ye  wandering  muser,  come  back 

home,  L  555 
Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away,  Ar  708 
Come  hither,  all  sweet  maidens,  soberly,  K 

380 
Come  hither,   lads,    and   harken,   for  a  tale 

there  is  to  tell,  M  860 
Come  home,  come  home!  and  where  is  home 

for  me,  CI  700 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud,  T  521 
Come  not,  when  I  am  dead,  T  514 
Come,  poet,  come!  CI  704 


926 


BRITISH   POETS 


Comfort  thee,  O  thou  mourner,  yet  awhile  I 

L  444 
Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet 

'tis  early  morn,  T  4S8 
Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime,  R  779 
Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time,  T  512 
Could   Juno's  self  more  sovereign  presence 

wear,  R  79S 
Could  we  forget  the  widow's  hour,  T  504 
Could  you  not  drink  her  gaze  like  wine?  R 

777 
"Courage!"   he    said,    and    pointed    toward 

the  land, T  472 
Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed,  Ar  764 
Crouch 'd  on  the  pavement,  close  by  Belgrave 

Square,  Ar  762 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand,  T 

501 
Darkness  has  dawned  in  the  east,  Sh  367 
Dawn  talks  to-day,  M  858 
Day,  RB  570 
Days  dawn    on    us    that    make    amends  for 

many,  Sw  907 
Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep,  Sc  114 
Dear   and   great   angel,    wouldst   thou   only 

leave,  RB  631 
Dear  child  of  nature !  let  them  rail,  W  46 
Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  last  desire,  T  513 
Dear,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice,  RB  630 
Dear,  near  and  true  —  no  truer  Time  him- 
self, T  539 
Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low,  L 

456 
Death,  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  one  for 

whom,  Sw  909 
Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale,  K  410 
Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows,  T  479 
Departing  summer  hath  assumed,  W  56 
Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore,  T  507 
Dos'nt   thou    'ear   my    'erse's  legs,   as  they 

canter  awaay?  T  541 
Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been,  T 

506 
Do  you   remember  me?  or  are  you  proud? 

L  441 

Each  eve  earth  falleth  down  the  dark,  M  861 
Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair,  W 

31 
Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood  I   Sh 

276 
Eat  thou  and  drink ;  tomorrow  thou  shalt  die, 

R  803 
Echoes  we:  listen  1  Sh  314 
Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay,  C  98 
Escape  me?  RB  630 

Eternal  hatred  I  have  sworn  against,  L  457 
Eternal    Spirit    of    the    chainless    Mind,    B 

206 
Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky,  W  58 
Even  as  a  child,  of  sorrow  that  we  give,  R 

797 
Even  in  a  palace,  life  may  be  led  well,  Ar 

761 
Ever  let  the  fancy  roam,  K  390 


Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel,  K  391 
Fair  is  the  night  and  fair  the  day,  M  855 
Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore,  T  501 
Fair  Star  of  evening,  Splendor  of  the  west,  W 

31 
Fame,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be  coy, 

K  423 
Fare  thee  well,  and  if  for  ever,  B  188 
Far-fetched  and  dear  bought,  as  the  proverb 

rehearses,  Sw  902 
Faster,  faster,  Ar  710 
Father!  I  now  may  lean  upon  your  heart,  L 

433 
Father!  the  little  girl  we  see,  L  437 
Fear  death?  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat,  RB 

667 
Fiend,  I  defy  thee!  with  a  calm  fixed  mind, 

Sh303 
Fire  is  in  the  flint:  true,  once  a  spark  escapes, 

RB  681 
First  pledge  our  Queen  this  solemn  night,  T 

517 
First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed, 

EBB  563 
Five  years  have  passed;  five  summers  with 

the  length,  W  9 
Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea,  T  494 
Flowers  I  never  fancied,  jewel  —  I  profess 

you !  RB  674 
Flower  in  the  crannied  wall,  T  541 
Foil'd  by  our  fellow-men,  depress 'd,  outworn, 

Ar  762 
For  many,  many  days  together,  M  825 
For  Orford  and  for  Waldegrave,  B  271 
Four  seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year,  K 

389 
Friend  of  the  wise!  and  teacher  of  the  good, 

C99 
Friends!    hear    the    words    my    wandering 

thoughts  would  say,  L  457 
From  child  to  vouth;  from  youth  to  arduous 

man,  R  802 
From  eve  to  morn,  from  morn  to  parting 

night,  L  440 
From  heavy  dreams  fair  Helen  rose,  Sc  105 
From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb,  W 

57 
From  Sterling  Castle  we  had  seen,  W  39 
From  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the  ends  of 

the  earth,  Sh  307 
From  the  forest'1'  and  highlands,  Sh  346 
From  unremembered  ages  we,  Sh  309 
Frowned  the  Laird  on  the  Lord :     "  So,  red- 
handed  I  catch  thee?"  RB  683 

Get  thee  behind  me.  Even  as,  heavy-curled, 

R  806 
Give  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me,  RB 

582 
Give  honor  unto  Luke  Evangelist,  R  804 
Give  me  the  eyes  that  look  on  mine,  L  442 
Glion?  —  Ah,  twenty  years,  it  cuts,  Ar  768 
Glory  and  loveliness  have  passed  away,  K 

380 
Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of 

song,  T  540 


INDEX   OF    FIRST   LINES 


927 


God  said,  Let  there  be  light!  and  there  was 

light,  R  778 
Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece,  Ar  713 
Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the  hill, 

Ar  741 
Go  from   me,  yet  I   feel  that  I  shall  stand, 

EBB  556 
Gold  on  her  head  and  gold  on  her  feet,  M  834 
Go  not,  happy  day,  T  520 
Good,  to  forgive,  RB  677 
Great  men  have  been  among  us;  hands  that 

penned,  W  33 
Great  Michelangelo,  with  age  grown  bleak, 

R  807 
Great  spirits  row  on  earth  are  sojourning,  K 

373 
Green  fields  of  England!  wheresoe'er,  CI  700 
Grow  old  along  with  me,  RB  659 

Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough 

and  to  spare,  RB  619 
Had  she  come  all  the  way  for  this?  M  836 
Had  this  effulgence  disappeared,  W  55 
Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances, 

Sc  159 
Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit,  Sh  344 
Half  a  league,  half  a  league,  T  518 
Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick,  RB  598 
Hapless  doom  of  woman  happy  in  betroth- 
ing, T  543 
Harken,  thou  craggy  ocean  pyramid!  K  3S9 
Harp  of  the  north,  farewell!  The  hills  grow 

dark,  Sc  160 
Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star, 

C  96 
Hast  thou  seen  with  flash  incessant,W  55 
Have  you  not  noted  in  some  family,  R  796 
Heap  cassia,  sandal-buds,  and  stripes,   RB 

568 
Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell,  C  73 
Heavenborn  Helen,  Sparta's  queen,  R  789 
He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands,  T  514 
He  held  no  dream  worth  waking:  so  he  said, 

Sw  910 
He  is  gone  on  the  mountain,  Sc  160 
Here  begins  the  sea  that  ends  not  till  the 

world's  end.     Where  we  stand,  Sw  906 
Here   is   a  story,  shall  stir  you!   Stand  up, 

Greeks  dead  and  gone,  RB  679 
Here,  oh  here,  Sh  329 
Here   pause;   the   poet   claims   at  least   this 

praise,  W  51 
Here's  my  case.     Of  old  I  used  to  love  him, 

RB  673 
Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rous- 
seau, B  200 
Here,  where  precipitate  spring,  with  one  light 

bound,  L  431 
Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer,  T  504 
He  rose  at  dawn  and  fired  with  hope,  T  536 
He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best,  C  81 
Hie  away,  hie  away,  Sc  162 
High  grace,  the  dower  of  queens;  and  there- 
withal, R  798 
High   is   our   calling,  Friend!    Creative   art, 
W55 


His  soul  fared  forth  as  from  the  deep  home 

grove,  R  812 
Ho !  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me,  M  838 
Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead,  T  499 
Honey-flowers  to  the  honey-comb,  R  809 
Hope  evermore  and  believe,  O  man,  for  e'en 

as  thy  thought,  CI  698 
How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or 

fills,  Ar  757 
How    clear,    how    keen,    how    marvellously 

bright,  W  55 
How  do  I  love  thee?  Let  me  count  the  ways, 

EBB  564 
How  fever'd  is  the  man,  who  cannot  look,  K 

423 
How  long  in  his  damp  trance  young  Juan 

lay,  B  244 
How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time,  K 

373 
How  many  voices  gaily  sing,  L  443 
How  often  sit  I,  poring  o'er,  CI  688 
How   seldom  friend!  a  good  great  man   in- 
herits, C  98    . 

I  am  a  painter  who  cannot  paint,  RB  581 
"  I  am  not  as  these  are,"  the  poet  saith,  R  804 
I  am  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delight,  W  49 
I  am  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave !  RB 

644 
I  am  that  which  began,  Sw  882 
I    am  thine   harp   between   thine  hands,  O 

mother!  Sw  887 
Ian  the !  you  are  called  to  cross  the  sea !  L  43 1 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee,  Sh  299 
I  ask  not  that  my  bed  of  death,  Ar  765 
I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 

Sh343 
I  built  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house,  T 

468 
I  Catherine  am  a  Douglas  born,  R  812 
I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern,  T  518 
I  come  to  visit  thee  again,  L  442 
I    could    have    painted    pictures    like    that 

youth's,  RB  608 
I  did  not  look  upon  her  eyes,  R  780 
I  dreamed  that,  as  I  wandered  by  the  way, 

Sh347 
I  envy  not  in  any  moods,  T  503 
If  childhood  were  not  in  the  world,  Sw  900 
If  ever  I  should  condescend  to  prose,  B  242 
I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden,  Sh  345 
If  from  the  public  wav  you  turn  your  steps, 

W  19 
If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange, 

EBB  562 
If  it  is  thou  whose  casual  hand  withdraws, 

CI  705 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is,  Sw  874 
If  Nature,  for  a  favorite  child,  W  16 
If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers,  RB 

667 
I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land,  Sh 

293 
In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and 

highland,  Sw  SS9 
In  a  drear-nighted  December,  K  389 


928 


BRITISH    POETS 


In  a  soft-complexioned  sky,  R  788 

[ndeed   this  very  love  which  is  my  boast, 

EBB  557 
1  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away.  EBB  55S 
Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale  I  stood,  W  32 
In  love,  if  love  be  ours,  T  524 
In  our  museum  galleries,  R  783 
In  the  bare  midst  of  Anglesey  they  show,  Ar 

762 
In   the  deserted,   moon-blanch 'd   street,  Ar 

721 
In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan,  W  6 
In   the   white-flowered   hawthorn   brake,    M 

855 
In  this  lone,  open  glade  I  lie,  Ar  724 
In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell,  T  506 
In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan,  C  72 
In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went,  W  34 
I  past  beside  the  reverend  walls,  T  508 
Iphigeneia,    when   she   heard   her   doom,    L 

445 
I  plucked  a  honeysuckle  where,  R  788 
I    read,    before    my    eyelids    dropped    their 

shade,  T  474 
I  said :  "  Nay,  pluck  not,  let  the  first  fruit  be, " 

R305 
I  said  —  Then  dearest,  since  'tis  so,  RB  634 
I  sate  beside  a  sage's  bed,  Sh  310 
I  sat  with  love  upon  a  woodside  well,  R  799 
I  saw  again  the  spirits  on  a  day,  CI  69 
I  see  thine  image  through  my  tears  tonight, 

EBB  561 
I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  mv  heart,  RB 

596 
I  shiver,  spirit  fierce  and  bold,  W  36 
I  sing  the  fates  of  Gebir.     He  had  dwelt,  L 

425 
I  sing  to  him  that  rests  below,  T  502 
Is  it  indeed  so?  If  I  lay  here  dead,  EBB  560 
Is  it  not  better  at  an  early  hour,  L  443 
Is  it  not  true  that  every  day,  M  827 
I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin,  T  500 
I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he,  RB 

603 
Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child, 

B  189 
I  stood  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  B 

234 
I  stood  on  Brocken's  sovran  height,  and  saw, 

C93 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall,  B  231 
I  strove  with  none:  for  none  was  worth  my 

strife,  L  456 
Italia,  mother  of  the  souls  of  men,  Sw  907 
Italia!  oh  Italia!  thou  who  hast,  B  236 
Italia!  too,  Italia!  looking  on  thee,  B  204 
It  does  not  hurt.    She  looked  along  the  knife, 

Sw  889 
It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know,  CI  702 
I  thank  all  who  have  loved  me  in  their  hearts, 

EBB  564 
I  think  of  thee!  my  thoughts  do  twine  and 

bud,    EBB   561 
I  thought  of  thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide, 

W  57 


I   thought  once   how  Theocritus  had  sung, 

EBB  555 
It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  W 

31 
It  is  an  ancient  mariner,  C  73 
It  is  not  sweet  content,  be  sure,  CI  694 
It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood,  W 

33 
It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March,  W  8 
It  is  the  miller's  daughter,  T  463 
It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around,  K  380 
It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king,  T  487 
It  once  might  have  been,  once  only,  RB  666 

It  seems  a  day,  W  13 

I  travelled  among  unknown  men,  W  15 

It  was  a  dream  (ah!  what  is  not  a  dream?), 

L  456 
It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see,  C  84 
It  was  roses,  roses  all  the  way,  RB  633 
I've  a  friend,  over  the  sea,  Rfi  606 
I  waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry,  T  492 
I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,  W  43 
I  was  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  pile,  W 

45 
I  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead,  Sh-  358 
I  will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind,  T  510 
I  wonder  do  you  feel  today,  RB  628 
I  wonder  not  that  youth  remains,  L  455 

J'ai  vu  faner  bien  des  choses,  Sw  872 

Juan  knew  several  languages  —  as  well,   B 

253 
June  was  not  over,  RB  629 
Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us,  RB  603 

Keen,  fitful  gusts  are  whispering  here  and 

there,  K  373 
Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King,  RB  592 
King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 

RB  593 
Kissing  her  hair  I  sat  against  her  feet,  Sw 

876 
Know'st  thou  not  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  R  776 
Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and 

myrtle,  B  172 

Lady  Alice,  Lady  Louise,  M  835 

Late,  late,  so  late!  and  dark  the  night  and 

chill,    T  527 
Lately  our  songsters  loiter'd  in  green  lanes, 

L  457 
Le  navire,  Sw  871 

Let  no  man  ask  thee  of  anything,  R  810 
Let's  contend  no  more,  Love,  RB  617 
Let  the  world's  sharpness,  like  a  clasping 

knife  EBB  560 
Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse,  RB 

635 
Let  your  hands  meet,  Sw  869 
Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not,  Sh  366 
Life  of  life !  the  lips  enkindle,  Sh  320 
Light  flows  our  war  of  mocking  words,  and 

yet,  Ar  723 
Light  of  our  fathers'  eyes,  and,  in  our  own, 

Sw891 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


929 


Like  labor-laden  moonclouds  faint  to  flee,  R 

799 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  dear  friend  dead,  Sh  348 
Live  thy  life,  T  553 
Lo,  from  our  loitering  ship  a  new  land  at  last 

to  be  seen,  M  863 
Lo,  here  is  God,  and  there  is  God !  CI  689 
Long  fed  on  boundless  hopes,  O  race  of  man, 

Ar  762 
Look  in  my  face;  my  name  is  Might-have- 
been,  R  807 
Lord  of  days  and  nights,  that  hear  thy  word 

of  wintry  warning,  Sw  908 
Lord  of  the  Celtic  dells,  L  438 
Love  is  and  was  my  lord  and  king,  T  513 
Love  is  enough:  ho  ye  who  seek  saving,  M 

859 
Love's  priestess,  mad  with  pain  and  joy  of 

song,  Sw  895 
Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought, 

T  480 
Love  to  his  singer  held  a  glistening  leaf,  R 

801 
Low  was  our  pretty  cot,  our  tallest  rose,  C  69 
Lo,  when  we  wade  the  tangled  wood,  M  864 
Lo !  where  the  four  mimosas  blend  their  shade, 

L  432 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part,  B  170 
Man  is  blind  because  of  sin,  Ar  764 
Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be,  Sh  293 
Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs 

after  many  a  vanish 'd  face,  T  550 
Many  love  music  but  for  music's  sake,  L  455 
March,   march,   Ettrick  and   Teviotdale,   Sc 

165 
Master  of  the  murmuring  courts,  R  786 
Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet,  L  431 
Milton!  thou  should 'st  be  living  at  this  hour, 

W33 
Moderate  tasks  and  moderate  leisure,  Ar  714 
Monarch  of  gods  and  demons  and  all  spirits, 

Sh  299 
Mont  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains,  B 

215 
Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes,  W  61 
Mother,  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel,  L  440 
Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold,  K 

373 
Music,  when  soft  voices  die,  Sh  358 
My  boat  is  on  the  shore,  B  234 
My  briar  that  smelledst  sweet,  L  432 
My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning,  Sh 

319 
My  father  was  a  scholar  and  knew  Greek,  RB 

684 
My  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 

RB  641 
My  future  will  not  copy  fair  my  past,  EBB 

564 
My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men,  T 

493 
My  hair  is  gray  but  not  with  years,  B  206 
My    heart    aches,   and  a  drowsy  numbness 

pains,  K  408 


My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold,  W  26 
My  hopes  retire,  my  wishes  as  before,  L  443 
My  letters!  all  dead  paper,  mute  and  white, 

EBB  561 
My  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees,  T 

509 
My  love,  this  is  the  bitterest,  that  thou,  RB  626 
My  own  Beloved,  who  hast  lifted  me,  EBB 

seo 

My  poet,  thou  canst  touch  on  all  the  notes, 

EBB  558 
My  sister!  my  sweet  sister!  if  a  name,  B  210 
My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat,  Sh  321 
My  spirit  is  too  weak  —  mortality,  K  386 

Nay,  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her,  RB  605 
Nay  traveller!  rest.     This  lonely  yew  tree 

stands,  W  4 
Never  the  time  and  (he  place,  RB  681 
Nobly,    nobly,    Cape   Saint   Vincent   to   the 

Northwest  died  away,  RB  605 
No,  great  Dome  of  Agrippa,  thou  art  not 

Christian!  canst  not,  CI  692 
Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame,  Sb 

358 
No  more — no  more  —  Oh !  never  more  on  me, 

B  242 
Now  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came, 

K  372 
No,  my  own  Love  of  other  years!  L  441 
Non  ego  hoc  ferrem  calida  juventa,  B  242 
No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist,  K 

409 
Not  as  with  sundering  of  the  earth,  Sw  869 
Not  by  one  measure  may'st  thou  mete  our 

love,  R  798 
Nothing  so  difficult  as  a  beginning,  B  253 
No!  those  days  are  gone  away,  K  388 
Not  if  men's  tongues  and  angels'  all  in  one, 

Sw  899 
Not  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee,  R 

798 
Not  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my  God, 

R  778 
Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut,  T  503 
Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow,  T  511 
Nuns    fret   not    at    their    convents'   narrow 

room,  W  48 

O  bitter  sea,  tumultuous  sea,  M  839 

O  blithe  new-comer!  I  have  heard,  W  42 

O  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair,  Sc  161 

O  death  that  makest  life  so  sweet,  M  840 

O  diviner  air,  T  549 

Of  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told,  R  805 

Of  heaven  or  hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing,  M 

842 
Of  late,  in  one  of  those  most  weary  hours,  O 

102 
Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights,  T  479 
O  follow,  follow,  Sh  314 
O  Friend !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  turn, 

W  32 
Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  Sw  900 
Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray,  W  18 


93° 


BRITISH    POETS 


O  Goddess!    hear    these    tuneless    numbers, 

wrung,  K  406 
O  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth, 

RB  057 
Oh  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to 

find,  R3  621 
O  happy  seafarers  are  ye,  M  840 
O  heart  of  hearts,  the  chalice  of  love's  fire, 

Sw  S88 
Oh!  pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy,  W  46 
Oh!  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom,  B  186 
Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  storv. 

B  271 
Oh !  there  are  spirits  of  the  air,  Sh  275 
Oh,  to  be  in  England,  RB  605 
Oh  ves!  thev  love  through  all  this  world  of 

'ours,  EBB  563 
Oh!   young   Lochinvar   is   come   out  of   the 

west,  Sc  141 
O  June,  O  June,  that  we  desired  so,  M  854 
"  Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true, "  CI 

700 
O  let  me  love  my  love  unto  myself  alone,  CI  704 
O,  let  the  solid  ground,  T  519 
O  living  will  that  shalt  endure,  T  513 
O  lord  of  all  compassionate  control,  R  794 
O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see,  Sc  113 
O  lyric  Love,  half  angel  and  half  bird,  RB 

668 
O  muse  that  swayest  the  sad  northern  song, 

M  864 
On  a  battle- trumpet's  blast,  Sh  310 
On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept,  Sh  310 
Once  did  she  hold  the  glorious  earth  in  fee, 

W  31 
Once  in  a  golden  hour,  T  539 
Once  more  the  changed  year's  turning  wheel 

returns,  R  805 
Once  more  upon  the  waters!  yet  once  more, 

B189 
One  day,  it  thundered  and  lightened,  RB  680 
One  flame-winged   brought  a  white-winged 

harp-player,  R  794 
On  either  side  the  river  lie,  T  462 
One  lesson,  Nature,  let  me  learn  of  thee,  CI 

708 
One  morn  before  me  were  three  figures  seen, 

K  405 
One  word  is  too  often  profaned,  Sh  368 
One  writes  that  "other  friends  remain,"  T 

500 
One  year  ago  my  path  was  green,  L  441 
O  mighty-mouth 'd  inventor  of  harmonies,  T 

536 
On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning, 

Sh  320 
On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hague,  sixteen  hun- 
dred ninety-two,  RB  669 
On  the  smooth  brow  and  clustering  hair,  L 

443 
On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head,  C  70 
On  this  sweet  bank  your  head  thrice  sweet 

and  dear,  R  795 
O  only  source  of  all  our  light  and  life,  CI  698 
O  pensive,  tender  maid,  downcast  and  shy, 

M854 


O  Rome!  my  country!  city  of  the  soul,  B  236 
O  set  us  down  together  in  some  place,  M  850 
Or  shall  I  say,  vain  word,  false  thought,  CI 

694 
O  ship,  ship,  ship,  CI  702 
O  sleep,  it  is  a  gentle  thing,  C  77 
O  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight,  K  423 
O  solitude !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell,  K  372 
O  sorrow,  K  3S6 
O  sorrow,  cruel  fellowship,  T  500 
O  sovereign  power  of  love!  O  grief!  O  balm! 

K385 
O  stream  descending  to  the  sea,  CI  702 
O  swallow,  swallow,  flying,  flying  south,  T 

498 
O  that  I  now,  I  too  were,  Sw  868 
O  that  'twere  possible,  T  523 
Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free,  Ar 

708 
O  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm,  T  504 
O  thou  that  sendest  out  the  man,  T  542 
O  thou  who  at  Love's  hour  ecstatically,  R 

793 
O  thou!  whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought, 

W33 
O  thou  whose  image  on  the  shrine,  CI  699 
O  thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang, 

K  382 
O    thou,    wild    fancy,    check   thy   wing!   No 

more,  C  66 
Our  gaieties,  our  luxuries,  CI  695 
Our   hided  vessels  in  their  pitchy  round,  L 

427 
Our  spoil  is  won,  Sh  331 
Out  of  my  way!   Off!  or  my  sword  may  strike 

thee,  L  452 
Overhead  the  tree-tops  meet,  RB  591 
Over  the  great  windy  waters,  and  over  the 

clear-crested  summits,  CI  691 
Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went,  RB  568 
O,  well  for  him  whose  will  is  strong,  T  524 
O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms,  K  422 
O  wild  west  wind,  thou  breath  of  autumn's 

being,  Sh  297 
O  woman!  in  our  hours  of  ease,  Sc  156 
O  world !  O  life !  O  time !  Sh  358 
O  ye,  all  ye  that  walk  in  Willowwood,  R  800 
O  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good,  T  505 
O  young  mariner,  T  551 

Pansies,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies,  W  27 
Pardon,    oh   pardon,    that   my   soul   should 

make,  EBB  563 
Past  ruin'd  Ilion  Helen  lives,  L  431 
Peace,  come  away:  the  song  of  woe,  T  506 
Peace  in  her  chamber,  wheresoe'er,  R  727 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  Sc  163 
Pleasures  newly  found  are  sweet,  W  27 
Pleasure!  why' thus  desert  the  heart,  L  431 
Poet  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wept  to  know,  Sh 

603 
Pray    but    one    praver    for    me    'twixt    thy 

closed  lips,  M  827 
Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood,  Sc  164 
Proud  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will 

speak,  L  443 


INDEX   OF    FIRST   LINES 


93i 


Push  hard  across  the  sand,  Sw  866 

Put  forth  thy  leaf,  thou  lofty  plane,  CI  705 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court,  and  sat, 

T  525 
Quick,  painter,  quick,  the  moment  seize,  CI 

703 
Quoth  a  young  Sadducee,  RB  657 

Rain,  rain  and  sun!  a  rainbow  in  the  sky!  T 

540 
Raised  are  the  dripping  oars,  Ar  719 
Rarely,  rarely  comest  thou,  Sh  347 
Remain,  ah  not  in  youth  alone,  L  442 
"  Return"  we  dare  not  as  we  fain,  Sw  909 
Revered,  beloved  —  O  you  that  hold,  T  513 
Rhaicos  was  born  amid  the  hills  wherefrom, 

L446 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky,  T  510 
Rivulet  crossing  my  ground,  T  521 
Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean  — 

roll,  B  239 
Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest  Ilion's  lofty 

temples  robed  in  fire,  T  550 
Rome  disappoints  me  still;   but  I  shrink  and 

adapt  myself  to  it,  CI  692 
Rome  is  fallen,   I  hear,  the  gallant  Medici 

taken,  CI  693 
Room  after  room,  RB  630 
Rough    wind,    that    moanest   loud,    Sh   369 
Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 

RB  605 
Round  us  the  wild  creatures,  RB  681 
Rousseau  —  Voltaire  —  our  Gibbon  —  and  De 

Stael,  B  214 
Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione 

row!  T550 

Said  Abner  "At  last  thou  art  come!     Ere  I 

tell,  ere  thou  speak,  RB  611 
St.   Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,   bitter   chill   it  was! 

K  398 
Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate,  B  258 
Saith  man  to  man,  We've  heard  and  known, 

M860 
Savage,  I  was  sitting  in  my  house,  late,  lone : 

RB  671 
Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth,  CI  695 
Say  over  again  and  yet  once  over  again,  EBB 

549 
Say  what  blinds  us,  that  we  claim  the  glory, 

Ar  714 
Scorn  not  the  sonnet ;  critic,  you  have  frowned, 

W  58 
Sea  beyond  sea,  sand  after  sweep  of  sand, 

Sw902 
Season    of    mists    and    mellow    fruitfulness, 

K409 
Seaward  goes  the  sun,  and  homeward  by  the 

flown,  Sw  904 
See,  as  the  prettiest  grave  will  do  in  time, 

RB  605 
See  what  a  lovely  shell,  T  522 
Self-exiled   Harold   wanders   forth   again,    B 

191 
Send  but  a  song  oversea  for  us,   Sw  886 


Set  where  the  upner  streams  of  Simois  flow 

Ar  765 
Shall  I  sonnet-sing  you  about  myself?     RB 

672 
Shame  upon  you,  Robin,  T  543 
She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways,  W  14 
She  fell  asleep  on  Christmas  Eve,  R  774 
She  knew  it  not  —  most  perfect  pain,  R  779 
She  loves  him;    for  her  infinite  soul  is  love, 

R801 
She  should  never  have  looked   at  me,   RB 

594 
She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night,  B  186 
She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight,  W  42 
Sing   me   a   hero!     Quench   my   tnirst,    RB 

679 
So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd,  T 

481 
"So   careful  of  the  type?"  but  no,   T  505 
So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive,  W  62 
So  ends  the  winning  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  M 

842 
So  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end,  RB 

633 
So  go  forth  to  the  world,  to  the  good  report 

and  the  evil,  CI  693 
So  in  the  sinful  streets,  abstracted  and  alone, 

CI  697 
So,  I  shall  see  her  in  just  three  days,  RB  631 
Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfare  o'er,  Sc  159 
Some  future  day  when  what  is  now  is  not, 

CI  701 
Some  ladies  love  the  jewels  in  Love's  zone, 

R794 
Sometimes  thou  seem'st  not  as  thyself  alone, 

R797 
So  now  my  summer  task   is  ended,  Mary, 

Sh291 
Soon,  O  Ianthe!  life  is  o'er,  L  442 
So  sang  he:  and  as  meeting  rose  and  rose, 

R800 
"So   say  the  foolish!"  Say  the  foolish  so, 

love,  RB  683 
So  then,  I  feel  not  deeply!  if  I  did,  L  455 
Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone,  K  390 
Sound,   sound   the  clarion,  fill    the    fife,  Sc 

163 
So  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving,  B  271 
Spray  of  song  that  swings  in  April,  light  of 

love  that  laughs  through  May,  Sw  905 
Spring  am  I,  too  soft  of  heart,  M  857 
Stand  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set,  L  437 
Standing  aloof  in  giant  ignorance,  K  389 
Stand  still,  true  poet  that  you  are,  RB  632 
Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God,  W  44 
Strahan,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the  times,  B  270 
Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known,  W  14 
Strew  on  her  roses,  roses,  Ar  727 
Strong  son  of  God,  immortal  Love,  T  499 
Such,  British  Public,  ye  who  like  me  not,  RB 

668 
Such  a  starved  bank  of  roses,  RB  677 
Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming,  T  553 
Sunset  and  evening  star,  T  553 
Surprised  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  wind, 

W55 


932 


BRITISH   POETS 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low,  T  498 
Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air,  T  508 
Sweet  dimness  of  her  loosened  hair's  down- 
fall, R  797 
Sweet  Highland  girl,  a  very  shower;  W  37 
Sweet  is  true  love,  tho'  given  in  vain,  T  525 
Sweet  spirit,  sister  of  that  orphan  one,  Sh  348 
Sweet  stream-fed  glen,  why  say  "farewell" 

to  thee,  R  S06 
Sweet  twining  hedge  flowers  wind-stirred  in 

no  wise,  R  795 
Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave,  Sh  357 

Take  these  flowers,  which  purple  waving,  Sc 

108 
Tanagra!  think  not  I  forget,  L  436 
Tax  not  the  royal  saint  with  vain  expense, 

W57 
Tears,    idle    tears,    L   know   not   what   they 

mean,  T  497 
Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees,  T  501 
Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light,  Sh 

348 
That  second  time  they  hunted  me,  RB  606 
That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 

RB  595 
That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow,  Ar  761 
That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless,  T  512 
The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the 

fold,  B  187 
The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power,  Sh 

287 
The  Baron  of  Smaylho'me  rose  with  day,  Sc 

108 
The  bee  with  his  comb,  RB  591 
The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out,  R  774 
The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels,  B  196 
The  chrysolites  and  rubies  Bacchus  brings, 

L455 
The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down,  T  511 
The  clearest  eyes  in  all  the  world  they  read, 

Sw  909 
The  cock  is  crowing,  W  26 
The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave,  T  502 
The  day  is  dark  and  the  night,  R  808 
The  day  returns,  my  natal  day,  L  443 
The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still,  Ar  764 
The  everlasting  universe  of  things,  Sh  288 
The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  I  think, 

EBB  55 
The  fancy  I  had  today,  RB  671 
The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine 

oath,  EBB  562 
The  flower  that  smiles  today,  Sh  358 
The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river,  Sh  299 
The  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry,  C  90 
The  gallant  youth,  who  may  have  gained,  W 

59 
The  gods  held  talk  together,  group 'd  in  knots, 

Ar  745 
The  gray  sea,  and  the  long  black  land,  RB 

605 
The  heavenly  bay,  ringed  round  with  cliffs 

and  moors,  Sw  901 
The    hour    which    might    have     been    yet 

might  not  be,  R  800 


The  human  spirits  saw  I  on  a  day,  CI  690 
The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece,  B  249 
The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the  mad' 

ness,  Sh  334 
The  lamp  must  be  replenish 'd,  but  even  then, 

B  214 
The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  today,  R  806 
The  moth's'kiss  first,  RB  596 
The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night,  B  235 
The  Niobe  of  nations,  there  she  stands,  B  236 
The  odor  from  the  flower  is  gone,  Sh  293 
The  out-spread  world  to  span,  Ar  715 
The  pale  stars  are  gone,  Sh  329 
The  path  thro'  which  that  lovely  twain,  Sh 

315 
The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born,  T  461 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead,  K  374 
The  poets  pour  us  wine,  RB  674 
The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose,  T  497 
The  rain  set  early  in  tonight,  RB  569 
There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters,  B  189 
There  came  an  image  in  life's  retinue,  R  799 
There  is  a  flower  I  wish  to  wear,  L  457 
There  is  a  yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton  Vale,  W 

36 
There  is  delight  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear, 

L  443 
" There  is  no  God"  the  wicked  saith,  CI  694 
There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls, 

T472 
There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier,  T  464 
There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree,  T 

512 
There!  said  a  stripling,  pointing  with  meet 

pride,  W  61 
There's  a  palace  in  Florence  the  world  knows 

well,  RB  637 
There's  a  woman  like  a  dewdrop,  she's  so 

purer  than  the  purest,  RB  602 
There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that 

it  takes  away,  B  187 
There 's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  pass, 

W  60 
There  the  voluptuous  nightingales,  Sh  315 
There  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women,  RB 

654 
There  was  a  bov;  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs, 

W  13 
There  was  a  lady  lived  in  a  hall,  M  838 
There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night,  W 

28 
There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night,  B  192 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove  and 

stream,  W  39 
There  are  the  symbols,  on  that  cloth  of  red, 

R779 
There  were  four  of  us  about  that  bed,  M  833 
The  sails  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still,  R 

788 
The  sea  gives  her  shells  to  the  shingle,  Sw  879 
The  sea  is  at  ebb,  and  the  sound  of  her  utmost 

word,  Sw  903 
The  sea  is  awake,  and  the  sound  of  the  song 

of  the  joy  of  her  waking  is  rolled,  Sw  905 
The  sea  is  calm  tonight,  Ar  763 
These  little  firs  today  are  things,  R  777 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


933 


The   skies   have   sunk,    and   hid   the   upper 

snow,  CI  702 
The  sky  is  changed!  and  such  a  change!  of 

night,  B  202 
The  sky  is  overcast,  W  5 
The  soul's  Rialto  hath  its  merchandise,  EBB 

559 
The  spirit  of  the  world,  Ar  768 
The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls,  T  49S 
The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops, 

B  231 
The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear,  Sh  296 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the 

hills  and  the  plains,  T  540 
The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill,  Sc  164 
The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ,  T 

510 
The  tongue  of  England,  that  which  myriads, 

L454 
The  unremitting  voice  of  nightly  streams,  W 

63 
The  violet  in  the  green-wood  bower,  Sc  108 
The  voice  and  the  Peak,  T  542 
The  voice  of  the  spirits  of  air  and  of  earth, 

Sh  330 
The  weltering  London  ways  where  children 

weep,  R  812 
The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole,  T  605 
The  word  of  the  sun  to  the  sky,  Sw  892 
The  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay,  B  271 
The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and 

soon,  W  50 
The  world's  great  age  begins  anew,  Sh  367 
The  woods  decay,  the  leaves  decay  and  fall, 

T535 
The  year's  at  the  spring,  RB  576 
The   year's   twelve   daughters   had   in   turn 

gone  by,  L  450 
They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle  sails, 

T543 
They  say  that  hope  is  happiness,  B  212 
Thick  rise  the  spear-shafts  o'er  the  land,  M 

862 
Thin  are  the  night-skirts  left  behind,  R  809 
Think  thou  and  act;  tomorrow  thou  shalt  die, 

R803 
This  feast-day  of  the  sun,  his  altar  there,  R 

803 
This  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to,  RB  629 
This  is  her  picture  as  she  was,  R  776 
This  is  that  blessed  Mary,  pre-elect,  R  778 
This  is  the  place.    Even  here  the  dauntless 

soul,  R811 
This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky,  K  383 
This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall,  T 

507 
This  world  is  very  odd  we  see,  CI  695 
Thou  art  folded,  thou  art  lying,  Sh  336 
Thou  art  speeding  round  the  sun,  Sh  336 
Thou  comest!  all  is  said  without  a  word,  EBB 

561 
Thou  earth,  calm  empire  of  a  happy  soul,  Sh 

337 
Though  God,  as  one  that  is  an  householder, 

R  804 
Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over  B  209 


Thou  goest;  then,  and  leavest  me  behind,  L 

454 
Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor, 

EBB  555 
Thou  lovely  and  beloved,  thou  my  love,  R 

797 
Thou  shalt  have  one  God  only;  who,  CI  694 
Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness,  K 

407 
Those  who  have  laid  the  harp  aside,  L  438 
Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower,  W 

15 
Thrice  three  hundred  thousand  years,  Sh  300 
Through  Alpine  meadows  soft-suffused,  Ar 

754 
Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts,  Ar 

719 
Through  the  great  sinful  streets  of  Naples  as 

I  passed,  CI  696 
Through    thick    Arcadian    woods    a    hunter 

went,  M  843 
Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums,  T  498 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air,  T  513 
Tibur  is  beautiful  too,  and  the  orchard  slopes, 

and  the  Arno,  CI  692 
'Tis  death!  and  peace  indeed  is  here,  Ar  761 
'Tis  done  —  but  yesterday  a  King!  B  184 
'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise,  T  511 
Tis  the  middle  of  the  night  by  the  castle 

clock,  C  82 
'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved,  B 

272 
'Tis  well ;  'tis  something,  we  may  stand,  T  502 
Titan!  to  whose  immortal  eyes,  B  213 
To  be  a  sweetness  more  desired  than  spring, 

R  801 
Today  death  seems  to  me  an  infant  child,  R 

807 
To  my  ninth  decade  I  have  tottered  on,  L 

458 
To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent,  K 

373 
'  To  spend  uncounted  years  of  pain,  CI  704 
To  the  deep,  to  the  deep,  Sh  317 
To  the  Lords  of  Convention,  'twas  Claver'se 

who  spoke,  Sc  165 
Touch   him   ne'er  sr    lightly,   into   song   he 

broke,  RB  680 
Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men, 

W  32 
To  wear  out  heart  and  nerves  and  brain,  CI 

705 
Tranquility!  thou  better  name,  C  94 
True-love,  an  thou  be  true,  Sc  164 
Turn,   Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel,  and  lower 

the  proud,  T  524 
Twas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  overhead 

Ar  761 
'Twas  evening,   though  not  sunset,  and  the 

tide,  L  427 
'Twas   twilight   and   the   sunless   day   went 

down,  B  243 
Twenty  years  hence  my  eyes  may  grow,  L 

442 
Twist  ye,  twine  ye,  even  so,  Sc  162 
'  Twixt  the  sunlight  and  the  shade,  M  827 


934 


BRITISH    POETS 


'Twixt    those   twin   worlds,  —  the   world   of 

sleep,  which  gave,  R  812 
Two  separate  divided  silences,  R  799 
Two  souls  diverse  out  of  our  human  sight, 

Sw899 
Two  voices  are  there;  one  is  of  the  sea,  W  50 

Unfathomable  sea:  whose  waves  are  vears, 

Sh357 
Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  princely  heart,  EBB 

555 
Under   the    arch    of    Life,    where   love    and 

death,  R  804 
Upon  an  eve  I  sat  me  down  and  wept,  M  S57 
Upon  a  Sabbath-day  it  fell,  K  404 
Up,  up,  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books,  W 

9 
Up  with  mel  up  with  me  into  the  clouds; 

W45 

Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity,  RB  609 
Various  the  roads  of  life;  in  one,  L  443 
Verse,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying,  C  101 
Verse-making   was   least   of   my    virtues:   I 
viewed  with  despair,  RB  681 

Wailing,    wailing,    wailing,    the    wind    over 

land  and  sea,  T  548 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay,  Sc  113 
Wanting  is  —  what?  RB  680 
Warmed  by  her  hand  and  shadowed  by  her 

hair,  R  795 
Warriors  and  chiefs!  should  the  shaft  or  the 

sword,  B  187 
Wasted,  weary,  wherefore  stay,  Sc  162 
Was  that  the  landmark?  What  —  the  foolish 

well,  R  802 
Watch  thou  and  fear;  tomorrow  thou  shalt 

die,  R  803 
Water,   for  anguish  of  the  solstice:  nay,  R 

779 
We  are  in  love's  land  today,  Sw  878 
We   are  what  suns   and   winds  and  waters' 

make  us,  L  429 
Wearily,  drearily,  M  839 
Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking,  Ar  721 
We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will,  Ar  721 
We  come  from  the  mind,  Sh  330 
We  have  seen  thee,  O  Love,  thou  art  fair; 

thou  art  goodly,  O  Love,  Sw  868 
Welcome,  old  friend!  These  many  years,  L 

455 
We  leave  the  well-beloved  place,  T  510 
We  left  behind  ;he  painted  buoy,  T  537 
Well!    if   the    bard    was   weather-wise,  who 

made,  C  94 
Well  I  remember  how  you  smiled,  L  458 
Well,  they  are  gone,  and  here  must  I  remain, 

C70 
We  mind  not  how  the  sun  in  the  mid-sky,  L 

437 
Were  vou  with  me,  or  I  with  you,  CI  702 
We  rode  together,  M  824 
We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue,-  W 

We  were  apart,  yet  day  by  day,  Ar  756 


We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red.  W  17 
We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race,  T  467 
What  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me,  RB  678 
What  can  1  give  thee  back,  O  liberal,  EBB 

556 
What  dawn-pulse  at  the  heart  of  heaven,  or 

last,  R  796 
Whate'er  you  dream,  with   doubt   possest, 

CI  705 
Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung,  T  51k 
What  is  gold  worth,  say,  Sw  892 
What  is  it  to  grow  old?  Ar  763 
What  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer? 

K374 
What  is  the  buzzing  in  my  ears?  RB  666 
What  of  her  glass  without  her?  The  blank 

gray,  R  800 
What     place    so    strange,  —  though    unre- 

vealed  snow,  R  805 
What  secret  thing  of  splendor  or  of  shade, 

Sw910 
What  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the  fields  he 

knew,  T  553 
What  thing  unto  mine  ear,  R  789 
What  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall?  CI  693 
What  we.  when  face  to  face  we  see,  CI  699 
What  will  it  please  vou,  my  darling,  here- 
after to  be?  Sw  901 
What,  you  are  stepping  westward,  W  38 
Wheer'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin' 

ere  aloan?  T  538 
When  a  man  hath  no  freedom  to  fight  for  at 

home,  B  271 
When    do    I    see   thee  most,  beloved    one? 

R794 
When  first,  descending  from  the  moorlands 

W  61 
When  Helen  first  saw  wrinkles  in  her  face, 

L430 
When   I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has 

tamed,  W  33 
When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be, 

K381 
When  Israel  of  the  Lord  beloved,  Sc  If 4 
When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave,  T  504 
When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls,  T  506 
When   our   two   souls   stand   Up   erect   and 

strong,  EBB  559 
When  princely  Hamilton's  abode,  Sc  111 
When  the  buds  began  to  burst,  L  457 
When  the  enemy  is  near  thee,  CI  695 
When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 

traces,  Sw  866 
When  the  lamp  is  shattered,  Sh  369 
When  we  met  first  and  loved,  I  did  not  build 

EBB  562 
When  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  regret,  R 

808 
When  we  two  parted,  B  171 
Where  are  the  great  whom   thou  would'st 

wish  to  praise  thee?  CI  695 
Where  art  thou,  beloved  Tomorrow,  Sh  368 
Where   art  thou   gone,   light-ankled  youth? 

L  454 
Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  son,  W  43 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth,  T  461 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


935 


Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would 

go,  CI  701 
Where  shall  the  lover  rest,  Sc  126 
Where  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening  smiles, 

RB618 
Whiles  in  the  early  winter  eve,  M  861 
Who  is  the  happy  warrior?  who  is  he,  W  47 
Who  is  your  lady  of  love,  O  ye  that  pass,  Sw 

884 
Who  kill'd  John  Keats,  B  271 
Who  loves  not  Knowledge?  Who  shall  rail, 

T511 
Who  prop,  thou  ask  st,  in  these  hard  days, 

my  mind?  Ar  708 
Who  shall  contend  with  his  lords,  Sw  871 
Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be  away? 

•    K387 
Who  will  away  to  Athens  with  me?  who,  L 

444 
"  Why?"  Because  all  I  haply  can  and  do,  RB 

682 
Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man,  R  780 
"  Why  from  the  world"  Ferishtah  smiled, 

"  should  thanks,  "  RB  682 
Why  sit'st  thou  by  that  ruin'd  hall,  Sc  163 
Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie,  Sc  162 
Why,  why  repine,  my  pensive  friend,  L  440 
Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone,  W  8 
Why  wilt  thou  cast  the  roses  from  thy  hair? 

R785 
Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet,  T  509 
Will   sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is 

best,  RB  661 
Wisdom  and  spirit  of  the  universe,  W  12 
Wish  no  word  unspoken,  want  no  look  away ; 

RB  681 
With  Farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode,  T  484 
With  little  here  to  do  or  see,  W  35 
With  rosy  hand  a  little  girl  pressed  down, 

L443 


With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn,  W  51 
With    Shakespeare's    manhood   at   a    boy's 

wild  heart  R  811 
With  the  same  heart,  I  said,  I'll  answer  thee, 

EBB  562 
With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave,  T  503 
Witless  alike  of  will  and  way  divine,  RB  668 
Woe,  he  went  galloping  into  the  war,  RB  682 
Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever,  Sh  366 
Would  a  man  'scape  the  rod?  RB  657 
Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  mani- 
fold music  I  build,  RB  657 
Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin,  T  495 

Years,  many  parti-colored  years,  L  455 

Ye  clouds !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause 

C88 
Yes,  call  me  by  my  pet-name!  let  me  hear, 

EBB  562 
Yes!  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled,  Ar  757 
Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  echo,  W  48 
Yes;  I  write  verses  now  and  then,  L  441 
Yet  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed,  EBB 

557 
Ye  who  have  passed  Death's  haggard  hills 

and  ye,  R  806 
You  ask  me  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease,  T  479 
You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon,  RB 

594 
You'll  love  me  yet!  and  I  can  tarry,  RB  588 
Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees,  RB 

626 
Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass, 

R796 
You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn,  T  509 
You  send  me  your  love  in  a  letter,  Sw  900 
You  smiled,  you  spoke,  and   I   believed,  L 

442 
Youth!  thou  wear'st  to  manhood  now,  Sc 

165 


/ 


Department  o. 


College  or  School Majo. 

Other  courses  complete 


Instructor's  memoranda 


lilSSn?iiiBiiiiEiGI0NAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
A  A      000  273  276    6 


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